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)
“See,” I playfully state, doing my best to keep panic out of my voice, “another reason why you’re destined to be a head coach.”
He good-naturedly laughs, shakes his head, and exits out of the room past Margot who insists on showing him where he can have his call in private as well.
The instant the door is shut, I aggressively yank up my office phone, damn near spilling my soda in the process. “This is Hennington.”
“Hello, Miss Hennington, this is Dr. Richards, the new medical team lead.”
I remember him.
I fucking hired him.
Right after I fired the man who used to hold his position for half assing physical exams if the amount he was being bribed was adequate.
“Yes, Dr. Richards. You wanted to speak with me?”
“Yes.”
“In regard to my players, my staff, or me?”
“You, Miss Hennington.”
“Just Hennington is fine.”
His gruff voice stumbles over whatever he was initially going to say to state, “Understood.” There’s a small shuffling of the phone caused most likely by a readjustment. “I have the results regarding the bloodwork we ran.”
“And?”
“It seems to be the reason for your continued digestive issues of diarrhea and vomiting is due to your pregnancy.”
No.
This can’t be happening.
That test has to be wrong.
I’m sure I took it wrong.
I mean…I don’t know how, but I’m sure that’s what happened, after all it’s me.
Oh!
Maybe it was given wrong!!!
I’m sure that cute, little perky blonde with the dick sucking lips probably just screwed something up.
That has to be the case.
That has to be the case because I can’t be married and pregnant and expected to pull a pro team out of the pits just weeks after I was forcefully handed the keys to the Hennington legacy.
There has to be another answer.
There just has to.
Brendan
I know why I’m here.
Fuck, I knew why I was coming here the minute Harlow texted to tell me she needed to see me.
But I also know that I need to see her.
I thought about just going balls to the wall the instant I heard from her yet refrained myself. Reeled that printed ticket in. Decided to save my speech for our face-to-face last call, which I’m honestly hoping isn’t our last call.
It’s been a little over six weeks and as insane as this shit is, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her or the fun we had in Vegas. Geoffrey thinks my playful telling of women at the pub that I can’t go home with them because I’m a married man and then flashing the mood ring I still haven’t taken off outside of showers was my way of fending off chicks I thought might pull a Kathy Bates on me—God is my mother a fan of everything that lady’s ever been in—but the truth is I don’t want to go back to their place.
Or invite them back to mine.
Despite how hot some of them are—and fuck me have we had a huge wave of top shelf college grads wandering into the pub this year—I still have no real interest in them.
At first, I thought my dick was broken.
I mean…great tits in my face and the damn thing doesn’t even lift its head to say hello?
Broken.
But then I showed the picture of my wife to some chick at the bar who didn’t believe me, and the shit rose from the dead like we were in that fucking World War Z movie, and it had recently been bit.
Totally mind fucked by the situation led me to asking my boss—the other one whose best friend I’m not still attached to—what he thought that shit meant. He suggested that maybe there was more between us than just tequila. That maybe I should think on that shit a little bit. That maybe in spite of whatever paperwork I would inevitably be signing to correct the porn star magician’s mistake I may actually still wanna see Harlow.
Date her.
Be…with her.
He said that shit, and it just all clicked like that moment you put a maraschino cherry on a Wilcox and diet coke for the chick you know isn’t getting enough attention from the dude she’s out with.
The denied truth I had been struggling with finally felt seen.
And heard.
And acknowledged.
I’m not into other females because I’m into Harlow.
Now, I just have to figure out how to get Harlow to be into me.
Can’t be too hard, right?
Kind of already her type…at least according to Winslow who offered to throw me a “Congratulations on your Divorce” party at the pub when I get back.
“Julian,” Amaryllis Wu, the receptionist I met upon my arrival on this floor, giggles a little too loudly, pulling my attention away from the bouquet of flowers I’m clutching onto.
The dark-skinned male she’s flirting with drops a hand flirtatiously on top of her sandy beige one.
Hundo says he’s gonna gently stroke it next and compliment her hair or makeup or some shit.