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)
“To whom?”
“Harlow.”
“Who?”
Crumbs fall down my chest prompting me to brush them off prior to answering. “Your best friend? The chick who we came to party with.”
“Hennington.”
“Pretty sure the stripper who married us called her Harlow.”
“Is that who’s red bra I passed in the hallway?”
“Nah, the stripper who married us was a dude.”
“Surely, you understand that you are supposed to marry a stripper, not get married by a stripper in Vegas, Bricks. Those are among the prominent, easy to follow Sin City decrees.”
“Yeah, but we both know I’m not much for rules.”
“We do both, unfortunately, know this, and if you weren’t so bloody charming behind the bar, I would’ve fired you ages ago for that very reason.”
“Just like we both know that Tate would just rehire me.”
Geoffrey doesn’t resist the instinct to frown.
Tate O’Clery—his business partner and my other boss—is definitely the more laid back of the two but not by much. In the bigger picture of shit, they really are both very easy going, it’s just that when it comes to the harder moments or having to take disciplinary actions Geoffrey is the one to do it.
Probably because he’s older than us.
Or because he feels obligated to be the more responsible one because he’s got years on us.
“All right,” Geoffrey begins again, “so that’s what you two did after you lost spectacularly at The Floor is Lava with that group of bachelorette beauties?”
“I bet you that red bra belonged to one of them.”
“I bet you’re right.”
“And I came in second! That’s not losing spectacularly, asshole.”
“Second is first place loser. Just ask Hennington.”
“Where is Harlow?”
“Hennington.”
He’s tossed another teasing glare on a second chomp of the donut.
“And my dear hot mess of a best mate fled.”
“Fled?!” I damn near choke on the hunk I was in the process of swallowing. “What the fuck do you mean she fled?! Is she wanted by the cops or feds or mob or some shit?”
His face twitches in minor bewilderment before clarifying, “No, not fled, like she was on the lam, you simple minded glue eater. Fled as in left. As in she hopped on her plane, and had it return her and her bobbed hair bogeywoman back to where they belong.”
It’s my turn to showcase bafflement. “Her plane?”
“Technically, it is the team’s plane; however, she now owns the aforementioned team, therefore it is still her plane by legal definition since they are in her possession…which means…,” his verbal algebra is accompanied by a more confident headshake, “the answer to your question is yes.”
Additional befuddlement propels itself through my expression at the same time I toss my hands in the air, accidentally releasing my hold on the pastry, “What?!”
It thumps into the nearby lamp, yet the sound doesn’t deter my boss from retorting, “What are you whating exactly?”
“She owns a team?!”
“Yes.”
“Like…an actual team?!”
“Yes.”
“In a league?!”
“Yes.”
“Professional?!”
“Stop shouting,” Geoffrey commands on an annoyed grimace. “And yes, it’s a professional major league ice hockey team, which I know, you Americans do not feel the need to specify the ice part; however, there are other places to play the beloved sport such as the field, a place I grew up playing it.”
Ignoring all the opportunities to poke fun at him is only done due to the desperation to know more about the woman I married in front of a golden statue person while a group of KISS street performers sang “Rock and Roll All Nite” in the background. “What. Team?!”
“The Dalvegan Dragons.” His white t-shirt covered shoulders release a small bounce. “They were great in the era of Beverly Hills, 90210 and obnoxious Neutrogena commercials, at least according to Hennington, who I’ve heard—through various sources including my brother—is practically hockey royalty. A one-of-a-kind princess with keys to an ice kingdom.”
The dazed expression I’m bearing exponentially deepens.
“Old man Hennington who died a little over a week ago—may he rest in peace—not only owned the team, he served as the general manager, something practically unheard of nowadays. Most teams—to my understanding—have the owner—the money head whose involvement doesn’t exist besides making more than what they invested—and a separate general manager—the individual in charge of team structure, negotiations, and things of that nature. Old man Hennington did both and from what Hennington was saying, she plans to follow in his footsteps.”
No matter how hard I move my mouth to try to say something no sound escapes encouraging Geoffrey to continue informing me on all the shit I know we didn’t discuss last night.
No.
We talked about the snowbird shots we were tossing back.
And how visually horrifying both of us find Hugo Weaving.
And the difference between turtles and tortoises—which evidently both freak her out since they’re mini dinosaurs that can attack her in the water or on land making the ice rink the place she feels safest fleeing to.
I thought that shit was fucking weird but didn’t judge.