Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Yeah. That’s all too much for me.
And if our parents’ relationship was a model for anything—I’d rather opt out now.
“So who is the big interview tomorrow?” Lucia asks. She stands at the sound of the doorbell, grabs Matilda, and heads to the foyer. “I’m going to put the starter in the fridge so you don’t forget.”
“I couldn’t forget because I didn’t know that to begin with.”
“Now you do.” She disappears around the corner. “Who did you get to come on the show?”
“Francine got Mercy Malone from Wildfire,” I say, a burst of excitement lifting my energy levels. “She’s going to be sitting across from me, chatting with me like we’re friends. How can this be real?”
The door opens, then closes. “Mercy Malone? Are you kidding me?”
“I know. Who would’ve thought that I would be interviewing a rock star?”
Lucia returns, Matilda-free, and inspects the contents of both bags, then hands me one. “Me. I totally would’ve thought you could be interviewing a rock star. And I bet Mom would’ve thought so, too.” She smiles as she sits down again. “She always said that you couldn’t stop talking if your life depended on it because you’re just so magnetic.” She rolls her eyes, but her grin is all affection.
“Would’ve been nice of her to acknowledge that earlier and stop grounding me for everything. I spent half my junior year of high school in my room, sneaking out for a couple of hours of freedom once you all went to bed.”
I unwrap my sandwich, but before I can take a bite, my phone buzzes beside me. I reach for the device to silence it, but pause when I see the name on the screen.
A smile touches my lips.
Drake: Stopped to grab dinner. The current count is me—2,574 comments, you—143, no side/random commentary—2,032. I think it’s safe to say that I win.
I tap out my response, unable to wipe the smile off my face.
Me: You did not count them. Don’t lie to me.
Drake: Don’t lie to you like you lied to me?
Me: What are you talking about?
Drake: I’ll leave you with these …
“Cheeky bastard.” I laugh.
“Who?” Lucia asks.
“A guy I work with.”
She hums. “You don’t mean Drake Bennett, do you?”
Me: I don’t want flowers, real or emoji.
Drake: Good night, Gianna.
Me: I really don’t!
Drake: Okay, dream crusher.
Me:
Drake:
“Yup,” Lucia says in a tone that I don’t want to indulge. “It was Drake.”
I set my phone down and grab my burger. “How do you know?”
She shrugs, grinning as she takes a bite of her food. I take a giant bite of mine, too. I’m starving … but I also don’t want to continue this conversation. I’m well aware that he’s … him, and I’m sure I appeared amused at his message.
But neither of those means anything.
If they did, I’d be as silly as every other woman in the world when it comes to that man. And I’m way too smart for that.
After all, Drake Bennett is nothing more than a coworker and a friend to me. And I always enjoy excellent banter with my friends.
Even the ridiculously hot ones.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Drake
“You can’t be serious,” I say, scanning the stats that my producer, Mario, loads onto the screen in front of me. “The odds that the Bobcats walk away with a championship this season are trash. I know you grew up in Indianapolis and your old man was a big fan, but that doesn’t change reality.”
Ron Jeffries, a sports analyst for over thirty years and sometimes a guest on Sports Take with Drake Bennett, groans through my headphones. The man bleeds green, the color of his beloved Bobcats, and will fight anyone who dares to speak anything but accolades about his team. Needless to say, we quarrel often.
“How can you say that?” he asks me as if I’m the fool between us. “Caparelli is on a streak. He’s had a hit in fifty straight games. His batting average is over four hundred, and he’s been intentionally walked twenty-one times. Couple that with their dominant pitching this season, and it’s hard to lose a damn game. There’s no way we don’t end with a ring. Not a chance.”
“Those stats are great, but the team batting average is under the Mendoza line, and no player is good at getting on base. And if you want to talk about pitching, their entire staff consists of two guys who can reliably get the ball across the plate with a better chance than not getting blasted out of the ballpark. You can’t get away with two pitchers these days. This isn’t 1920, you know.”
He chuckles. “I’m going to hate coming back here in a couple of months and telling you I told you so.”
“Don’t lose too much sleep over it because it’s not going to happen.”
My chuckle joins his as Mario gives me a sign from his spot in the sound booth.