Law #3: Don't Fall for the Athlete: Sweet Second Chance Romance (Laws of Love) by Agnes Canestri (black books to read txt) 📗

few blonde strands of her bob shimmying around her stunningly high cheekbones—no kidding, think Keira Knightly high.

Cora snorts. “Well, either go and change, or else just cover the milk spot with your blazer.”

“Good idea.” Hope grins and immediately reaches for her navy jacket’s button.

Cora rolls her eyes. “Typical, always the easy way out.” Then her gaze settles on Hope’s cereal and she adds, “And you shouldn’t have used Ellie’s lucky bowl.”

“Sorry,” Hope mumbles to me. “I didn’t check which one I grabbed.”

Seeing her guilty grimace, I don’t feel like scolding her, so I shrug. “It’s no biggie. I’ll just use another.” I turn to grab a blue striped dish from the shelf. “It’s not like that extra bit of luck would change what she thinks of me.”

And it probably wouldn’t.

Still, it couldn’t have hurt to stack my chances before speaking with Stephanie.

When I pivot back to my friends, Hope’s staring at me with the same interrogative glare she must use at court. “Wait a minute, Ellie, are your heebie-jeebies work related?”

My brows jump up. “What gave me away?”

“You said she, and the only woman whose opinion you’ve been apprehensive about lately is your boss’s.”

Hope, though she doesn’t look the role when she’s gulping down her favorite snack, is a hot-shot lawyer on her way to making junior partner. I guess her wit of turning verbal slips around is the reason she’s as successful in her career as she is, despite being a bit of a mess when it comes to her physical surroundings.

Cora drops the wooden spoon she used to whisk the stew and steps over to me. “Is something special happening that we don’t know of?”

“Kind of. I decided to ask Stefanie to grant me my first real case,” I say.

“Hallelujah, sugar.” Cora throws her arms in the air.

“About time!” Hope exclaims, too.

Their reaction warms my chest. “You think I deserve this?”

Cora rolls her eyes, that, with her new hair color, glimmer in an almost arctic blue. “Of course you do. You should’ve asked your boss to let you fly solo ages ago.”

“But I’m the youngest assistant on our floor…” I mumble out loud one of the biggest doubts that has been plaguing me.

Hope slurps the milk from her bowl then lowers it to the table. She stands up, walks over to us, and hops up on our kitchen counter. “You might be young, babe, but you’re super talented,” she says, opening her arms. Her hand knocks over the napkin holder, scattering green papers on the black marble.

“Oopsie!” She gathers the napkins hurriedly, so that none of the corners match, and sticks them back into the holder.

“So I shouldn’t have any reason to feel like a pretentious cheat for wanting more responsibility?” I ask, while I pull the napkin holder in front of me to correct Hope’s hasty work.

Cora puts a hand on mine. “None. You’re a hard worker, loyal and insightful. You’ll do great on your own.”

Hope clicks her tongue. “I have a magic bullet against your imposter syndrome.”

My eyes light up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Hope jumps down to the floor. “It’s called ‘power stance’ and goes like this.” She strikes a pose that makes her look like a sexy female version of Harvey Specter from Suits.

“And this works in court?” Cora asks, doubtfully.

“Of course it does. Every flipping time.” Hope grins then throws me a glance. “And not just there. Also with guys. They find a confident woman irresistible.”

“I’m sure they do,” I say, without actually considering the possibility of using the posture anywhere else but with my boss.

It’s not that I couldn’t use a bit of help in the relationship department. I clearly don’t have the best track record with guys.

Especially one guy.

I quickly suppress the memory that threatens to surface. It’s unhealthy that, even after so many years, his face is the one that pops into my mind at Hope’s comment.

I’ve dated others, so why can’t I recall their dimples, dang it?

Cora bites her lip, probably to hold back a spicy comment about Hope’s new boyfriend, Mitch. My roomies love each other, but their take on what we should look for in an ideal man couldn’t be more different.

I’m glad Cora doesn’t bring up Mitch. While I share some of Cora’s worries about him—I mean who couch-surfs on a constant basis at the age of thirty-five?—we’ve both expressed our concerns to Hope about Mitch and she’s been clear that his juvenile lifestyle doesn’t bother her.

Hope points her finger at me. “Okay, your turn. Show us some power.”

I try to imitate her stance.

Hope helps me adjust the angle. I tilt my hips and she shoves my elbows a tick wider as I fold my arms. I never realized it took so much muscle power to look confident. My back aches after only a minute of holding my pose.

I’m sure I don’t look half as good as Hope does, but my roomies applaud me on my efforts.

Cora notices that I’m getting exhausted and decides to rescue me from Hope’s zeal to perfect my posture. She claps her hands. “Okay, I think this is enough to polish her posture. Now, we need to move on to her words.”

I sigh with relief, dropping my arms. “Great idea. Let’s eat Cora’s stew and I can rehearse my pitch for tomorrow.”

Chapter 3

(Wyatt)

“It’s my way or the highway, Wyatt.” Coach Fielding’s coarse voice bounces off his office’s walls which, like a convent, are strictly undecorated.

His tone has the same domineering quality as when he hoots an order in the gridiron on a game day, leaving no doubt that he’s serious about this ultimatum.

Not that I’d ever suspect our head coach of joking.

The pot-bellied man is as charming on his good days as a bear poked awake from his winter hibernation, and he has only one measure in life—whatever helps his football team win the next Super Bowl is good.

Everything else is dung.

And the behavior I exhibited in practice today definitely falls into his second category.

I stare at the coach’s XXL trashcan-gray