Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 34442 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 172(@200wpm)___ 138(@250wpm)___ 115(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34442 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 172(@200wpm)___ 138(@250wpm)___ 115(@300wpm)
“Wow,” Thatch boomed, transitioning into a boisterous laugh that made me a little nervous. “What about something awesome? Once-in-a-lifetime type shit.”
“Once in a lifetime?”
“Yes, bro. Keep up, okay? Like skydiving. Or a hot air balloon ride. You know, something that will take her fucking breath away.”
“Georgie isn’t a fan of heights, dude.”
“I can’t believe this. You have zero plans. Not even a fucking dinner reservation.”
“We don’t need reservations,” I stressed. “We’re VIP status at the resort, so they’ll squeeze us into whatever restaurant we want.” Starting to get stressed, I ran a hand through my hair. I didn’t need this fucker getting in my head. Jesus. This was like showing a pro-football player a reel of all the shit he’s messed up right before the big game.
“What resort are you staying at?”
“The Diamond,” I divulged reluctantly.
He wolf-whistled. “Very nice.”
“I know.” And it was. Georgie was going to love it, and she was going to love the simple relaxing lack of schedule I had planned. I knew it because I knew her. I just needed to get this fucker off the phone and out of my head for good.
“But still, your plans suck, dude. Downright pathetic.”
“My plans are just fine.” I rolled my eyes. “And, if you don’t mind, now that you’ve wasted about twenty minutes of my time with nonsense, I really have to go.”
“But—” He started to say more, but I shut that possibility down quick as a whip.
“Bye, Thatch!”
Thirty seconds later, two text message notifications flashed across the screen of my phone, but I ignored them. I knew who they would be from. In fact, thinking on it more, I scrolled into the options on my contact for Thatch and set him to Do Not Disturb. I could deal with anything else he had to say when I got back—after I’d successfully broken the Valentine’s Day curse.
Hell yes. I couldn’t wait.
Goodness gracious, today had been a long day at work.
If only it were Friday and I were headed home with the weekend serving as the light at the end of my work-stress tunnel. Sadly, though, seeing as it was only Wednesday, I still had two more days to get through before this busy week came to a close. Ugh.
Don’t get me wrong, I loved my job. There was no doubt that working for the New York Mavericks was a dream job, but damn, handling marketing for a group of big, burly professional football players wasn’t the easiest of tasks. And today’s team photos were a prime example of that reality.
The photographer had been twenty minutes late.
The players had been annoyed. Trust me, I’d heard enough expletives to make my own rap album like the ones the store used to label as explicit when I was a kid to warn parents.
And Wes Lancaster—my boss and owner of the New York Mavericks—had been on a bit of a warpath when his team was forty minutes late to training because of said delay.
Thankfully, he had pointed that frustration toward the photography team and not me. But when a dragon breathed fire anywhere in your vicinity, there was still a high percentage chance that at least your eyebrows would get singed.
Even though he was one of Kline’s best friends, Wes could give off some seriously broody-and-grumpy-as-hell vibes.
My phone chimed with a notification from the cupholder of my SUV, but I waited until I came to a stop at a red light about two miles from home before I picked it up and checked the screen. My husband was pretty specific about requesting I didn’t text and drive now that we lived outside the city and didn’t always commute together, which made it highly ironic to find a message from him waiting in my inbox.
Kline: Baby, it’s past 7. Where the hell are you?
Ironic or not, one measly message from my husband and I was smiling like a loon.
It was dumb, I knew, to get all smiley from a simple “Where are you?” text from my spouse, but I couldn’t help it. Call it love. Call it the honeymoon phase. Call it whatever you wanted. Kline Brooks and his big organs made me giddy—big heart, big penis; it was truly the perfect combination for a man.
I glanced up to see that the light was still red and tapped out a quick response.
Me: Running a little late tonight. But I’ll be there in about 5 minutes.
Most days, I was usually home by six with dinner in the oven because Kline’s cooking was one of his only flaws and I was a bit of a control freak about my meal selections, but today’s chaotic photo shoot had me running way behind schedule. My husband, being the kind of guy he was, didn’t even balk at the change. Truth was, if I’d have let him, he’d have gladly taken more of the meal responsibility off my shoulders on a regular basis.