Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 67046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Oh for fuck’s sake.
“Jesus, Wallace—now is not the time!”
A finger pokes me in the thigh from under the covers. “He’s right though—we do need to talk about the rest of those cards.”
She is not helping.
Even though they’re both right—I still want those cards and she still has to sell them—we’re not fucking discussing it right here, naked, in front of Dipshit over there.
“Get out, so we can get dressed.”
“I want tacos,” he announces, standing.
After he’s gone, Miranda and I speak at the same time.
“I’m sorry about that.”
“He’s five.”
With a laugh, we climb out of bed and get dressed.
Epilogue
Two months later
Noah
“I can’t believe there are two of them.” Miranda hands me a bowl of pasta salad and I carry it to the table she has set up at the front of her office space. “They could be twins.”
I follow her gaze. Buzz and his brother Tripp are arguing over near the makeshift bar, set up for the official opening of Miranda’s design business.
“If Wallace were a twin, I’d punch myself in the nuts.”
My girlfriend rolls her eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic—he’s not so terrible. And his brother seems nice.”
Nice? Not a word I’d use to describe either of them, especially not Tripp Wallace, but Miranda is delusional and, much to my irritation, has grown to love Buzz like a brother. As such, she’s using words like nice, and cute, and adorable to describe them both.
Vomit.
A professional football player for Chicago, Tripp is as big an asshole as his brother, if not worse. Taller. Bulkier. Cruder. The day they were handing out god complexes, Tripp was first in line to receive one.
Prick.
At the moment, he’s trying to steal a wine bottle out of my friend’s hands and I watch as he gets elbowed in the gut. Jeez, they fight like kids.
Someone needs to take him down a peg or two.
And someone needs to stop those idiots from arguing before they knock the entire bar over. It took me two hours to hammer that fucking thing together and longer to paint it.
Miranda hands me a plate of sushi and kisses my cheek. “Thanks for all your help arranging this, baby.”
Baby.
She loves using endearments when she’s talking to me, hardly ever calls me by my name anymore. It’s always babe this, honey that, oh hey sweetie.
I fucking love it.
I love her.
All our friends have come out to support her. Claire, Emily, Gretchen and her boyfriend, whatshisface whose name I can’t be bothered to remember. A few people she’s met networking. Friends of mine, mostly all teammates and their wives or girlfriends. It was an act of God getting them all here because our season just started and everyone is tired and strapped for free time, but I managed it. Also packed into the room? The two new hires she found as support staff: Tanner, a woman in her late twenties whose job will be new building design, and a dude named Kyle who does residential, but will act as her intern, too.
It’s a full house, seemingly packed with giants, especially considering her office space is pretty tiny.
I stand back and watch as Sophie Blackmore approaches Miranda and leans in for a hug, the glamorous WAG the wife of another Steam player.
“Oh my gosh, it’s so nice to finally meet you,” Sophie gushes. “I started following you on Instagram a couple months ago and I love your stuff.”
We all know what happened a couple months ago and I shift uncomfortably, waiting for Sophie to keep talking.
“Bam and I just bought a new little lake cottage and I would love for you to come take a look at it—he said if it will keep me quiet, I can redo the entire thing.” She giggles, sipping from the champagne flute in her hand, a submerged raspberry kicking up bubbles.
“I would love that!” Miranda enthuses. “I’m actually really busy the next couple days, but I can make time for you next week?”
Damn right she’s busy—after the whole mess online with the tabloids, her business page blew up. Some people called her out of sheer curiosity, others just trolls to hassle her, but quite a few were legitimate clients who wanted to hire her for design work. She was off and running, never slowing down since. It won’t be long before her two employees turn into four, or six—maybe more?
My girlfriend is the fucking shit.
“Here is my number.” Sophie hands Miranda a business card. I can’t imagine what the hell is on it, because as far as I know, Bam Blackmore’s wife does not work outside the home.
“I’ll shoot you an email Monday morning,” Miranda promises, tucking the card away as Sophie saunters off to join her husband. She turns to me. “Oh my god, Noah, it’s happening. People want to hire me—I’m freaking out!” She squeals a little. Kisses me again on the cheek, eyes bright. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”