Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 39338 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 197(@200wpm)___ 157(@250wpm)___ 131(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 39338 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 197(@200wpm)___ 157(@250wpm)___ 131(@300wpm)
Chapter Four
BRITTA
June
I’m in the passenger side of Sumner’s truck, fanning my cheeks even though the air conditioner is blasting. We’re sitting outside a long beige government building with black reflective windows, an American flag whipping overhead in the summer breeze.
Today is the day of our green card interview.
Sumner reaches over from the driver’s side, stilling my flapping hand and then bringing it to the center of his chest. “Britta, we have nothing to be nervous about.”
“I don’t know, Sum. They say these interviewers are human lie detectors.”
He raises a dark eyebrow. “Who is ‘they’?”
I give him a sheepish look. “The internet.”
Sumner shakes his head at me, and I can’t help but notice the way his black hair rubs against his collar in the process. My fingers twitch, wondering what it would feel like wrapped around my knuckles. Not that I plan on finding out. Or anything. “Did you pick up any conspiracy theories while you were scaring yourself on the web?” he asks, clearly unaware that I’m mentally pulling his hair while he—
“Don’t get me started on the Roswell cover-up,” I rush to say, giving him a half smile to let him know I’m joking. But our usual banter is doing nothing to calm the butterflies in my stomach. Or the sexual tension that has been creeping into my stomach more and more quickly, potently, when he’s around. “I just don’t want to let you and the team down.”
“You’ve done more than enough for the team. I’m still here, aren’t I?” he says without missing a beat. “I understand why you’re nervous, though. We don’t exactly have jobs that require interviews. It’s new territory.”
“Bashing bodies is your job application. Pouring liquor is mine,” I murmur, staring out the front windshield of the truck, my fingers clutching the binder in my lap. It contains electric bills for my apartment in both our names, mail Sumner has received at my place, pictures of us together that we’ve taken over the last six months. In the bar, at the Bridgeport Marina, in the stands after hockey practice. Our arms are around each other, and we’re smiling. Looking like a couple. There were a few times I wanted to suggest he kiss me in one of the photos, but something held me back. Maybe a fear I wouldn’t be able to stop once I started? “Although, now that I’m a part owner in the bar,” I say, needing to distract myself from those wayward thoughts, “I’m realizing how little I know about the business end of things. In another life, I would . . .”
I can feel Sumner’s gaze brushing down the side of my cheek. “You’d what, Britta?”
“Go to business school. Maybe.”
I’m surprised by the nerves that bounce around in my stomach just having spoken that dream out loud. Why would I be apprehensive about something that will probably never happen? I don’t know, but the idea of spending significantly less time in the bar, while I attend classes, makes me feel more exposed than I would have expected. Almost like I would be without my armor. Has Sluggers become more of a safety zone than a livelihood?
“You’re an owner now, right?” he says, diverting my troubling thoughts, thankfully. “You could hire someone to work while you’re in class.”
“I could. You’re right. But speaking of job applications, I doubt a lot of bartenders have ‘hockey player babysitter’ listed under their special skills.”
He sighs. “Good help is hard to find these days.”
“Mmmm.”
We trade a slow smile, and my stomach does a somersault—which is beginning to become a regular thing. Out of necessity, Sumner and I have been spending time together, learning everything there is to know about one another’s lives, down to the names of our first-grade teachers and the outfits we’d like to be buried in, in the event of our untimely deaths. I know his mother’s maiden name, his preferred brand of laundry detergent, and his favorite movie, which turned out to be A Dog’s Purpose.
In fact, I watched it alone one night, for research, and refused to speak to him for a week afterward, my emotional damage ran so deep.
“If they ask me your favorite movie, I’m going to lie, by the way,” I say, leaning closer to the air conditioner. “They probably don’t grant green cards to psychopaths.”
“Me?” He tips his head back on a laugh, and there’s his throat . . . that incredible throat. “Your favorite movie is Clue. If they should be worried about anyone, it’s you.”
“It’s a good thing they can’t kick me out of the country, I guess.”
His attention runs down to my bare thighs, lingering on the hem of my skirt, the black of his pupils expanding. “No one would kick you out of anything, sweetheart.”
Oh. Wow.
I resist the intense urge to squirm. Or cross my legs.