Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 84930 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84930 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Our daughter.
Rolled right off my tongue.
“Hmm, let me think.” She ponders for a few seconds. “I love riding my bike. And this is going to sound super nerdy, but I really like needlepoint. It relaxes me.”
“Needlepoint? What’s that?”
“You know, cross-stitch? Your grandmother probably made patterns back in the day. Mine aren’t flowers or anything. Mine are snarky quotes like ‘maybe swearing will help.’” She puts her bag on her lap and riffles through it for her phone, pulling up her photo gallery. “Here, see.”
I glance at the screen, at a photo of a little round cross-stitch that says, “Hey Trainwreck, this isn’t your station” and another with a raccoon face on it that reads, “To Me, You are Trash.”
My eyes get wide before the laughter comes.
“Penelope!” She seems so sweet and innocent, and here, she’s crafting these sarcastic patterns? It kills me.
Her cell gets stuffed back in her purse with a laugh. “What? It calms me after a long day.”
“I can see that. Guess I shouldn’t piss you off, or I’ll be on the receiving end of the snark.”
“Ha. I don’t do anything with them. Well”—she pauses—“that’s not true. I love putting them on packages during the holidays as gift tags.”
“What would you put on my needlepoint?”
“Good question. Hmm.” Penn hums again. “Something like…Welcome to parenthood. I hope you like ibuprofen.”
I stare at her, mouth agape. “Did you just pull that out of your ass? Because it’s hilarious.”
“No,” she admits. “I’ve had that in the back of my mind for a while, but it’s so accurate.”
“You’re cute. And funny.” I sneak a kiss from her, then she kisses me back, and soon, we’re making out at the freaking Getty, with who knows how many people spying on us.
Definitely Stephanie.
She’s definitely spying on us.
I pull back. “We should probably discuss the tabloids.”
She nods. “I’ve thought about that—obviously. And I don’t love it, but I know it comes with the territory.” Her shoulders move up and down in a shrug. “It is what it is.”
“Well, don’t believe everything you read. In fact, don’t believe any of it. In fact, don’t read anything at all.” I laugh. “Stay off the internet and don’t go looking for pictures or stories.”
“Why on earth would I do that?”
“Trust me, you’ll get curious and go look, and then…it’s all downhill from there.”
People will call her a gold digger. Say she got pregnant to trap me once the news gets out that we have a daughter. The press will print stories about our relationship without interviewing us, but they’ll find people who knew us way back when and interview them. And those people will say anything for a payout.
And it sucks, and it hurts, but here we are.
“My job is to play sports, not to showboat around Hollywood or care what they say about me on television, but every once in a while, something gets back to me that really fucking grates at my nerves and hits me the wrong way, and those are bad days.”
If I play great, I must be on performance-enhancing drugs. If I play terribly, I’m a curse to the team. Nothing is ever good enough for the press. The sports broadcasters—many of whom are my friends, but it’s their job to entertain the masses for ratings—will drag me after games and then apologize later.
I’ve been called an old man. Washed-up.
Past my prime.
Ha—I am in my prime right now, motherfuckers!
“I just don’t want you to get hurt by people who know nothing about you, or us, or Skipper.”
It’s inevitable, and it’s going to cut deep.
“We’ll get through it together.”
Together but far apart.
We’ve only been reconnected a few weeks, but it feels like forever, and I already know what I want. It just hasn’t been the right time to say it.
Penelope has proven that she scares easily. She proved that when she left me. But she’s here now, which is something.
It’s a start.
And little by little, I’m going to make her see that I’m dependable, reliable, and not going anywhere.
We make it to our hotel just two hours before our dinner reservations. It was another gorgeous ride into Santa Monica for dinner at the pier, arriving at the hotel as the sun in the distance fades into the ocean.
“Welcome to The Four Seasons, Mr. Jennings. We have two rooms set aside for you. Do two king-sized beds work for you? Otherwise, we have a two-bedroom, king suite, whichever you prefer?”
I turn to Penelope. “What’s your preference? Two rooms with king-sized beds or one suite with two bedrooms?”
The decision is hers.
Penn wrinkles her brow, tilting her head. Then she moves closer and lowers her voice. “Why are we doing two separate bedrooms? I mean, it’s totally up to you.”
“You don’t want your own room? I want you to be comfortable and to have your own space.”
“Jack, I don’t…need my own room.”