Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“Let me give this calming her down shit a shot,” he immediately suggests only to receive the same unamused glare he did two seconds ago. “Give me two minutes alone with her in the bin.”
The choice of metaphor actually causes the corners of my lips to curl upward.
Partially because he really has gotten to know me and partially because annoying Margot with hockey terms always brings a grin to my face.
“Ugh,” she gags before grumbling, “I don’t need more jock talk in my life. I need less.”
“And I don’t need her going into early labor when a timeout could’ve prevented it.”
“And I don’t need the two of you talking about me like I’m not fucking here.”
Margot shoots me a small glare and then shifts her to stare to him. “Fine. You get two minutes.”
“Two minutes.”
“That’s a hundred and twenty seconds, Muppet Baby.”
“Got it.”
“And don’t count mississiply, either.” Her glower deepens. “Use your big boy numbers.”
Brendan offers her an annoyed grin of understanding, steps back over to the door, and ushers a hand for Margot to go. She exits without further hesitation while he makes sure to lock it once she’s on the other side.
Why do I get the feeling he may be planning to keep me all to himself for longer than two minutes?
“We’re gonna handle this shit in two plays,” Brendan announces as he drags the makeup stool from the vanity area over to the space in front of me. The instant his ass hits the seat, his words hit my ears. “First, regulation.”
Intrigue has me crossing my ankles and remaining silent.
“You win this faceoff by using the handbook and guidelines manual. You go stick to stick against the allegations. You watch the puck. You watch the ref. Don’t set eyes on the other player. You focus on the topics at hand.”
An odd amount of comfort bodychecks the dread darting around the bottom of my stomach.
“We were married before I was offered a job; therefore, no rules have been broken nor punishable actions allowed to be taken. You didn’t violate your contract or fraternization policies which imply you are not to begin a relationship with someone at the company or club or who works for the league. We were already in one when I got the job. You didn’t use your position of power over me to ensure we continued a relationship against my will, and no one obviously blackmailed anyone into doing this.”
My lips purse to one side in silent argument.
“I didn’t blackmail you. I bargained for ninety days.”
Those words feel awfully similar.
“Which brings me to the nonregulation play.”
The lifting my eyebrows informs him I’m listening.
“Fire me.”
“Fuckin’ what?!”
“Fire me,” he casually repeats, hands folding together in front of him. “Or ‘let me go’ or whatever mumbo jumbo bullshit you wanna call it to save face. Do that and eliminate anymore possible complications in this situation.”
“Wait,” new surges of panic dart up the back of my throat, “do you…hate your job? Do you not like being a part of the team?!”
“I fucking love being a part of this team, Harlow. Fuck. Me. Do I love wearing that D on my chest each day, but I love you more.”
Holy shit.
Did he just…
Did he just say…
Maybe I misheard him?
Is pregnancy hearing a thing?!
You know hearing shit that’s not really there?
“And protecting you…your legacy…our relationship…our…family matters a million times more to me than any job ever could. Even a good one with benefits, which just for the record I’ve never had before.”
“Makes sense. You like just graduated from high school, so I doubt your afterschool gig had any to offer.”
The age joke receives the slightly amused grin I hoped it would. “Cut me, and I’ll go get another bar job somewhere. Probably in the Locker District since it’s close enough to the barn for us to comfortably carpool.”
We should probably get him his own car.
But that feels like a different day topic.
Particularly on one where I’m not facing a whirlwind of negative press, and he hasn’t just confessed he loves me.
Which he probably meant like…a close friend.
Or the way you will always love the woman who births your offspring.
He’s not…like…in love with me.
It’s not possible.
Hot as fuck sex doesn’t equal love. And neither does falling asleep together on the couch. Or talking shop over coffee in the morning. Or holding my hair back while I puke out everything I’ve ever eaten. Or making sure he has popcorn to guzzle down while we watch his favorite cooking shows. Or ordering him a very expensive set of cookware because his favorite chef endorses it. Or letting him help pick instrumental warmies music. Or talking about the most meaningful hockey names to me. Or having him hold me during a sob fest over a photo on my laptop I found of me and my dad from what would be our last Christmas.