Buch lesen: «Everybody's Hero»
“I like it, the red light gives it that bordello appeal.”
Claire pursed her lips at Jason’s comment. “Oh, please. There’s nothing sexy about a darkroom.” She searched for her supplies. “I hate it when I can’t find a thing.”
“Wanna bet?” Jason came up behind her.
“That I can’t find anything?” She arched her neck to scan a high shelf.
His hand came around, touching her chin. He gently turned her head sideways, then eased her body around to face him. “I meant about this place being sexy.” He stepped closer and kissed her lightly on the lips.
“I see what you mean,” she said when the kiss was over. She tried to think of something else to say but couldn’t, instead, she leaned into him and kissed him deeply.
He lifted her onto the countertop and worked a hand beneath her shirt. “This bra is just killing me.”
It was her turn and she ran her fingers around his neck, then into his thick dark hair. “Well, I’m sure we can figure a way to put you out of your suffering.”
Dear Reader,
Being raised in upstate New York, I spent many a cold winter evening at an ice rink watching the best college hockey players. As a kid, I used to fantasize about being called down from the stands to don my skates and score the winning goal for the home team. Well, I grew up and so did my fantasies. I began to wonder who those superior athletes really were. And even more to the point, what did they look like without all the pads and equipment? With Jason Doyle, star player for the New York Blades, I got to create my own answers. And who better to find out the intimate details than a wisecracking, independent photographer. Claire Marsden’s trotted around the world more than a few times, but she’s never come across the likes of Jason!
As a new member of the Temptation family, I am delighted to join the ranks of such talented storytellers and writers. Over the years, I have been an avid reader of romance fiction, and I know of no other literary genre as consistently satisfying and well written. And to me, nothing spices up a romance as much as two quick-witted protagonists who can verbally spar—in and out of bed. A sense of humor can truly be the most effective form of foreplay.
Hope you enjoy reading Jason and Claire’s story—either in or out of bed!
All the best,
Tracy Kelleher
Everybody’s Hero
Tracy Kelleher
To Peter and James,
two great guys.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
1
IT WAS OVER a jelly donut that Claire Marsden found the man of her dreams.
For her best friend, Trish, that is. Trish, who in high school was known as Patti with an “i.”
Of course, high school had been a time of pastel turtlenecks and friendship bracelets. Now Trish was more into skimpy black knits and chunky quartz jewelry, and names ending with an “i” were definitely déclassé.
But Claire, being Claire, was not about to let her friend’s sophisticated transformation pass unnoticed. Whenever she felt Trish was acting a bit uppity, she referred to her as “The Magazine Editor Formerly Known as Patti.” A statement that was both annoying and true. And now that they were working together, Claire had ample opportunity to razz her friend.
Still, right now, Trish’s morphing persona was the last thing on Claire’s mind. In fact, she realized, it was hard to have anything on her mind, when in front of her appeared a vision of male glory that would tongue-tie even the most jaded Hollywood leading lady—with or without changing names.
Claire only hoped her cerebral shutdown was temporary. Because if she really wanted to be honest about her feelings, Jason Doyle could easily be the man of her own dreams.
After all, how many men pull up in front of Madison Square Garden in New York City on a fire-engine-red Italian motorcycle, on time no less? But then, honesty about her own feelings was not something Claire analyzed with any great depth.
For now, she’d just enjoy the show. And thank the gods for delivering her next assignment, who, Claire was convinced, would be the perfect solution to Trish’s current problems—and dreams.
Jason Doyle was also the answer to the professional hockey league’s dreams. All two hundred and ten, well-proportioned pounds of him. Recently traded to the New York Blades, his aggressive style and league-leading scoring appealed to men. The women weren’t immune, either, what with his devilish smile and sexy comma-shaped scar that cupped the outside corner of his right eye. The combination made him look as if he was slyly winking at some inside joke, which only he and that certain female understood. Naturally, any woman who’d ever applied lip gloss imagined herself to be that certain one.
Until now Jason had limited his commercial—and bodily exposure—to a few tasteful endorsements and a calendar to support research for children’s causes. Funny how those backlighted shots of his well-oiled biceps had landed in more than a few tabloids. Or maybe not so funny, Claire reflected as she took in the way his black leather jacket hugged his broad shoulders.
Being a self-proclaimed cynic should have made her intrinsically immune to Jason’s easy charm and over-thetop brand of maleness. But her cynicism appeared to have gone temporarily AWOL, especially when Jason pulled off his helmet and whipped off his mirrored sunglasses as easily as spreading cream cheese on a warm bagel. Only a fool could ignore the way her stomach did a major flip-flop, and Claire’s daddy hadn’t raised a fool. Jason Doyle was every bit as scrumptious; and twice as dangerous as in his photos.
Claire stiffened. That danger, coupled with that mega-powered motorcycle, signaled a personality that enjoyed living on the edge. She had had enough of that kind of life, thank you. These days, give her calm, boring consistency. Maybe a picket fence. Well, maybe not a picket fence.
But danger, or the allure of it, was just what the doctor ordered for Trish, and Claire was about to put her plan in motion. She was sure her friend would be pleased. Claire elbowed Trish. “Hubba, hubba.”
“You can say that again.” Trish smoothed her hands down the sides of her black leather pants. “Didn’t I tell you he would make some cover story? C’mon, let’s meet hockey’s gift to womankind.”
Claire popped the last piece of donut into her mouth and wiped the powdered sugar off the front of her ribbed sweater. “Well, it’s a tough assignment, but somebody’s got to do it.”
Despite the ungodly hour of 6:30 a.m., a group of fans had already swarmed around Jason—no deterrent to Trish, who charged on through. “Jason, Trish Camperdown, features editor of Focus Magazine.”
“Ms. Camperdown, a pleasure.” Jason’s high-wattage smile appeared genuine. He rocked back on his heels.
Trish, normally the epitome of cool sophistication, actually giggled. He widened his smile. A full array of white teeth, large but not too large—perfect for nibbling on a girl’s earlobe—practically glistened against the gray of the Manhattan skyline.
Claire was standing back a few paces, but still felt the full wattage. “You still have all your teeth.” She blurted out the first thing that she thought of. Well, maybe not the first thing.
Jason looked over as if seeing Claire for the first time. He lifted his chin, surveying her closely. Not that she wasn’t used to that reaction.
Men often did a double take when they first saw Claire. She wasn’t beautiful, mind you; not like Trish, Claire thought. It was the fact that very few thirty-year-old women had a dramatic gray streak in their hair. She’d had it since she was eighteen, and for a time in her life had actually tried to dye it. But at the age of twenty-four or twenty-five, she had just given up, accepting it for what it was, a genetic quirk passed down by her father—a typically flamboyant quirk.
Big Jim Marsden had been a world-renowned, big-game photographer with a lust for life and a unique style all his own. If a giant rhino were charging at full speed, Big Jim could still hold a glass of bourbon in one hand and his trusty Leica camera in the other. All without flinching.
Jason Doyle didn’t seem to flinch at a little sight of gray either. “I have other things intact, also,” he replied.
He didn’t say it with a leer. That would be cheesy, and Jason Doyle was anything but cheesy. At six foot two, with four fingers of one hand slid into the back pocket of his jeans, and his thumb looped casually on the faded denim, the man looked as solid as Mount Rushmore and radiated as much sincerity as Washington, Jefferson and Lincoln combined. He was as true blue as they came, and Claire didn’t doubt that on Memorial Day he could be found in his little hometown—the guy had to come from someplace with a population of five thousand, who had wraparound porches on their white clapboard houses—placing tiny flags on the graves of the fallen war heroes.
No, when Jason Doyle said he had all his parts intact, Claire had no trouble getting the drift. It was where her imagination was drifting that had her more concerned.
“And you are?” He cocked one eyebrow and cradled his helmet against his jeans-clad hipbone.
“Claire—” An overeager fan pushed against Claire with bruising eagerness before she had a chance to finish. She bumped forward, her side landing against the hard plastic of Jason’s motorcycle helmet.
He shot out a large hand, cushioning the blow. He grabbed her elbow and stopped her before her nose bumped his chin.
And what a chin. A small cleft. Early morning stubble. A slight scar along the side. That, and the one near his eye, gave him a sense of character that kept his features from being merely perfect. Claire gulped and looked up into tiger’s-eye, flecked-brown eyes that spelled trouble with a capital T. “My mother warned me about guys like you,” she mumbled. Claire shook her head, trying hard not to feel the sheer strength of his grip through her bulky sweater.
“That’s the trouble with mothers.” Jason’s grin stretched wider. A devastating dimple marked one cheek. “They never look beyond the surface.” Another surge of fans squashed Claire more firmly into his side.
Talk about surface. As she slammed against his body, Claire felt the energy vibrating from Jason’s frame, his muscular legs straining against his worn jeans. And when she lifted her hand defensively, she felt his chest through his thin black T-shirt, his well-defined pectorals and pancake-flat stomach.
Claire shook her head. This embodiment of masculinity was meant for Trish. She should not be receiving sensory impressions with the magnitude of an air raid siren. She raised one eyebrow, arched her neck, and gave him the slow once-over. “And a very nice surface it is, too. But there won’t be much left of it if we don’t get you inside.”
She turned to look for Trish. Her friend’s sleek chignon had come loose in the hubbub, and Claire didn’t think her four-hundred-dollar Italian designer shoes could take much more of the stampede. And more fans were swarming their way. Quick action was needed. “Trish, why don’t you and Jason fight your way inside? Grab one of the security guards over there to help you. We paid them overtime. They may as well earn their money.”
Claire turned back to Jason. For a man about to be smothered by a band of adoring fans, he seemed remarkably calm. If anything, he was smiling more broadly than ever. “Something funny?” she asked.
“I don’t think you need a mother to protect you, Claire-with-no-last-name. I think you can take care of yourself just fine.”
“And something tells me you’re not exactly a pushover yourself. But listen, get Trish inside. I don’t think her Ferragamos can take much more of this.”
“What about my bike?” He nodded sideways.
“Keys.”
“Keys?”
Claire held out her hand. “I’ll take the bike around the back.”
Jason hesitated. “My mother warned me about women like you.” He pulled the keys out of his pocket. “I presume you can ride one?”
“Do bears pee in the woods?” Claire waggled her fingers for him to hand over the keys.
Jason placed them in her hands. They were warm from being next to his body. “You realize what this means, don’t you?”
“I have the responsibility for a forty-thousand-dollar custom-built machine?”
“More like sixty thousand. But that’s not the point. The real issue is that you now meet the first of my ten requirements for a perfect wife.”
It was Claire’s turn to look confused.
“Long ago, I decided that I would only marry a woman who knows how to ride a motorcycle,” he said.
“Well, that’s something I’m sure your adoring fans will be eager to know. But at the risk of a little too much adoration—” Claire looked over and placed Trish’s hand on Jason’s arm. “Trish. I think it’s time you take our crowd pleaser inside.”
Trish, her hairdo and her demeanor jostled by the crowd, looked only too relieved at the suggestion. Of course, a mussed coiffure on Trish simply gave her that air of just-out-of-bed chic. Her retro Persian lamb jacket hanging precariously off one shoulder and her skimpy little cashmere sweater doing the same, added to the waiflike look. “Don’t worry about your bike,” Trish said. She patted Jason’s arm as she directed him forward. “Claire is very good with mechanical things. After a party while we were in high school, she once figured out how to circumvent the security system in my parents’ house, so we could sneak in late without getting in trouble.”
Jason seemed more impressed by that news than by Trish’s soigné appearance. Over the crowd noise she heard, “I trust she hasn’t continued this life of crime.” He looked back in Claire’s direction.
“I’m only tempted toward the end of the month when the paycheck’s run out and the electricity bill is overdue,” Claire said loud enough for him to hear.
An eager fan thrust a copy of the morning’s paper and pen toward Jason to sign, and forced Claire to take a step back, giving her a better view of her gaminelike friend cozying up to hockey’s hunk. And then the first thought of the morning hit her again. Here in the flesh was the answer to Trish’s dreams. And while the thought should have sent her leaping with the joy and grace of a member of the Bolshoi’s chorus, it was actually a little depressing. Strange. And when faced with internal confusion, Claire reacted in her instinctively glib manner. “Speaking of A-1 marriage material. You fit our bill for a fiancé.”
Her voice penetrated the din of the crowd. And Jason, who had started to turn into the building with Trish leading the way, turned his head back at the sound of Claire’s voice.
She smiled. For once, the calm assurance that naturally embued his features, seemed to flicker.
“Don’t worry. It’s for Trish, not for me,” she called.
2
BY THE TIME Claire stowed the bike around the back of the arena, leaving it under the envious eye of a security guard, the rest of the contingent from the magazine was already inside, clustered by the home team’s bench.
She walked over quickly, blowing on her fingers as she went. As requested, the management had lifted the basketball flooring, leaving the rink bare. With only a handful of people in the cavernous space, the building was cold. Figured. It seemed that Claire had felt cold for the last five years or so.
She rubbed her hands together and approached the group. Trish was busy talking on her cell phone. Her assistant, Elaine, also clad in fur and leather—though how she could afford it on an assistant’s pitiful salary was beyond Claire—was talking to a heavy-set man in a blue suit. He, in turn, was carrying a large walkie-talkie. Must be the Garden’s manager, Claire figured.
Meanwhile, a small gaggle of young males was huddled near or on the ice. One row up, on his own cell phone, was an intense-looking, well-groomed man in his thirties. Slicked-back hair. Black cashmere coat. The type of coat that owed its origins to well-groomed sheep and top negotiating skills. Claire would bet her newly purchased fifty-dollar tube of moisturizer that he was Jason Doyle’s agent.
And within an easy, fifteen percent reach of that well-tailored arm was the man himself. Why else would a throng of men be acting with the giddiness of acneriddled adolescents at a high school mixer? Claire heard snatches of conversation as she approached. Phrases such as “Stanley Cup play-offs,” “number of assists” and “babes” punctuated the talk. Boys will be boys, no matter what age, she thought.
“Hey, guys, I hate to break up this little group, but business is business,” Claire announced. One of the technical crew, a young fellow with an earring and the requisite straggly goatee, stepped out of the way, revealing a clear sighting of Jason Doyle, who was signing a few autographs. He looked up at the sound of her voice.
Unconsciously she tucked the gray lock of hair behind her ear. Her chin-length bob was chosen strictly for practicality. More often than not, she cut it herself; a habit that seemed to distress the hairdressers she visited intermittently. Their hand-waving bursts of enthusiasm about letting her thick, wavy hair frame her prominent cheekbones and accentuate her heart-shaped jaw, and their coloratura songs of praise for the wonders of highlights, didn’t seem to justify the many hours required to spend sitting in a hairdresser’s chair, draped in a plastic cape that invariably made Claire sweat in places she didn’t know she had glands.
“Sorry to interrupt, but could you just show me where you’ve stowed the gear?” Claire asked. “I also need to talk to someone about the lighting. If we’re shooting this in color, I’d like to have more light.”
“Righto.” The lanky techie bounded off, taking huge steps, to speak with Mr. Walkie-Talkie.
“I’m impressed.”
Claire didn’t need to look over to know who was talking. Even without raising his voice, Jason Doyle’s delivery had enough firepower to knock a tin can off a fence railing from twenty feet away. She turned her head and felt caught in the crosshairs of his stare. “It’s my naturally authoritative air,” she said, no longer feeling quite so confident.
“It certainly made me snap to attention. Siegfrid and Roy could learn a thing or two from you.” Jason walked toward her, the hangers-on peeling away reluctantly.
“Well, I usually draw the line at large animals with claws.”
“You sure about that?” He held out his hand. Claire noticed that his nails were clipped short, but the sinews on the back of his large hands attested to a sizable strength. “I didn’t realize outside that you must be—”
“Claire Marsden.” Someone else’s well-manicured hand reached Claire’s first. “I’m Vernon Ehrenreich, Jason’s agent. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Though I must confess, I’m a little surprised to see you’re the photographer for the story. I thought you were more a newsperson.”
Claire gave Vernon a pinched smile and was just about to give him something else when Trish rapidly descended on them, a remarkable accomplishment considering her spike heels.
“Vernon, Claire, I see you’ve already made the introductions.” Trish snapped shut her cell phone. “I can’t tell you how lucky we are to have Claire. Didn’t I tell you we wanted to capture a journalistic flair for the art? After all, what better way to portray a man of motion like Jason? In fact, when I mentioned Claire’s name to Jason, he jumped at the opportunity.”
That last bit of information was news to Claire. And for all she knew, it was also news to Jason Doyle, but he didn’t appear to question the statement. Claire shifted her weight from one foot to the other and waited. Trish could talk a vacuum cleaner salesman into buying brooms. Not that she felt she needed to be defensive. Claire was proud of her credentials. True, sports had never been her beat, and she was not a celebrity photographer by any stretch of the imagination. But the Claire Marsden photo credit carried a lot of weight in the publishing world. And Trish had assured her up and down, left, right and center, that her background would not be an issue.
So here was Vernon, clearly angling to protect the bankable quality of his star.
“Action is one thing. But I thought we were talking sports photographer. No offense, Claire.” Vernon held up a deferential hand. Claire nodded coolly. What she wouldn’t give for a stray pigeon to suddenly drop a not so little gift on Vernon’s gelled head. No, maybe on his coat. The sight of blemished cashmere might send him into anaphylactic shock.
“I supposed a Pulitzer counts for nothing?” Trish interjected.
Jason turned to Claire. “A Pulitzer?”
Claire shrugged. “Actually, it’s two.”
“Well, you may not value Claire’s news experience, but I’m sure you saw January’s Focus Magazine with Clyde Allthorpe on the cover?” Trish went on.
Claire saw Vernon’s jaw drop. Who hadn’t seen the magazine cover showing the running back, dripping with water, with a giddy grin adorning his face and, what appeared to be, little else on the rest of his body? The issue had set a record for the most newsstand copies ever sold. It had made every television entertainment show, and even become the running joke of late-night television hosts. Public radio had wanted to do an analysis of the phenomenon. What more could a girl ask for in the way of fame and fortune?
Well, she could have the fame and fortune of Clyde Allthorpe, who, as Vernon knew only too well, was the proud possessor of the largest endorsement contract among professional athletes. It was even an endorsement contract that eclipsed Jason’s, which as timing would have it, was due for renegotiation. And speaking of renegotiation, Clyde had signed that contract after the cover photo had hit the stands.
“You took that photo?” Vernon asked Claire.
“I did,” Claire said. “But you’ve got to understand—”
“What’s to understand?” Trish interrupted. “I think Vernon fully appreciates how lucky we are to have you on this job. Now why don’t you and Jason get to work while I talk to Vernon about what we’re planning next.” Trish shooed Claire and Jason along as if they were naughty puppies. There were times when well-manicured French tips definitely made a statement.
Claire turned to Jason. “Well, I guess we’ve got our marching orders. As you’ve already heard, I’m Claire Marsden, but I never got a chance to properly introduce myself.” She held out her hand.
Jason took it. “You’re freezing.” He placed both her bare hands in his and started to rub. His hands were large, his skin rough. Claire didn’t know about her hands, but her toes, which usually were frozen nubs despite two layers of woolen socks, were definitely getting hot. “You should wear gloves,” he said, and rubbed more briskly.
Claire swallowed. “Can’t. It’s an occupational hazard. I can’t wear gloves with the camera. I’m just always cold.”
Jason lifted her hands in his and started to blow. “Better?”
Actually, she was feeling warm, quite warm. “I’m not sure better is the exact word I’d choose.”
Jason peered over their hands. “Am I making you uncomfortable?” He didn’t look the least bit concerned.
“How about maybe you stop?”
“How about maybe you blow on my hands and I’ll see how I feel?”
Claire was just about to tell Jason what he could do to his hands when he released hers. He held up his hands in surrender. “Just kidding.”
“Something tells me you’re going to be bad news, Jason Doyle.” She shook her head and searched for the technician who was to bring her cameras. He was over by the entrance to the ice rink. Bags of equipment were piled on a bench nearby. She motioned for Jason to follow.
“So how do you want me?” he asked.
Claire made a show of rummaging through her camera bag.
“Does this mean we’re not going to be close friends?”
She looked up. “I think this photo session will be perfectly cordial. We’ll relax, have fun. Afterward, we’ll probably exchange Christmas cards for a year or two. I’ll send you a congratulatory e-mail regarding your next Stanley Cup victory. You might send me pictures when your first child is born. But after that, even the most casual communication will peter out, and five years from now, you’ll think, ‘I wonder what ever happened to that lady photographer, Claire something? I remember she was good at her job, but, boy, was she ever lousy at taking a joke.’”
He listened in silence, and when she’d finished, took a step closer. His hulking frame was mere inches from hers. The worn leather of his jacket sleeve brushed against her sweater as he circled to get in her view. “Is it just me, or are you always this uptight, Claire Marsden?”
She turned, her face now mere inches from his. The color of his eyes had deepened to a midnight hue. Not good. She chickened out. Lowered her gaze. And saw his chest heave in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. Even the molecules of air that barely separated their bodies seemed to twitch and tremble in a sharp staccato.
She fixed what she hoped was an aloof gaze back on him, and, working hard to keep her voice calm, said, “Why don’t you put on your skates and team jersey? We’ll get you on the ice, doing your thing.” The soul of business, she turned back to her camera bag and searched around for rolls of film. She stuffed them into the pockets of her jeans, and swung the camera strap over her neck with an ease borne of having repeated the motion at least a million times.
“Where do you want my hands?”
Claire nearly dropped her telephoto lens. So much for instinct.
“What do you want me to do with my hands—on the ice?” Jason had doffed his jacket and pulled on a jersey. He was sitting on the bench, lacing up his skates, something he, too, had done more than a million times.
The act should have been merely mechanical. Why was the sight of his strong fingers working with deft speed so sexy? Until she looked down at her own hands, Claire hadn’t realized that she was unconsciously outlining the protruding camera lens. She quickly let go. The weight made the strap bite into the back of her neck
Claire straightened her shoulders and cleared her throat. “Well, I think we’ll have you holding a stick and taking a few shots at the net.” She wet her lips. “I understand that’s what you’re good at.”
Jason finished lacing up. “Wait till you see me in action, Claire Marsden.”
“Oh, I think I already have.”
SHE WAS WRONG. In action—in motion—Jason Doyle was beyond great. Barely harnessed power positively radiated from his being. Dynamite was too passive an adjective. It was like being on the surface of the sun with those vortices of energy swirling in every direction.
Which only irritated Claire more because she was convinced she wasn’t capturing it all on film. For a good forty-five minutes, she directed the crew while he swiftly skated up and down. He took slap shot after slap shot, pausing only when the lights needed repositioning—a process that was annoyingly time-consuming to Claire. She was used to capturing the photo as quickly as possible. But the professional and perfectionist in her knew that the technical adjustments were key to getting these color shots right.
“Would you move them to either side of the goal? That’s it, a little higher on the stands. And, Jason, take the shots right on goal, okay?” She moved behind the net.
“Don’t trust me enough to stand in front? I hardly ever miss a stationary target, you know?” He leaned on his stick.
“I’m not concerned for me, but my camera. Any loss of concentration might do it in.”
“Always the ready excuse to keep from getting close.” He lined up a row of pucks.
“Gosh, I don’t know why the thought of having a speeding puck fly within millimeters of my face just doesn’t do it for me.” Claire held up her camera and crouched behind the net.
“Must be a testosterone thing.”
“If the shoe fits.”
“Among other things.”
Claire lowered her camera, but before she even finished uttering, “Hey,” he stepped up to the first puck and with machinelike precision sent each one in the line hurtling toward her face.
She quickly raised her camera and focused. Natural instinct had her flinching the first time the shot came flying toward her, only the loose mesh protecting the bones of her face. It was like being in front of a firing squad. She held firm and let the shutter whir, determined to get her shots of his shots.
Ten minutes later, soaked with as much sweat as he was, Claire wasn’t convinced. She chewed on her lower lip. She wanted the reader to not just see the power, but to actually feel it. She shook her head and rewound, opening the camera and flipping the roll into her bag.
Jason skated up, spraying ice chips as he came to a screeching halt next to her. He was breathing hard. The cold air made his breath cloud. Claire looked up. She quickly popped in a new roll of film. “That’s it! Keep doing that. And get more light in here. Now. Fast. And keep doing that heavy breathing.”
“That’s what all the women say.”
Claire didn’t bother to look up from her viewfinder. “I just bet they do.” She rattled off the shots until the air cleared. “We’ve got to get you moving again.” She snapped her fingers. “But hold on a sec.” She looked for the same lanky techie who had helped her out earlier. “Why don’t you rustle up a pair of skates for me? Size eight.”
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