Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Ahhh! Hot, hot, hot!
I told the barista to make it extra hot so it’d be perfect by the time I got to Penny’s, but now it’s scalding me. I lick it off, noticing the redness already blooming with annoyance, and glance in front of me just in time to see Penny’s cute brown bob flicking over her shoulder as she starts off down the street.
Without me.
I’m gonna kill her.
“Penny!” I shout. People around me flinch at the sudden racket, and I see her shoulders lift so I know she heard me, but instead of stopping, she keeps strutting farther away. In fact, I think she speeds up. “I have your latte!”
Now we have an audience, people stopping as they realize who I’m yelling at and all of them waiting to see her response. Me, too, people.
When Penny holds up a middle finger high in the air and keeps moving, I growl. I’m not late. Or not that late, and it’s not my fault the line at the coffee shop was long. I texted that I was on my way. I glance at my watch: 10:04.
Seriously? She’s this pissed over four measly minutes?
“That’s it? You’re not gonna go after her?” a guy mocks from beside me. I cut my eyes his way to find a thirtysomething suit dude smirking at me cockily. “If it was easy, it wouldn’t be worth it. You gotta be strong for the ones that’re worth it,” he advises. “Unless that’s not you. If that’s the case, good for her for ditching you.” He turns wisdom-filled eyes back toward Penny like he’s considering giving chase if I’m not man enough to go for it.
He doesn’t know me, or what the hell he’s talking about, but the cut hurts all the same. He’s right. Not that Penny and I are romantically involved the way he thinks, but she is too good for me. She’s too good for everyone.
Which is why I can’t let her go to sketchy pawnshops and talk to actual criminals on her own. “Fuck,” I hiss as I take off at a trot, trying to keep the latte from spilling again. This time, people do get out of my way at least. I step in front of Penny, forcing her to stop, and hold the latte out like an olive branch. “Here.”
Her amber eyes drop to the cup and then lift back to mine. “No, thanks.”
She tries to step around me, fully intending to walk away from me, but I block her. I’m a hockey player, after all, and have blocked tougher opponents than a pissed-off Penelope Lee. “Take it. I told you there was a line and I’d be here.”
She frowns. “Told me how exactly?” She pulls her phone from the back pocket of her jeans and holds it up. “Because I promised someone that I wouldn’t use my phone, so how would I know that you hadn’t ghosted me? Huh, Griffin . . . how would I know?” She taps a finger to her chin like she’s pondering the greatest question of all time.
“I said not to answer your phone. I didn’t mean not to read my text.” It’s a stupid argument, and I know it, but mostly I’m too focused on the fact that she really didn’t use her phone all evening. That means she probably didn’t check her emails or answer her door either. And given she’s standing in front of me, full of fire and sass, she’s okay. The goons didn’t find her, contact her, or most importantly, hurt her. The fear that weighed down on my chest all night dissipates. But while I’m finally relaxing, Penny’s ramping up to argue the semantics of our agreement, and in a last-ditch effort to thwart her, I blurt out, “I’m sorry.” She recoils like that’s the last thing she expected, so I say it again. “I’m sorry I’m late. I did text. You can check.”
She rolls her eyes doubtfully but clicks a few times on her phone screen and then says, “Huh,” before roughly shoving her phone back in her pocket. “Fine. You texted.”
It’s the hardest win I’ve ever made, and it’s not even on the ice. It’s against Penny Lee about a damn text message.
“Can we go? A-to-Z Pawn opens in twenty minutes, and it’s a thirty-minute subway ride.”
“It’s a fifteen-minute rideshare trip.” I’ve already opened the app and ordered before I realize that she’s glaring at me again. So much for the apparently short-lived win. “What?”
“You’re out here throwing around rideshare money to the girl who’s worried about next month’s credit card bill and can’t split the cost with you. I know you’re a pro hockey player and all,” she says, making it sound like hot pile of dog shit, “but it’s not like you’d get swarmed on the subway. Dom rides it all the time, and no one even recognizes him, much less bothers him.”