Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
“Bond had it wrong then,” Nix lightly chortles.
“We have told you that at least a baker’s dozen times,” my business partner teasingly announces while pretending to garnish the beverage with the twist of lemon peel. “We are going to stop serving you the good shit if you cannot recall the basic wisdom, we have imparted upon you.”
More laughter leaves him which prompts me to lock eyes with Geoffrey. “Tá.”
His dark brows lift in question.
“Mothaíonn sé seo ceart.” It hits me instantly to translate for them. “This feels right.”
“Yeah?!” Nix enthusiastically asks, damn near jumping out of his seat.
Leaning into the inexplicable warmth in my chest, I slowly nod while announcing, “This is our place.”
“This is our bloody place!” Geoffrey agrees as he slings an arm around my shoulder for a side hug.
“How about we go get real drinks to celebrate and comb over the details then?” Nix politely suggests.
“You two are on your own for that.” The statement is followed by me checking the time on my phone. “My shift starts in twenty and with the weather claiming we might get more snow I wanna get there before I have to fight the ‘Elsa is definitely here’ crowd.”
“Shift?” Our realtor looks surprised. “You’re still waiting tables?”
“Sí.” I playfully wink. “Sueños cuesta dinero.”
“He said something about money, didn’t he?” Nix cautiously asks Geoffrey. “That’s what dinero is, right?”
“I think so. I am not the best with his Spanish.”
He’s shot a sarcastic look.
“Or his bloody Irish for that matter.”
Additional laughs leave me during my preparation of exiting the building. “Geoffrey get all the final details, and we’ll meet up Sunday to review them, then Monday to sign with you Nix.”
Geoffrey grins wide. “Bloody hell, I can’t believe this shit is really happening.”
Me either.
But it is.
And just like spending the rest of my life with Harper, it feels fucking perfect.
Chapter 11
Harper
I’m late.
And I don’t just mean to this last-minute, kiss ass social dinner I’m going to.
It’s not that I hate everyone I work with or around for that matter. In fact, most of them are nice or less than annoying enough. It’s just that I’d rather use my personal time for personal things I enjoy rather than staying in the good graces of people who can end careers with one whispered rumor.
Me: Just got here. Stop by and say hi if you can. Love you.
The instant I hit send another long, slow breath is released.
Being weeks late for getting your period isn’t the type of shit you casually mention over a text to your boyfriend that you haven’t seen since he had you for breakfast because he had business meetings to attend.
It’s not something simple like “hey we’re changing laundry detergent”.
No.
It’s definitely more in the “hey we’re changing your whole fucking life” category.
I’d convinced myself it was just a bit of stress fucking up my cycle. First prep for the family weekend, then the family weekend, and then covering a couple extra shifts to make up for taking a couple extra days. It’s not unheard of for hiccups to happen under that much pressure even when you’re on the pill. But six weeks without when you’re regular is a huge red flag – pun intended – that something is off.
And after taking three separate pregnancy tests today only to get the exact same result each time, one thing is crystal clear.
I haven’t been throwing up because my stomach can’t handle Thai takeout anymore.
Wiggling my coat back on in my seat is followed by me grabbing my clutch, my phone, my keys and hustling towards the front doors of Arthur’s, anxious not to be stuck in the dropping temperatures for too long.
While my black, floor-length coat successfully shields my entire frame from the frigid November temperatures, the off-the-shoulders black cocktail dress I’m squeezed into barely keeps my nipples from cutting glass.
Hey, it’s sophisticated and sexy.
Says “I’m a boss bitch” and “I look better at doing it than you”.
Which isn’t really the point of these dinners; however, after having some high-class shade thrown my direction regarding my “inability” to dress up due to what I do for a living, I have no choice but to prove myself.
Play the game.
Ugh.
Fucking politics.
The polite acknowledging of Anja, the sweet and easy on the eyes weekend hostess, occurs quickly as I pass by, spotting the table I’m to be joining, immediately.
Daniel – of course – is first to spot my presence and rises to his feet to warmly greet me. “There’s the life of the party.” He pulls out my chair on a professional sounding chortle. “I was getting so worried that I almost sent out a search party.”
Code for he’s so fucking bored he’s almost gouged his own eye out with a cocktail stick.
“Sorry I’m late.” The removal of my coat off my shoulders is assisted by him. “Traffic was a nightmare.” Daniel respectfully drapes my jacket along the back of my chair. “You’d think after living here so long people wouldn’t panic when the weather says ‘chance’ of a snowstorm.”