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)
Way to see right through me. I drag a hand over the back of my neck, weighing the situation again. These three guys are my closest friends on the team, and they’ve already sniffed out enough of the truth.
“Look,” I begin, then fuck it. “She’s…great. Okay? You happy now?”
Wesley offers his palm to Miles and Max. “Pay up, fuckers.”
My jaw comes unhinged. “You bet on this? Assholes.”
Max shakes his head, annoyed, but pulls out some bills from his wallet while Miles taps on his phone, presumably Venmoing some money to Wesley. “What the hell was the bet? You all were giving me shit about this forever.”
Miles sighs heavily. “We bet on who’d get it out of you first tonight.” He nods toward Wesley. “Bryant won.”
I spread my arms out wide. “Seriously?”
“Like this surprises you?” Max asks.
He has me there. “Honestly, no.”
“Also,” Wesley says with a shit-eating grin, “I am very happy now. And two hundred bucks richer.” Then he leans forward. “So what’s next?”
I shrug. “No idea.”
“But you’re staying married?” he asks.
“For a couple of months, give or take.” The words taste sour on my tongue.
“Good luck with your obsession, man,” Max says. There’s no sarcasm in his tone, just genuine concern.
I’m not sure how to answer him. Fact is, I am obsessed with my wife, and I don’t know what to do about it. Maybe this is where I really do need some luck in my life.
When the server swings by with drinks, I’m grateful for the distraction.
Miles lifts his scotch, then says, “I guess that makes me officially the last man standing,” he says, though he furrows his brow. “Sometimes, I wish that weren’t the case.”
“Is there someone?” Max asks.
Miles shrugs. “Maybe, but it’s complicated.”
“As in, the nine-month var—”
“No! God no.” Miles tosses a napkin at me.
“In what way then?” Max presses.
As they talk more, I give in to the obsession, flashing back to the night Maeve and I got hitched, wondering what would make for a good present for her, then to last week, too, and the gift I got her. In no time, I have an answer. Now, if I can just find a place that works as fast as Maeve.
A few searches later, I’m placing an order for something special, asking the store to deliver it tonight. Then, I relax and knock back my beer, picturing Maeve’s reaction when she opens the present.
When I return to the hotel with Max an hour later, I run into Everly in the lobby. She’s just said goodnight to a friend, and once her friend leaves, she turns to me with a smile. “Just the man I wanted to see,” she says.
“I thought I was that man,” Max cuts in, growling.
She rolls her eyes at him. “I see plenty of you.”
“Because I’m your type,” he says, planting a kiss on her cheek before walking away to give her space. He’s respectful like that when it comes to her job.
“What’s up?” I ask, curious.
Everly waggles her phone my way. “Eleanor is going to be donating a lot of money with that repost,” she says, then gives me the figure, and damn.
“That’s nice,” I say.
“Stop making my job so easy,” she teases.
“That was all Maeve,” I say, since my wife deserves the credit. Actually, she deserves so much more than credit. As I head into the elevator, a new realization hits me—Maeve isn’t a good luck charm. She’s a good luck catalyst. That wasn’t fate or fortune looking out for us. That was Maeve seeing what I wanted—for the Greers to know how I feel—and then making it happen.
My heart thumps harder at the awareness, and I grab my phone and send her a text, telling her the good news.
Asher: You did this. You. Not luck. Just you.
Maeve: I’m an instigator.
Asher: The most diabolically clever instigator I’ve ever met.
Maeve: The best compliment I’ve ever gotten. Also, here’s a gift for you.
Attached is a digital badge, something she probably made in Photoshop. It’s a blue ribbon and it says Best Two-Week Temporary Husband.
I laugh lightly, but the laughter fades when I spot the next image under it and the words for you.
A black-and-white pop-art sketch of a couple almost kissing. It’s small, but it does funny things to my chest as I sink back into bed, running my finger over the silhouettes. I can’t stop touching it. I can’t stop thinking of her. And I can’t help wishing for many more badges.
Most of all, I can’t stop loving the words for you.
In the morning, another text lands. It’s a photo of Maeve in the T-shirt I had made for her last night and rush-delivered to her place. She’s giving the camera a look like she can’t believe I did this, but there’s a hint of a smile on her lips—even as she’s flipping me double birds.