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)
“It’s getting a little dicey here. I’m gonna have to let you go and call back when I get there.”
“Pen.” It’s a sigh that says I’m being childish.
Like I don’t know that. Frankly, I feel a bit like a child at the moment. Then again, I’m twenty-two; it’s not as though she can revoke my car privileges . . .
“Okay, Mom?” I say as though fighting with a faulty phone connection. “Call you later, bye!”
“Penelope Jane—”
I cut her off before she can finish. “Kisses and hugs. Love you!”
And then I hang up.
Oh, that’s going to come back to haunt me.
“I don’t care,” I mutter, then stick my tongue out at my phone. The fact that she hasn’t immediately called me back means I’m not in total trouble. Friction is to be expected at any rate.
Mom and I are dancing around a very awkward place right now. Neither of us has budged our stance on Pegs and Pops’s house, and okay, I might still be a little salty about it.
“Shit.” I need to concentrate better because there’s the turn. I switch on my blinker, even though there’s no one behind me; one does not ignore the rules just because they can get away with it.
Oh, but how I wish I could.
Two
Pen
The Luck house sits at the end of a semicircular drive. Or should I say it looms, because the white clapboard center hall colonial is huge. Thankfully, it also has a nice wide portico. I park as close as I can to the front step and, holding my coat overhead, make a mad dash to the door.
I’m fairly dry when I reach it. But outside is cold as hell. It creeps up my bones and shivers along my flesh. The narrow windows that frame the front door reveal a slice of the warmly lit big hall with its worn and well-loved Persian runner, rectory red walls, the antique sideboard that May dented when riding her scooter indoors.
Another shiver goes through me, this one of longing. I want to be in there where it’s warm and familiar. It’s as simple as knocking on the door, but it doesn’t feel that way at all. It’s as though it won’t matter; I can get inside but I’ll still be all alone.
Shrugging off self-pity, I ring the bell. There’s absolutely no need to be maudlin right now. Everything is fine, and . . .
A man strides to the door. Holy hell is that . . . ?
I’m transfixed, frozen with my hand halfway up in the act of ringing again. No. It can’t be . . .
The door swings open with a soft woosh, and we stare at each other, this man and I. Only, he’s no mere man. He never was. It shouldn’t be a surprise that he’s here; this is his family home. But, in my heart of hearts, I didn’t expect him to be visiting tonight. It’s Saturday. I thought he’d head straight back to LA after Thursday night’s game. I thought it would just be Margo, the girls, and maybe March. Mom said it would only be them!
Yet here he is in vivid, stunning color. All six foot four of him.
I guess that’s what Mom had been trying to tell me. That’ll teach you to hang up on her. I tell myself to shut it and stare up at August.
It’s been a few years since we’ve been face-to-face. Sure, I’ve seen him in recent pictures, in the freaking news, and in this week’s latest viral videos. But, in person, these differences are shocking and, frankly, overwhelming.
He looks exactly the same. And totally different. How can that be? There’s not an angle or line of his face that I hadn’t covertly studied throughout our childhood. I would recognize August Luck anywhere.
And yet . . . He’s grown into himself. Hard where he used to be somewhat soft. From age fifteen on, he’d towered over me. I’m used to feeling small around him. But now he’s huge. A veritable wall of honed muscle.
He’s so attractive it hurts—deep in the center of my chest. I feel like I’ve been kicked. Maybe that’s why I can do nothing more than gape at him and blurt out, “August?”
There’s an awkward beat and then, “Penelope.” As if my name is the answer.
Most people who know me either use Pen or, if we’re close, Penny. I don’t know how it started or why, but August usually calls me Penelope—in that stilted, disapproving way of his that makes it sound more like a dismissal than a greeting.
And we’re stuck on a loop because I blurt out his name again. “August?”
The corner of his lip twitches, except it looks more like agitation than amusement. “Penelope.”
That mellow voice rolls over me with the force of a wave. Okay, this has to stop. But I can’t seem to refrain from staring. Why does he have to be so appealing to me? It would be easier if I could simply write him off as another hot guy. But, no. August Luck has the singular ability to turn my brain to mush and my knees to jelly.