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These girls were there when the shit hit the fan on my wedding day, and they’ve been by my side ever since. But I really wish they’d let me work through things on my own timeline.
Besides, I really want to get back home and watch the rest ofRomancing the Stone. Not that I haven’t already seen it several dozen times. I just love Kathleen Turner’s Joan Wilder…
Someone walking down the sidewalk bumps me, and I’m back in the conversation.
“Guys, I’m doing my thing, going at my own pace. I’ll be back at some point. But until then, I am enjoying the cottage and wine country. You should come up and visit. It’s so nice, quiet and peaceful.”
Lucy turns her nose up. “Sounds like a cemetery. Thanks, Petal, but I’m a city girl, born and bred. I’m not down with the outdoors. It’s dirty, and besides, there are bugs.”
I don’t tell her that while I’ve had no issue with bugs, I have found mouse poop more than once.
I turn to head for my car when Gilly stops me. “Hey. Wait. What are you gonna do about your star hockey player?”
Oh. That.
“I’m not going. That’s all there is to it.”
Gilly and Lucy look at each other and smile.
Like they know something I don’t.
4
RAKE
I lookaround Vince Vincent’s office at the mass of photos he has on display of himself with athletes from our team and others. In each, his arm is thrown around whoever’s next to him, even though he’s a foot shorter, and he’s wearing a shit-eating grin like they’re fucking besties.
I know it’s not my business what this man has on every inch of his office walls, but for cripes’ sake, could he be any more desperate to impress?
I want to say to him, we get it, man. You’ve met a lot of athletes. Famous athletes, even. But do you have to let everyone who comes to your office know? Are you that hard up to look like a player?
Excuse the pun.
Seriously. I think it’s weird to have so many photos of yourself, for one, and two, he reminds me of the kid in school who’s desperate to prove he’s part of the ‘in’ crowd. Have a little game, dude.
Another stupid pun.
“What can I do for you, Vince?” I ask, leaning back in my chair and slamming my feet on his desk.
He hates that.
And the look on his face is worth the price of admission. His eyes bug out of his head so hard you’d think I just smeared his desk with feces.
“Could you… remove your feet from my desk,” he asks with a sniff.
Ohforchrissake.
I know I’m pushing my luck, though I can’t help but taunt a man named Vince Vincent, who thinks his shit doesn’t stink, and that he’s assigned to be my personal babysitter.
“What do you mean, man?” I ask, pointing at the bottom of my shoes. “My sneakers are clean, look at them. In fact, I just took them out of the box. They were sent comp to the whole team by some company that wants our endorsement.”
Vince presses his lips together. Maybe it’s time to back off. Not give him such a hard time. But he’s so damn officious, and he has a massive hate-boner for me.
So I’m gonna be a dick. That’s all there is to it.
“I can see your shoes are clean, Rake. But I still don’t want them on my desk.”
I stare him down for a moment, a battle of wills I would undoubtedly win if push came to shove, and drop my feet to the floor with a big sigh. I’m worth more to this team than our freaking new PR guy. Ask anyone.
