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)
It’s been a busy week, working on the sketches for the mural both at the arena and at home. But on Friday night, at Everly’s place, I put murals, paint, acrylics, and ladders out of my mind as I zip up my navy blue sheath, one of my painting-party dresses.
My friend smiles approvingly. “You look amazing,” she says. I can’t believe you snagged this at Goodwill.”
“I can’t believe someone bought this and never wore it. The tags were still on when I found it,” I say.
“Thank god for fancy ladies who buy too much.”
“Indeed,” I say. I look in the mirror, admiring the shoes Everly let me borrow—basic nude heels. “Tasteful dress. Styled hair. Understated pumps. Will my husband even recognize me without an outrageous outfit on?”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure he’ll always recognize you,” she says, knowing. “The man doesn’t take his eyes off you when you’re around.”
Scoffing, I shoot her a look. “Please.”
“Don’t please me. You know it’s true.”
My stomach has the audacity to swoop. I like her suggestion too much. Which means it’s best not to focus on it at all. I don’t want to cling to my temporary husband. “Anyway, give me your best tips for a fancy-pants dinner.”
“Don’t use the word labia,” she says.
I jerk my gaze to her, jaw falling open. “Why would I use the word labia?”
“I don’t know but I wanted to pass on the tip,” she says earnestly.
“Did you say labia at work today? Tell the truth.”
“God no,” she says, frowning. “But I was in a bookstore the other day and overheard some of the employees talking about words they don’t love in romance novels. One of those words was ‘folds,’ which then turned into a conversation about different sizes of folds, which then turned into a conversation about labia, which then turned into a discussion on how nobody should discuss labia so I thought I should pass it on.”
“I am shooketh,” I say.
She nods in solidarity. “I am also shooketh.”
“And yet you still said labia.”
“That is how much of a good friend I am to you. I don’t want you to run into the fold problem. So I’m passing on the tip.”
I let my gaze turn skyward. “How on earth am I going to make it through dinner now without saying folds or labia?” I narrow my eyes and look at my friend. “Thanks, Everly. Thanks a lot.”
She smiles. Serenely. “You are welcome.”
“You are not helpful,” I say, wagging a finger as a text from Asher pops up on my phone, letting me know he’s here.
“Oh, but I think you’ll find I really am,” she says. “I guarantee you won’t say labia.”
“Stop. Just stop speaking,” I say, then I give my friend a hug and head downstairs to meet my husband.
Husband.
Such a strange thought. But I glance at my ruby ring, and something feels a little fizzy in my chest. I head outside and find Asher waiting on the steps, looking mouth-wateringly hot in tailored charcoal slacks and a purple dress shirt that shows off his firm chest and strong biceps.
I stop in my tracks for a second. His eyes widen. “Wow,” he says, right as I say, “You clean up well.”
We both laugh, a little awkwardly. Is this how newlyweds behave? I don’t know. They’re probably used to compliments. I back up and try again.
“You look great,” I say.
“And you’re stunning,” he says, then holds my gaze for a long, weighty beat that makes my pulse skitter. “Should we go?”
“Right. Yes. We should.”
He walks me to his car at the curb, his hand on the small of my back the whole way.
And the whole way to dinner, I’m thinking of his hands on me, and his lips, and how he kissed me the other day by the Golden Gate Bridge.
Well, that’s a better thing to think about than folds.
Asher and I step into the restaurant’s private dining room, greeted by a long, elegantly set table filled with flickering candlelight and soft conversation. The board members of Total Teamwork are already seated, with Soraya at the head of the table, her usual poised and warm smile in place.
“Mr. and Mrs. Callahan, right on time,” she says, standing to greet us. “Glad you could make it.”
I flash a smile, hoping it hides my nerves. How do actors do this acting thing? “Wouldn’t miss it,” I say, hoping that sounds like wife-speak.
Soraya introduces us to the rest of the board members, who nod in greeting. There’s Terrence, the retired football coach with a booming laugh; Lydia, sharp and no-nonsense, known for her commitment to charity; and Marcus, a laid-back sports psychologist. My brother, Beckett, and his wife, Reina, are also here along with Soraya’s partner, Aram.
We take our seats, and the conversation flows easily—sports, the upcoming family picnic in the park, anecdotes about the others’ work with kids. Soraya pipes up, saying they need to push the picnic out by a few more weeks due to a scheduling conflict with the park. “No problem,” Asher says. “I don’t have a game that day, so the new date works just fine.” He turns to me. “And you?”