Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Forty-five minutes later, I’m perched on the edge of the couch, wanting to reach out to my nerdy banker, and share a play-by-play.
When Ollie pushes Trevor up against the wall in the library at the end of a ball for the duchess, I mutter, “Get your man.”
“I don’t care what my brother says. It is only ever you that I want,” Ollie says, all hot and bothered.
Trevor tries to look away, to fight off the desire. “I don’t know how to believe you anymore.”
“Believe me,” Ollie declares, then kisses the hell out of his man.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” I say to the screen, and my fingers itch to text Mark. To ask if he wants to test out those moves.
Slam me against the wall. Rip off my shirt. Or be slammed. Be stripped.
I start to type a message.
Then stop.
Is this really what I’m going to do? Talk dirty to him about a TV show? On the other hand, I could text and ask if he wants to grab a flight this weekend, and we can screw, then walk along the Seine, hit a club, or hell, just get dinner.
But I don’t type anything, because what in the holy fuckery of TV twists is happening on my screen right now?
The dastardly⏤their word⏤brother broke up Troliver by sending my favorite lord to America! Are you kidding me? I want to throw my laptop into the river.
Good thing I didn’t text Mark to tune in. That’d be so fun⏤watching together as those two guys broke up. Not.
I exit out of Webflix and head to my calendar to get my mind off ex-lovers. I vowed to do a better job these days of keeping my schedule.
The next few weeks have me following a dozen teams to a dozen places. The gig is going to vault me to the next level of world-class photogs. Added bonus⏤another couple weeks of this kind of busy should do the trick in erasing Mark from my mind.
Then I can live in the present again.
I click away from the calendar when an email notification pops up from Hannah for a party. Is it already time for a baby shower?
But when I open it, the invitation makes perfect sense.
The big three-zero for Flip is coming up soon. He’s younger than me by nine months, and we always used to joke that we’d go skydiving on his thirtieth.
Instead, Hannah is hosting a party in the city.
Mere miles away from the guy I can’t stop thinking of.
Will Mark be there?
No idea, but I know where I’m scheduled to be that weekend.
Barcelona. And that’s not anywhere near Manhattan.
41
MANSION KINK
A WEEK LATER
MARK
“I have two things to discuss with you,” Bridget says as she puts a plate down in front of me on her kitchen table. It contains three tacos, two with carnitas-style pork, lime and radishes, and one stuffed with homemade guacamole.
My mouth waters. But at the same time, I know she’s about to ask a favor. That’s the only explanation for the feast she’s set in front of me. “What did you want to talk about?”
“Rosie’s teacher wants her to do math with the second graders instead of the first graders.”
I pick up a taco and consider this while I take a bite. “Okay?” I say through crispy pork and crunchy radishes that make me moan in happiness. Let’s face it—Bridget’s tacos are the closest I’ve come in months to having a sexual experience.
The summer has been hellaciously busy. Work is nuts, as always. But Bridget has taken five business trips in ten weeks. So I’ve done a lot of extra parenting, too, including summer T-ball practices that start at eight a.m. on Saturdays and Sundays.
Whoever thought that was a good idea? I haven’t slept in since June. Hell, some days I feel like I haven’t slept at all since then.
“Are you good with her jumping up a grade in math?” Bridget continues. “The second-grade class does math at the same time as the first graders so she won’t miss any other subjects.”
“Sure,” I agree, since math is awesome. “What else?”
She taps her fingers on the table. “Tomorrow morning—before your tennis game—my book club is throwing a baby shower for Maxine.”
I put the taco down on the plate. “Did you say tomorrow morning? During Rosie’s T-ball practice?”
Bridget winces. “It’s Maxine’s first baby. I offered to bring the cupcakes. Rosie and I are making them.”
I shove the rest of the taco in my mouth and make her sweat it out. But of course I’m going to say yes. I’ll come here tomorrow morning—it’s Bridget’s weekend and Rosie is coloring in her room right now—and pick my daughter up for T-ball practice like a good dad.
Because I am a good dad. And my kid will grow up knowing that both her parents would do anything for her.