Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 34442 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 172(@200wpm)___ 138(@250wpm)___ 115(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34442 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 172(@200wpm)___ 138(@250wpm)___ 115(@300wpm)
Me: You act like I’m stealing my wife away for a getaway during the play-offs. It’s the OFF-SEASON. Truthfully, you should be thanking me that I had the foresight to celebrate Valentine’s Day now. You’re welcome, by the way.
His text rebuttal was instant and brutal, as expected.
Wes: HA. Don’t play the martyr, Brooks. You’d fuck over your dying grandma if it meant taking your new, hot wife on some sort of fuckfest at the beach. Even if we were in the middle of a championship bid with media and sponsors crawling out my asshole, you’d still be requesting this time off—play-offs be damned.
He was one hundred percent correct about all of it—except the dying grandma thing—but I refused to give him that satisfaction.
So, I did what any good friend would do in that situation—cleverly diverted the conversation to less irritable territories in the hope that it would turn his prickly attitude around.
Me: Speaking of play-offs, how’s Quinn Bailey looking in training camp?
Wes: Like a fucking football god. Mark my words, Kline, under QB, the Mavericks will bring home a Championship SOON.
Me: Hell yeah, buddy. That’s what I like to hear. I can’t wait to see the team thrive with your ownership. We all knew you were the man for the job.
Wes: Goddammit. I’ve been had, haven’t I? You’re just sucking up so I’ll say yes to the trip.
I grinned and typed out a response.
Me: A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.
Wes: Enjoy your trip, you bastard.
Me: Thanks, man. Lunch next week?
Wes: Only if you’re buying.
Pretty sure me paying for lunch was the least I could do.
I mean, he wasn’t exactly wrong that I kept stealing my wife away from work. We’d only been home from our honeymoon for a few weeks at this point.
Still…maybe if I kept pushing back, he’d actually end up firing her. If it were up to me, Georgia would be back at Brooks Media, letting me slide my hand up her skirt during lunch breaks anyway.
Me: Don’t you own a restaurant where we can eat for free?
Wes: No. Fuck you and your free food.
I laughed and typed out another message. Even if I’d have preferred to have her around every day, Georgie loved her job with the Mavericks. It was probably best if I didn’t push him over the line after all.
Me: You’re right, buddy. I owe you. Lunch is on me, and you can even pick the place.
After laughing at the return picture text of Wes’s grumpy face in the background of an extended middle finger, I set my cell back down on my desk and returned to the business of emails. There were at least twenty of them in the urgent response folder Meryl controlled for me, and if I wanted to get out of this office by five so I could beat Georgie home and set up for the surprise, I needed to get through them before my marathon of conference calls that was due to start in about thirty minutes.
If only I’d been quick enough to get entrenched before my phone lit up again with Incoming Call Thatch flashing on the screen.
I knew I shouldn’t answer. Any sane person knew to never answer calls from Thatch when they were trying to get shit accomplished.
But for the same crazy reasons that have kept me friends with the lunatic and given that he was in charge of a very large portion of both my professional and personal finances, I answered by the third ring. I just never knew when he would have something important to say, and he didn’t hesitate to dangle the carrot that he might several times a week.
“Yes, Thatcher?”
“Special K!” He bellowed a greeting into the receiver. “My main man!”
The tone of his voice was immediately suspicious. Thatch Kelly was a happy guy, sure, but there was a certain douchey quality to his voice I could discern right away when he was winding up to be truly annoying.
Think of any guy named Chad still sporting a popped collar and preppy boat shoes, and that was Thatcher Kelly when he was scheming.
A sigh escaped my lungs, and I ran a hand through my hair. “What do you want, T?”
“What do I want?” he tossed back. “You say that like I’m always bugging you for shit.”
“Because you are,” I retorted on a raspy laugh. “Or gathering intel to carry out your next big plot. Or fishing for a way to bury your face in a set of tits you almost definitely shouldn’t be burying your face in. There’s always something with you.”
“Ah, c’mon, man.” His deep chuckle reverberated in my ear. “That’s not true.”
“Oh, really?” I shook my head. “So, you’re just calling me to, what…say hi? To check in with me emotionally? Help me out here by cutting to the chase. I’ve got a whole lot of actually important shit to get done before I can go home.”