Page 77 of Draft Pick
I really hope I am because I’m on a fast track to the embarrassment highway if this goes south.
But this is my way of saying, “Crew, I want to be with you. In more ways than one,” and hope he accepts me for all that I am. The woman with a fucked-up family she hardly talks to, a pet cat whom she practically considers a child, and a career that can be more time-consuming than a partner would bargain for.
But if there’s one thing I’m confident in, it’s my ability to love big.
I’ll love that caring man and his beautiful daughter with everything in me.
The walk to Crew’s front door gives me the time to back out if necessary, but I’ve never been a quitter. With the charcoal velvet box secured in my hands, my black stilettos clack against the stone walkway, an audible reminder that I’d love nothing morethan to see them thrown across Crew’s bedroom floor by the end of the night.
A woman can only hope.
I knock on the door three times before standing back and observing his side of the neighborhood. There’s something different about Crew’s street. The homes are spread out even wider than mine, with nearly every home fenced in white picket panels. It kind of reminds me of an old Hallmark film during Christmastime, minus the Christmas decor.
It’s clear that my side of the Suburban neighborhood is more newly established, while Crew’s has a history. Both versions are equally charming, primarily because of the location, but there’s a homegrown zest to his that mine sadly lacks.
I hear commotion behind the door, telling me Addie is home, too, and I instantly panic. Shit. Shit. Shit.
I dressed the part, expecting Addie to already be with her mom and no longer home. It’s okay, I work through a mental plan. I’ll just pretend I’m really cold and my Inspector Gadget coat was necessary.
That should buy me a suitable excuse for layering in eighty-degree weather.
I also can’t forget to mention the discretion of his gift before delivering and leaving. The last thing anyone needs is raging questions about adult things coming from a curious six-year-old.
Catching me in mid-damage control, the clank of the old wooden door opening stops me. Excited for who’s on the other side to greet me, I spin on my heels with a smile on my face, only to be met with Crew.
Or should I say, the new and improved Crew Briggs?
I can’t decide whether to burst into a fit of giggles or demand to be kissed. This view is extraordinary. Which feature do I appreciate first? The multicolored plastic butterfly clipsattached to sprouted ponytails in his hair, or the metallic pink and purple eye shadow coating his eyelids?
And that’s just the start of this diva’s makeover. Pure joy outweighs the panic I once felt, knowing that despite being dressed for a potential strip-down, I’m fortunate enough to witness the hot pink lipstick that covers more of Crew’s mustache than his actual lips. And the fake silver diamond earrings clipped to his ears, reminding me distinctly of the sharp pain they bring.
Two oversized beach towels are wrapped around his large frame, held together by potato chip clips, creating a makeshift dress. One is printed with mermaids, and the other, sprinkled cupcakes.
“Doc. Hey?—”
“King Triton, your tea is ready!” Addie yells from inside the house, and I can only imagine what their tea party setup looks like.
Crew looks at me in shock while I’m unable to muster up anything but a smile. God, I’m beaming. My insides. My face. My heart. How could he ever believe his life was too much for someone?
He blinks, turning to call out to Addie. “Be right there, Queen Ariel.”
“Chop chop,” Addie shouts. “Before I call the Emerald City police on you. Trolli and I are waiting.”
“Wouldn’t want that,” Crew laughs to himself before facing me again. He blinks slowly, and I can’t tell what he’s thinking. “Freaking tarantula.”
“Hey,” I say, reeling with every emotion possible at this point. “Cute dress.”
Giving himself a once-over, he tracks his getup carefully before circling back to mine. “I could say the same about yours.”
Yep. He knows. And even if he hadn’t said it, his hazy eyes say it all, trailing my coat like he knows what’s underneath.
We’ve all seen the movies. The only legitimate reason for a woman to show up to someone’s house in a trench coat is because she has plans to either strip and be paid for it or to be railed like a horse.
My intention was the latter. After I declared my feelings.
“Picked it out myself.”
His lips tick. “I bet.”
