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)
“No. It looks perfect, Maeve,” he says, his voice raw, piercing even. My throat aches from the sound of it.
Then he takes my hand, and together, we leave, telling the story now with our new rings.
25
SHOWTIME
Asher
“You’re utterly ah-maze-zing,” Eleanor Greer says to Maeve as we sit down for brunch at their home. “The very second I saw your portfolio, I just knew—you were the one to bring my vision to life on the walls of the arena.”
I knew she had real talent. I’ve known it for years. I’m tempted to chime in and say, Yeah, she’s fucking awesome, but I also know my role here is to support her.
Maeve’s cheeks turn a little pink as she offers a grateful, “Thank you so much, Mrs. Greer. I’m excited to start on the mural.”
“And we’ll be moving fast. This week. Did your agent tell you it’s this week? I hope so. I’ve already been telling my friends about you,” Eleanor says, sounding like she’s had too many espressos from the gleaming Rocket espresso machine on her kitchen counter.
“I can start this afternoon,” Maeve replies gamely.
Eleanor’s eyebrows rise. “Let’s go to the arena after brunch. We can do the site assessment today. Initial measurements. Photos. Clementine will be there too,” she says, mentioning the team’s general manager, and yup. Eleanor’s got the energy of a Border Collie.
We’re in their grand mansion in the Presidio, where the massive dining room is adorned with portraits of their Maltipoo mix, Holmes. He wears a suit in one painting and in another, a Sherlock Holmes deerstalker hat. Holmes had greeted us at the door earlier, offering a paw for shaking before trotting off to his tartan dog bed with a pipe stuffy that looked custom-made for the cute little dude. “Bye, Holmes,” Maeve had called out, which must have scored her major points with Eleanor.
“I’m there,” Maeve says, matching Eleanor’s energy with equal enthusiasm.
“Wonderful. As I was saying,” Eleanor continues, her sleek blonde bob looking custom-ordered from the rich white ladies’ bougie catalog. “Even after I saw your work, I opened the search to other artists. I felt like I had to. Just to be thorough, just to make sure I wasn’t falling in love at first sight. But I kept coming back to you.” She sets down her water glass and offers a confession to all of us. “I have this dream of owning a museum. I don’t know if that will happen, but for now, I can put art on the walls at our team’s arena. It was meant to be.” She glances at her husband, Spencer, next to her on their side of the table. “Don’t you think?”
“Just like you and me,” Spencer says, adding for our benefit, “she’s got a great eye for talent.”
He seems comfortable to take the back seat, which makes sense because, well, they both own the team, but Eleanor calls the shots. Years ago, she started a venture fund with him that made billions, and they bought the team together. “Once Eleanor has her mind made up, there’s no turning back,” he says, proving my point.
He leans in to give her a quick kiss on the cheek, and she flashes him a smile that’s just shy of flirtatious, paired with a knowing look. Then, returning her focus to Maeve, she enthuses, “And finding out you’re newly married to one of our star players? Well, that made it seem like kismet. And,” Eleanor adds, “we love to work with the players’ partners when feasible. Like Cookie Melissa, Hugo’s wife.”
“What does she put in them?” Maeve asks brightly. “Because I’m addicted to them.”
“Me too, and I’m dying to get her recipe.” With a tap on the table, Eleanor seamlessly shifts topics. “You must try the quinoa salad. It’s one of our favorite recipes.” She nudges the platter toward us. Her gaze brims with curiosity as she looks between us. “And tell me all about you two. I want to know everything.”
It’s showtime, and we’ve put in the practice. “Well, we’ve been friends forever,” I say, glancing toward Maeve as I serve some quinoa onto our plates.
“Friends to lovers,” Eleanor says, then looks to Spencer with a playful smile. “Like us.”
“Yes, love,” he says fondly.
Eleanor returns her attention to us. “How did you first meet?”
Ah, hell. I steal a glance at Maeve. We didn’t discuss how open we should be about the past particulars. Should I admit we met at a grief support group? She’s intensely private, never wanting people’s sympathy as the orphan.
I don’t want to add a lie when we’re already in deception territory. But, like on the ice, I’m quick to spot an alternative play when I’m blocked, and I take that opening now.
“We met at a community center,” I say. It’s true—our group met there. “And right away, I noticed how big her heart was.”