Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 78470 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78470 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
“I love this city. It’s my new hometown,” Hunter says, and then flashes me a grin.
Yup. I know. I’m certain. He is it.
#
Tanner’s the last guy on the roster. I gesture to my buddy swaggering across the stage in a three-piece suit.
“The star shortstop for the New York Comets is one of the league’s most valuable players. He’s passionate about minor league fair pay, youth homelessness, and every single one of Stone Zenith’s songs.”
Tanner flashes a grin at the crowd as I talk him up.
“Also, do not cross him at poker,” Hunter chimes in. “Let the bidding begin.”
Paddles shoot up in the audience. Numbers fly higher. Five thousand, seven thousand, then ten thousand in under a minute.
Then the bidding slows. “And can anyone top ten thousand?” Hunter asks.
A hand goes up in the front row. A guy in a tailored suit. No idea who he is. But he lifts his paddle and offers fifteen thousand. Damn. Someone wants my bud.
The guy is a few rows in front of Jason and Beck and Jason mouths whoa over the number.
“Going once, going twice, gone,” I say.
“Sold to the man in the front row,” Hunter declares.
Tanner smiles at the crowd, then winks at the guy. “See you later,” he says, and the man in the suit just smiles, pleased with the prize.
I’ll have to ask Tanner how it goes. Right now, it’s time to finish the auction. I glance down at the script.
“I’d like to thank my husband for hosting with me tonight,” I say. It’s so damn weird saying that word.
Husband.
It feels off.
“And thank you all for having me,” Hunter says, then, with a wave, strides off stage and waits in the wings.
It’s my job, as the local guy, to finish up. But first it’s high time for me to deal with the weirdness over the word husband.
Like I’m in Vegas, sidling up to the big spender tables, I roll the dice as I lean into the mic, and say, “Before I thank the sponsors, I have a last-minute bid.”
The audience shifts. Reese tries to flag my attention from the wings, find out what I’m doing. Tanner shoots me a questioning look too.
A couple rows back, Jason’s eyes widen. Beck scans the stage.
I look at Hunter, the guy I love madly.
I hope he wants the same damn things I do. But I won’t know unless I take a big chance. This is the real gamble.
“I’d like to bid one hundred thousand dollars as a donation to this evening’s charity…for my husband. Hunter Colburn.”
Hunter’s jaw drops. A bewildered smile spreads on his face, then grows wide and unstoppable.
Jason calls out from the audience. “But he’s not on the list,” he prompts, giving me an opening to explain.
“That’s right. He’s not. But he is my list. All my lists. And I want him to keep being my husband for all time.”
The audience oohs and ahhs. It’s so adorable that I’m bidding on my husband.
But Hunter knows the whole story. He crosses the stage in strong, confident steps, striding right up to me.
He sets a hand on my chest. His eyes shine with passion and joy that matches mine. “Yes.”
My heart soars, and then I kiss the man who’s going to stay my husband.
As the audience cheers, I whisper just for him, “Let’s tear up the papers and stay together.”
“That would make me very, very happy,” he says.
I kiss the groom one more time.
There are limited edition husbands and there are lifetime ones.
He’s always been my real husband, but now he’ll be my real husband for the rest of my life.
EPILOGUE
THE DIMPLE AND THE DISPOSITION
Nate
February
One minute and thirty seconds left.
“Here’s the plan,” I shout to Jason as we jog back onto the field, down by three.
“Tell me,” he says, all business.
“You get me that ball, and I will put it in the end zone. That’s my motherfucking promise.”
I am not walking off this field in Phoenix with an L. No way, no how.
“Let’s do it, Chandler.”
We line up, and I stare at Jason as he takes the snap. Then I’m off and running a route that I pray the Miami defense won’t see coming.
No time for anything but play-your-heart-out ball.
I race downfield, watching with eagle eyes as Jason lobs the football my way.
As it spirals beautifully, I smile at Miami’s secondary to throw them off the scent, then I spin around.
With outstretched arms I haul that baby in, cradle it, and run like the world is ending.
Right into the end zone.
Bam.
We have the lead in the Super Bowl, and I am electrified.
Jason catches up and smacks palms with me, and we trot off the field, fist bumping the rest of the offense. Special teams rush onto the field, and the kick is good.
Now, it’s up to defense.
“C’mon, Hawks. Hold them off,” I shout as I pace the sideline. This is going to be the tensest minute of my life, and there’s nothing I can do to ease my anxiety except steal a glance at the fifty-yard line.