is quizzical.
“Hey Dad.”
“How’s my girl settling in?”
“Fine?” I mean—I see the man every day; has he somehow forgotten about our meeting yesterday afternoon, where he asked what my goals are for the week?
Find a new job, find a new job, find a new job.
“Is that what you’re having for breakfast? Why don’t you let Rhonda scrounge something up for you? Some fruit, maybe.”
Rhonda is Dad’s secretary, but more of a personal assistant who fetches his dry cleaning, takes my parents’ dogs to the groomer, and buys anniversary and birthday gifts. Plus office and clerical.
Who knows.
“Thank you, but no. I’m good. This bagel is fine.”
Tastes like sandpaper, but I will live.
“Any plans for dinner tonight?”
No, but no way am I going to Mom and Dad’s house—again—so I can sit around their ridiculously large dining room table and listen to them go on and on about how excited they are that I’ve joined the Westbrooke Stadium family, which only makes me feel more guilty that I don’t want to stay.
I am not a lifer.
It is not my passion.
“Um. I have some unpacking to do, so I’m going to order a pizza and organize my bookshelves. Hollis left a few at the townhouse and I’m dying to fill them up.”
That’s not a lie.
After Dad leaves, I stare blankly at the computer monitor in front of me, a screen full of numbers and statistics I know nothing about. Baseball has never been my forte, nor my true calling, despite it being drilled into me from the time I was a child.
As an only child, I was raised to believe I’d work for the family—they sent me to college with the understanding that my marketing degree was in some way going to benefit Westbrooke Industries, benefit one of their vast holdings in one way, shape, or form.
But Dad and Uncle Thomas were not willing to put me in the marketing or publicity department, no matter what arguments I used to get my foot in that door. They want me on the business side, not the PR side, the decision final.
Uncle Thomas is such a dick. Not some of the time—all of the time.
I’m so jealous of Hollis wheedling her way out of the family clutches and I hate myself for falling into them.
It’s temporary.
This latest rejection letter is one of many and the thought that I’m running out of options depresses me. Taking another bite of this shitty bagel, my mood sours.
Grumpy.
Guess Tripp and I aren’t so opposite after all.
I’m halfway through the doughy bread ring when my phone chimes for the first time this morning. Desperate for a diversion, I snap it up quickly, eyes hungry for the words blinking back at me.
Tripp: Hey, wyd?
My heart rate quickens from the random text; I haven’t heard from him since Sunday when I left his place, three entire days passing since we had mind-blowing sex.
He wants to know what I’m doing.
Me: Uh…working? You?
Tripp: Done early.
Me: Oh, that’s nice.
What is his point? It’s late morning on Wednesday and I don’t know anything about the football schedule, but I would assume he’s been running drills all morning and visiting the team’s physical trainer before his game this weekend.
I wait for another message, watching that tiny screen for the three conversation dots to appear in the bottom of the chat box.
Tripp: I’m hungry, how about you?
The bagel seems to crumble in my grip, growing ashy in my mouth. I want to spit it into the trash, knowing Tripp’s texts are leading to an invitation.
Me: I grabbed a bagel on my way to work but forgot the cream chee
Delete.
That sounds stupid; he doesn’t care what I’m eating or not eating.
Me: I’m always hungry.
Tripp: You want to grab lunch at Café Louis near Washington Park? I can meet you halfway.
YES! Yes, yes, yes!
Mentally, I fist-pump, having zero people to celebrate this midday date with. The list of girlfriends I’m going to text is short. Actually, I’ve only confided in Hollis, since she knows him best and is now related to him. My other girlfriends wouldn’t understand—plus, I don’t want to prematurely say anything because if things don’t progress, the constant “How is Tripp doing” messages would drive me up the wall.
Me: Lunch would be great! How does 11:00 sound? That way we beat the rush.
Tripp: Exactly what I was thinking.
Tripp: Want me to come grab you?
Me: No, no, meeting you is fine. I’ll just hitch a cab and then you could bring me back?
Tripp: Awesome.
Tripp: It’s a date.
“Uh, is that a