Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
“Thank you for that.”
August nods as if I’m not being sarcastic, and then we fall quiet, the sound of the road humming along. He hasn’t put on the radio. I don’t know if it’s because he wanted to talk or if he’s one of those rare birds who doesn’t like listening to music while driving. Because I love listening to music while driving.
And because it’s now way too quiet, I break it. “I have a question.”
“Just one?” Amusement crinkles his eyes.
“Okay, this is the first in a line of many.”
“Ask away.”
“What if you fall in love with me?”
Silence slams down upon the car. Rolling to a stop sign, August stares at me, before a soft huff of laughter escapes him and the corner of his lip quirks.
“What?” I ask. “Is it so comical, then?”
I know it is. Honestly, I do. I also have a perverse, inexplicable and highly ill-advised need to mess with him. But, still, he doesn’t need to laugh so quickly.
August is smart enough to understand the minefield he’s been thrust onto. He shifts in his seat like he’s dying to escape. I picture him flinging open the door and sprinting down the street, leaving behind nothing more than an August-shaped dust cloud.
I’m about to tell him not to bother with an answer, that it was a joke. But then he looks my way with a wry expression.
“I won’t lie,” he says. “This blunt and sassy version of you surprises the hell out of me. But you don’t have to worry about me suddenly falling in love with you.”
I reach for nonchalance. “No?”
The muscle in his jaw bunches.
“I can’t,” he says, almost apologetically. “I found my true love years ago.”
Oh.
Something hard and dull thuds in my chest. I didn’t expect that. Not at all.
“Then why don’t you ask her to do this—”
“It’s football I love,” he cuts in with an awkward laugh. “God. That was cheesy.”
That hard, dull something inside me softens and flips. “No. It’s . . . I don’t know—”
“Cheesy.”
“Lovely,” I insist. “Truly. To know what you want to do and love it so much.”
Absently, he nods, as he drives on. “Yeah. But I’m not just trying to wax poetic here. Football is my wife, my child, my boss, it’s everything. I have to give it my all, you know?”
I don’t truly know because I don’t love something that much. But I can understand a little. And it feels kind of lonely.
His voice is soft but tinged with something bittersweet. “How fair would it be for anyone to have to compete with that? I don’t know much about love, but I know that a relationship needs the players to be fully present.”
I think of my dad. Was he ever fully there? Or did he always mentally have one foot out the door?
“I agree.” I give August what I hope is a reassuring look. “It’s good you know that already. A lot of people never really do.”
“My parents were good role models there.”
“They certainly were.”
A frown wrinkles between his brows, and I know he’s remembering my not-so-great role models. “Oh, hey. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay, August.” I move to touch his arm but fall short, feeling shy. “Really. Your parents are my role models for relationships too. I love watching the way they are together.”
“Let’s not go too far now. I could do without catching them making out when I walk into rooms unannounced.” His mouth flattens with distaste. “Too many images are burned into my brain.”
Laughter bubbles out of me. “It’s cute!”
“I’ll be sure to tell my eventual therapist just that.”
My laughter increases, and he sends me a reproachful glare. But his lips are twitching. He turns at a cross street and then pulls up to a driveway. Until then, all my attention had been on August. Only this street is too familiar to ignore. I sit up straight.
“This is Pops and Pegs’s house.”
It’s not the actual house, but the gates of it. Yes, my grandparents’ house sits behind gates. In Brentwood. Which might as well be the moon to a college girl living on a severely limited budget. Given that it’s an enormously expensive enclave of Los Angeles, I had figured we were headed toward wherever it is August lives. But, no, the sneaky rat took me here. He might as well have cut me open and poured salt in my wound.
I turn toward him and let the hurt show. August frowns.
“You’re not living here?” The surprise in his voice is real.
Slowly, I shake my head; it feels like a lump of lead. “No. I’m in an apartment with a roommate who barely tolerates me. I could have moved in but . . . I don’t know. I didn’t want to get even more attached, you know?”
“I get it.”
“I come here from time to time. Clean and make sure the grounds aren’t falling into disrepair. But there’s only so much I can do on my budget.”