Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“So, how was your Friday night?” Tate asks. Since I didn’t run yesterday, it was inevitable he’d ask. Still sucks though. “Better than it’s been over the last couple of years?”
The twisting? It’s a fucking knife right now in my gut.
Tate was there for me when things with Marilyn went south—there in exactly the way I needed, giving me a focus as his workout partner, finding triathlons that raised money for causes from cancer to children’s hospitals, and developing a training schedule for running, biking, and swimming.
Suited his needs too. He’s become addicted to our races. He’d joined our local running club a few months after his daughter’s death, and he’d once told me running was his therapy.
“I have no complaints,” I say, then shift the topic. “Except that you’re a fucking turtle this morning.”
I peel ahead, running faster, needing distance. Maybe in a few more days it’ll be easier, this…lying by omission.
But Tate’s resilient. He hates losing. So he pounds the pavement relentlessly until he catches up. When he does, I make sure I take the reins of the conversation. “What about you? How’s Liz doing with the new hires?”
He talks about his wife’s projects at her company as we go.
This is freedom for me, outpacing other runners as we push further and further out of our comfort zones. My heart races as I outrun the recent years of heartache, maybe even the other night of pleasure too. My lungs burn and my quads scream, but with each passing mile, the unease in me lessens, like I’ve burned off the emotions.
Soon enough, we slow down, nearing the end of our run.
“Big week ahead,” Tate says, his breath coming fast as we veer to an exit on the path. “The paperwork is all done. I’m seriously fucking proud of this deal.”
I clap his shoulder, proud of him too. “You should be,” I say, slowing to a light jog. “You made it all happen.”
A rare smile shifts his lips. The man is stoic so much of the time, rarely letting an emotion through. I understand why. He’s been through hell and doesn’t want to feel pain like that again.
We slow to a walk and head to our usual coffee cart, just off the running path. “Thanks for taking a chance on this old cop,” Tate says, earnestly.
I laugh. “Easiest decision ever.”
“No, I mean it,” he says, sounding more vulnerable. “You were my first client. You took a big chance. I want to do right by you, Finn.”
Ah, hell.
The knife goes deeper, digs farther. “You have, man. You have,” I say, focusing only on this deal.
I don’t want to linger on Friday night, and why I invited Tate’s daughter over. Or why I didn’t cancel before she arrived. I don’t even have a “heat of the moment” excuse. My night with Jules was one hundred percent premeditated.
I know why I invited her, why I didn’t cancel—because I wanted her.
But in the light of day, that reasoning doesn’t hold up. That’s flimsy and trivial compared to a friendship that’s real and true. Best to focus on that.
Tate came to me when he passed the bar. I took a chance on him when I ran my own venture firm, farming out smaller contracts. He proved his mettle. When Nick and I recently merged our firms into Strong Ventures, I told my brother we were now one of Tate’s clients.
End of story.
He’s my lawyer. He does my deals.
“Should be a busy week as we put the next steps in motion,” he says, as we reach the cart. “And hey, coffee’s on me as a thanks.”
Nope. That’s not happening. “I got this.” It’s a small thing. But there is no way he’s paying for the coffee after I slept with his daughter and bought her panties.
After we order, we head to a bench with our cups and review the week ahead.
We have our friendship. Our athletic goals. Our business partnership.
We don’t need to discuss my after-dark affairs.
Ever.
“And then, with his trusty mutt by his side, Captain Dog and Captain Dude walked off into the sunset, having saved the city one more time,” I say, reading the final page in a graphic novel Zach and I picked up this afternoon at An Open Book.
I’m glad the story is over, because it’s hard reading in the cramped quarters of the tree house.
“Can I have one more story?” he asks, his young voice laced with hope. “I want to know what happens next.” He sits up taller, his green eyes flickering wildly. “Or maybe we can get a dog like Captain Dude has?”
Oh fuck.
Oh hell.
What am I going to do with that request?
Nick warned me this day would come. Someday he will ask for a dog, and you will be so screwed. It was months ago, when Zach was caught up in playing with a Border Collie in Central Park.