Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 86596 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86596 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Me: You’re being a real pain in the ass about this, do you know that?
Penelope: That was Jack telling me all that—not me. Ha ha.
Me: I never
Penelope: If we win because you find yourself in a relationship, we want the entire suite to ourselves this year for the Super Bowl—no other people.
Do they have any idea how much that fucking suite costs? Hundreds of thousands of dollars!
They’re out of their damn minds, but then again, I don’t plan to lose, so does it matter?
Penelope: Do we have a deal?
Me: What about a smaller suite—not the one that holds a crowd of people?
Penelope: Please hold. I’ll consult with Jack.
Two minutes later…
Penelope: He said that’s fine as long as it’s fully stocked with food and beverages.
Me: Oh, he said that did he?
Me: And what if he ends up at the Super Bowl?
Penelope: He said “then Penn and Skipper have the place all to themselves. You can come up and say hi.”
I do the mental math and run down a list of contacts who could get me the suite, knocking some of the price down so I’m not in the hole two hundred thousand dollars.
My butt cheeks clench.
Me: Fine. You have a deal.
Penelope: **screenshots**
Me: AND WHEN I WIN…
What do I want when I win, what do I want when I win…
Me: The keys to your house in Turks and Caicos for the entire month of August.
Penelope: Please hold.
She’s gone much longer than she was before, no doubt consulting that rat bastard Jack, who was once my favorite client.
Penelope: He said “no problem because he isn’t going to win.”
Me: Does he realize I haven’t dated anyone seriously in two years?
Penelope: I don’t think he cares. LOL
Me: Great. Then we have a deal.
Me: Question for you…
Penelope: Go
Me: Is it cheating if I try to hire a wingman to keep the ladies at bay?
Penelope: Yes? But I think you misunderstand the definition of what a wingman is…
Me: Fine. Technically it’s a wingwoman, and she’s tough as nails. I’m hoping she relents. I need a first line of defense.
Penelope: What do you mean “I hope she relents”?
Me: She told me to piss off when I asked.
Penelope: She told you to PISS OFF??? Oh dear.
Me: She didn’t say it literally, but she did tell me no, and she slammed a door in my face.
Penelope: Ha! Who is this person?
Me: Just a friend of my sister Kate’s—you don’t know her.
Penelope: Ah. I might not know her, but I like her already.
I toss the phone onto the bed when I wander back into my bedroom, pulling back the covers and sliding beneath them.
A man can be happy alone, can’t he? I was happy before I met Laura, who destroyed me, and I can be happy again. I don’t wanna be bitter and jaded. I just want a life where I am fulfilled.
And right now, the only thing fulfilling me are my clients, my friends, and my family. No woman will come between that—not if I can help it.
five
molly
Dinner at my parents’ house is always a treat, and I’m not being sarcastic in any way. Not only because they feed me and make plenty for me to take home, which keeps Posey and I fed for days—but I get to see other people who I love. Like my neighbor Tripp and his wife Chandler, their toddler Ruby, and their new dog Chewy 2.0 who I haven’t met. I walked the OG Chewy as a job when I was a teenager; he was such a good dog that when he passed Tripp and I took it pretty hard.
As I listen to my dad drone on and on about a case he’s building for the law firm where he works, my eyes go to the back window, where I spot the Wallace’s dog playing in their backyard.
They used to have a dog named Chewy, a stout little bulldog with a giant personality and horrible breath, who loved to lick and play fetch.
My mom catches me watching.
“You should go over there and see if they want you to take the dog for a walk,” she suggests, setting down her fork. “She looks so much like Chewy, doesn’t she?”
“The house was a tomb when that dog died,” my dad intones, biting into a piece of garlic bread. “You would have thought they’d cut off Tripp Wallace’s nuts.”
“Dad! Don’t say that!” I chastise, feeling guilty, eyes straying to the dog who ambles toward a ball lying in the grass at the back of the yard. Its little nub of a tail wags, but I don’t see anyone else outside.
I remove the napkin from my lap and push my chair back. “You know—maybe I will. We could both use a little exercise.”
I’ve eaten all my dinner, so I might as well go next door to see if this pup I’ve never met wants a trip or two around the block. I could stand to walk off the lasagna.