Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 83461 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83461 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
My hand flies to my mouth to cut off a small cry of distress. I read back over the words. When I first saw he was married, I had assumed they were divorced. It’s horrific that she died and that Cannon went through something so heartbreaking.
I push the laptop back and stare across my minuscule kitchen to my even smaller living room. Cannon was only twenty-seven when she died. I don’t know how old she was, but given they were high school sweethearts, I’m assuming roughly the same age.
What does that do to a person? Losing a spouse.
Especially so young.
I think back to all my interactions with Cannon, trying to come up with a single memory that I can point to that shows he’s still mourning or grieving.
Surely he is.
I mean… high school sweethearts.
I have to stop thinking about it.
I shut my laptop and head to the bathroom to finish drying my hair. I try to think about the types of jobs I’m going to apply for. Obviously, anything in HR, since that’s what I’ve done since graduating from college. But my degree is in communications, so I could try something in marketing or public relations. The only problem is trying to get my foot in the door with no experience.
I flip on the dryer and start back on my hair using the round brush to blow it out into smooth waves, letting my mind drift.
At the very least, I’ll need to refresh my résumé with my last three months of experience working as an assistant manager at The Grind. I’ll research job listings with companies hiring in the area of human resources. I’ll even expand that search outside to include Raleigh. If I have to move home, I want a job first. Mostly to prove to my family I’m more than self-sufficient, but also so I’m not pressured to go into real estate.
I wonder if Cannon stopped playing hockey and went into coaching because his wife died. Maybe it was too unbearable to continue in a career where she’d been by his side the entire time.
Which logically would conclude that any future relationship would be compared to that one.
Any woman he’d be with would have to measure up to—
“Aaaghhh,” I groan, yanking the brush through my hair. I glare at myself in the mirror. “Get out of your damn head, Ava.”
If I continue to do this, I’ll talk myself out of going to dinner at Cannon’s tonight. I have a hard time understanding how I even caught his interest, but the thought of competing against a lost first love is too daunting to bear.
I narrow my eyes at my reflection. “Get a hold of yourself and quit worrying about things beyond your control.”
CHAPTER 8
Cannon
The doorbell rings and my spine tingles. I know Ava is on the other side of that door. I’ve had a low buzz of excitement since I walked in myself not twenty minutes ago. I ordered from a deli that delivers to my building, and we’re going simple with meats, cheeses, crusty bread, grapes, pasta salad, and what looks like a container of pickled vegetables that they threw in for a complimentary try. I’m not a charcuterie master and don’t pretend to be. I managed to put the food items on different plates and bowls, threw some flatware on the counter, and uncorked a bottle of red, and that’s as good as it gets from me.
But what little I’ve come to learn about Ava, I expect her to look at it and deem it perfect. She’s incredibly down-to-earth and would never expect five-star dining because of my fame or status. In my handful of years dating after Melissa died, I learned to spot a gold digger a mile away.
Ava is anything but.
Hell, she shied away from me because she labeled me “a big deal.”
I’m smiling when I open the door. Ava smiles back but looks apprehensive. Granted, it’s subtle but not unexpected—I know she’s got some doubts.
First and foremost, she’s beautiful. Her hair is in a long braid hanging over one shoulder with loose pieces framing her face. Her makeup is light, but she doesn’t need much. Her green eyes command my attention first, followed by her lush lips, tinted with the barest blush of color.
She’s wearing a pair of dark jeans that sit low on her hips, a cream-colored turtleneck that fits like a glove set off by a wide camel-colored belt. Matching boots of the same color and a fashionable scarf of brown, red, and orange hangs over the shoulders of her unzipped, off-white puffy coat.
Most importantly, she’s carrying a tote, which I assume is the overnight bag I told her to bring, my quiet hint for her to stay the night.
“I don’t bite,” I say, sweeping my arm in invitation to cross the threshold.