Coming Apart at the Seams Read Online Free PDF Page A

Unfortunately, she had Grandma Vi’s body shape, voluptuous on a good day, chunky on a bad day.
    Teagan supposed she should count herself lucky she didn’t take after her great-great-grandfather, who’d been nearly seven feet tall with a fifty-inch waist. His mountainous physique had probably come in handy back in the rough-and-tumble days of the Gold Rush.
    â€œNo! You’re missing the point!” Bebe exclaimed. “I think JD is a predator, Teagan, and he’s fixated on you. That’s why you need to do everything you can to make him shift his attention
away
from you.” She pointed at Teagan. “And it would also help if you would keep your mouth shut.”
    Teagan sighed. She’d never been very good at that.
    *   *   *
    The view of the Charles River from Nick’s new condo was nice enough, especially on this sunny summer day, but he wished he could still see the Rocky Mountains from his windows. Unfortunately, Denver was no longer his home, and the Denver Broncos were no longer his team.
    He’d spent seven years playing for the Broncos after they made him a first-round draft pick right out of college. He had hoped he could spend his entire career there, even though he’d known it was unlikely.
    When it came right down to it, players were commodities. They weren’t people—they were just arms and legs, hands and feet, to be sold to the highest bidder—and the Boston Colonials had made Denver an offer for Nick it just couldn’t refuse.
    He shook off thoughts of the trade. It was done, and there was no reason to think about it anymore. He needed to accept that he was back on the East Coast, only a few hours from where he’d grown up.
    Only a few hours from his father.
    Thoughts of Simon Priest filled Nick with a bitter mix of anger and disappointment. His father wore many hats: academic, economist, author, and speaker.
    Officially, Simon taught economics at Syracuse University, but when Nick had been in high school, his father had authoreda book on global economic drivers that had caught the attention of the mainstream media. Almost overnight, he’d become one of the most-sought-after interviews on cable TV networks like CNN and MSNBC.
    Over the past decade, Simon’s renown had grown, and he spent the majority of his time presenting at global economic conferences. He excelled at the very thing Nick didn’t: talking.
    From the moment Nick had been diagnosed with a speech disorder in kindergarten, his father had treated him as a body without a brain. In fact, most people treated Nick that way. Because he didn’t say much, they assumed he was a dumb jock. Most of the time, he agreed with them.
    His stomach growled, and he headed into the kitchen and grabbed an apple off the counter. He hadn’t eaten lunch, and he was starving. He wished the food fairy had stopped by and filled the refrigerator with delicious, healthy meals. Unfortunately, he didn’t have a food fairy, although he was scheduled to interview four personal chefs this afternoon.
    The first candidate was supposed to arrive—he checked the time on his mobile phone—right now. His phone buzzed to let him know he’d received a text, and he popped open the screen to read the message from his agent, Elijah Farris.
    â€œDon’t forget interviews. One p.m. Paulette Andrews.”
    Elijah was awesome. He went above and beyond to help his clients. Along with Quinn, he was one of the few people who knew about Nick’s stutter, and he was very protective of Nick’s privacy.
    Without question, the lack of privacy was the thing Nick hated most about being a professional athlete. He didn’t mind the pressure to win, the fickle fans who cussed you one moment and loved you the next, or the aches and pains from having a 300-pound man throw you to the ground.
    But he definitely didn’t like living in a fishbowl. It was hard enough for him to