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)
“Fuck you,” Dom spits out, offended. “I care about you.”
“I know. And I appreciate that. You have no idea how much. But I don’t want to fuck you.” It’s the smallest sliver of lightheartedness in the heavy dump of my trauma.
“But you want to fuck her?” he guesses.
I lick my lips, trying to figure out what to say. “I want everything with her. But I’m not good enough for her. For anyone.”
“Pshaw, you’re the best, so first you have to believe it. Then give her a chance to know it. And if she can’t see it, she’s not the one for you.” He smiles like that’s a done deal, and I tilt my head, challenging his Pollyanna advice. Relenting, he concedes, “Okay, so yeah, you’re a little complicated, but aren’t we all?”
“You’re not.”
Dom stretches his arms up and out and leans back in a parody of jackassery. “Well, I’m special.”
“So is she.” Yeah, special enough to also have grown up in the Lee household, with all the love, support, and kindness of a good family. And without all the unhealthiness of the Mahoney one.
“Not special enough if she can’t appreciate the great man that you are and see you working to be even better. I’m not saying that’s gonna be easy, or quick, but one day, if you work hard enough and really believe with all your heart, you’ll be half as awesome as I am.”
“You are such a son of a bitch,” I growl even as I laugh. “Fucking self-help book quackery? Really?”
“That’s why you love me,” Dom quips, nodding with a certainty that only he could possess.
“I do. Thanks, man.”
He points a warning finger my way. “But don’t do all this talk therapy and psychoanalysis mid-playoffs. Those are too important. To the team, and to you. I know how much you want that Cup. The rest of this can wait until it’s in your hands. If she’s the right one, she’ll understand that hockey will always be your first love. Then me, then her.” He’s held up a finger with each priority, one for hockey, and one for him, but instead of a third finger, he switches to flipping me off, like the fucking part is still the main thing this unnamed woman has on me. His shit-eating grin makes things feel . . . normal.
They’re not, but for just a little while longer, I really want to pretend they are.
Chapter 19
Penny
“Good morning, sunshine!” Talia sings as she comes into the living room, but I can feel her eyes. She’s studying me like I might burst into tears, a curse-laden rant, or an interpretive dance combining both at any moment. To be fair, she was the unlucky-ducky recipient of a rage-fueled, tearful rehashing of what went down at Griffin’s last weekend, and since then has heard several different versions of “Can you believe this asshole?” all week when he’s texted me. So her expecting more of the same is reasonable.
“Hey,” I reply dully, not lifting my gaze from the ring I finished yesterday. Part of it is that I don’t want to unfocus my eyes, which are adjusted to the brightness of my work light. Most of it is that I don’t want to risk crying again.
Not because I’m sad. But because I’m mad. Okay, and a little sad. But can you blame me? Great sex followed by “that was a bad idea” would crumble anyone’s self-esteem.
“Coffee?”
Shaking my head, I tell her, “No, thanks. I need to finish my final checks on this so I can post pictures before I go to the post office. There’s always that chance someone will buy it instantly and I could send it out today with the other packages.” I gesture vaguely at the two boxes I’ve already prepared for today’s shipping.
When I first started the PLDesigns online shop, I would literally publish an item for sale and then stare at the screen, refreshing every five seconds—yes, I counted—while obsessively watching the site traffic. I was sure someone was waiting on the other end of the internet, ready to click Add to Cart the instant I made something available. Now I know better and usually post and run. But with current circumstances, I’m back to watching my order page like it’s a pot of water I’m waiting to come to a boil.
“How much have you sold?” Talia asks, coming back from the kitchen to sit on the couch. The strong scent of coffee comes with her, and I don’t need to look up to know she has a steaming mug in her hands.
“Just over two thousand dollars.” Normally, I’d be over the moon and dancing a happy jig at those sales. Two thousand in this short of time is a good chunk of change. But with the looming credit card bill, it’s not enough. Not nearly enough. Especially when I’ve already gone through my small backlog of pieces to see what I can redesign quickly. I’ve got the pink topaz ring I’m currently examining, and that’s it. Having consistent turnover and listings that sell quickly is usually a plus, but after this, I’ll need to source more as quickly as I can.