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)
“Thank you. It’s a lot to wrestle with,” she admits.
We snag a ride back into the city, where she texts the party’s event planner to let them know she’ll be there at five, as planned. She tucks her phone aside, saying she’ll deal with anything else later. “I just need to get in my painting mode,” she says, by way of explanation.
“I get it. I’m like that before a hockey game.”
“So the hockey zone and the painting zone are one and the same,” she says with a laugh.
I glance at my phone. A few messages blink up at me from Soraya, responses from yesterday about the upcoming fundraisers, as well as a couple texts from Everly, and one from Miles, and also one from Max, but I ignore them for now, instead reassuring Maeve that we’ll make it on time and focusing on being present with her, as her friend.
When we reach her place in Hayes Valley, the Lyft waits for us while we race upstairs. I drop off our bags in her living room while she disappears into her bedroom and reappears in two minutes, dressed in a simple black dress and short black boots. It’s elegant and understated, and a part of me wishes I were dropping her off at the party knowing she’d return to me later in that dress and tell me stories of the event, then beg me to undress her. I’d grant her wish, naturally. Especially if she crawled to me. I’d reward her so good for coming to me on her knees.
I pull myself from the fantasy and focus on the reality of Maeve in a snug black dress. “Wow. You look…wow.”
“I do?” she asks hopefully. “It’s a fashion designer’s party and the event planner told me to show up in all black.”
“That dress is incredible,” I say, even though it’s her that’s incredible, not the fabric hugging her body.
“Thank you. I want to look like a pro and totally blend in. We’re not allowed to network, but you never know who you might meet,” she says breezily as she grabs her easel and paints.
“You don’t blend in, Maeve,” I say before I can think the better of it.
She stops at the door, her brow knitting. “I don’t?”
I close my eyes for a second, then open them. “You’re too pretty to blend in.” I shouldn’t say it, but she is my wife for another day or two.
“There you go again. Making me feel good,” she says.
I take the easel and paints and add hoarsely, “You should feel good.”
We return to the car, heading toward the fashion mogul’s home in Cow Hollow. In the backseat, she turns to me, her eyes brimming with gratitude. “Thanks again. For everything. I do feel better heading into this party after—” She stops, like she’s weighing her words. “After last night. All of it. It really was an adventure, Asher.” Her smile widens, her face lighting up at the word “adventure.”
“Good. I’m glad it was…” But I don’t know what to say about a night that turned ludicrously sexy, so I finish with, “What you needed.”
We’re not talking about the kissing anymore. Or the make-out session on the couch. We’re not talking about it because it can’t happen again. Because we need each other as friends.
I’d do well to remember that. Which reminds me…
“Before we forget, why don’t we take a pic of us in our rings for Beckett,” I say. “If Mrs. Matrimony sent those shots, you can send them later too. He’ll lose his shit.”
“He will. Let’s do it,” she says, then dips her hand into her purse, fishing around for her ring.
She slides it back on. I try not to watch, but I also can’t look away, even as I take mine from my pocket and put it back in place. The weight of the ring feels different this time—heavier in a way. Filled with wishes that won’t come true. But they also feel more surreal in the light of our hometown. Like last night was something out of a fevered dream. And I’m merely trying to hold on to it to tell the story.
“Selfie time,” she declares, leaning close in the back of the car as it swings into Cow Hollow. We hold up our hands, showing off our bands. And I try to lean into the moment. To the joke. To the fun. To the cherry on the ice cream sundae of last night. Not to the way I feel a little more than I’d expected I would.
When she lowers the phone and checks the photo, she nods approvingly. “This is going to be better than when I put pink dye in Beckett’s conditioner when he was fourteen.”
“You are mean,” I say with a low whistle as she clicks open a text to her brother.