Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
For the last week, though, I’ve enjoyed dating my husband—we went to his dads’ thirty-fifth wedding anniversary party, stopped by a plant shop to pick up more plants for our house, and broke in a tube of pink paint in the studio. My husband is quite the finger painter, though he only has one trick up his sleeve—painting my tits.
Works for me.
We’ve also posted some pics of us doing life on social. Not his new painting hobby—that’s just for us—but pics of us walking the dog, buying plants, and toasting to his family are absolutely online, and they’re not a publicity stunt. They’re not to impress donors. And they’re not to win a job. They’re simply us, having little adventures in this big adventure of love.
What we haven’t done? Explained ourselves to the world. We decided to ignore Miranda. There’s no need to say anything. Haters are gonna hate, liars are gonna lie. And we know this love is real. Asher talked to the board members and the donors—he lost a few smaller ones but they’ve gained more support since then in new ones. And many of the existing ones liked that he reached out one-on-one.
The one who really likes my husband? CheekyBeast. They re-upped him, and I kind of can’t believe this, but it fits with their brand—they want him and Ruby Rooster in a campaign for boxer briefs with cheeky dogs on them. You bet your ass I’ll be buying a lot of those. Well, my husband does have the best ass in the NHL.
I haven’t heard from Eleanor though. She went out of town right after our meeting to a yoga retreat with some of the other team owners, like Jessie Rose from the Golden State Foxes, and Geeta Diwali, who owns the Las Vegas Sabers.
I don’t know if she’s forgiven me, but right now, I’m focused on the man striding over to me, already dressed in a sharp dark brown suit since it’s game night.
“Did you nap?” I ask, dusting off my hands before I touch his tie, tap dancing my fingers down it.
“I did. With Ruby Roo,” he says.
“Aren’t you just the cutest dog dad,” I tease.
He loops an arm around my waist. “You doing okay?”
I look around at the long and, honestly, impressive mural. I told him I was sad this morning about not hearing from Eleanor, but that I’d deal. “I’m okay. I’ll be thrilled to be done, but I’ll miss this too,” I say. But Angelina has new work for me.
And so does Everly. She hired me to paint a mural of hot-pink silhouettes of women of all shapes and sizes dancing on poles at her studio. I can’t wait.
“How about you? How was Marcus?” I ask. He had another session today, before his game-day nap.
“It’s good. We’ve been working on cognitive behavioral therapy techniques. I’m cured,” he adds dryly.
“Yay, therapy! Also, I have no idea what that is, but it sounds good.”
“It is. It helps you recognize patterns in your thinking,” he explains.
“Sounds hot,” I say, tugging on his tie and running a hand along his stubble. “I love a man in therapy. Who also happens to be growing a beard.”
“Because you like the beard for when you sit on my face.”
“You got me there. And I will tonight after you win.”
“Talk about an incentive,” he says, then nods in the direction of the locker room. “I should go.” He pauses, his lips quirking up in a hint of a grin. “Also, it’s going to be a good game.”
“Of course it is.”
“Hell yeah,” he says with even more than his usual hockey confidence.
I give him a kiss and watch him leave.
Then I finish the mural for good.
Later, when I’m putting everything away so I can head down to the ice, I spot Eleanor at the far end of the corridor with her husband, laughing at something he’s said. Then she must catch sight of me because she lifts a hand and waves.
It’s friendly, warm, forgiving.
At least, I hope so.
I wave back, then put my things in Asher’s car before returning to the arena to change my clothes. I pull on my Mrs. Callahan jersey, a short skirt and high boots then make my way to join Josie for the game. But as I’m walking down the hall, I hear footsteps behind me, quickening. It’s Eleanor, and she catches up fast.
“The mural is amazing,” she says, her eyes warm, her expression maternal again. “It’s everything I wanted and more.”
“I’m so glad.”
“And I passed on your name to lots of friends. You’ll be hearing from them soon.”
A weight lifts. “Thank you, Eleanor.”
“I believed in your love story,” she says. “And I still do.”
“So do I.”
With that belief, I head into the rink toward my seats at center ice, joining Josie, who’s here to cheer on her guy too.