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)
“We need to discuss what your father left me in his will.”
I shake my head at the same time I turn on the machine.
By discuss she means bitch.
And by bitch, I mean demand.
We already talked about this shit too many times. She bombarded me at his fucking burial site. She ambushed me at the reading of the will in between her theatrical fainting. And then she sucker punched me one more time by putting herself on my work schedule for an appearance where I thought I was meeting a player for contract negotiations.
I get it.
She wants more money from the man who kept her in a cushy lifestyle much much too fucking long all because she gave him me.
Full custody of me.
I was a meal ticket then and even after he’s cold in the ground she expects me to still be her nonstop ride to the high life.
Ugh.
She would be the worst grandma in the world if I let her.
Fuck. Me.
I don’t even wanna think about that dumpster fire right now.
Or how much I hate Dad won’t be around to hold his first grandchild.
“This is quite the urgent matter as the yearly fees for my downtown condo are due.”
“You should probably pay those,” I casually state at the same time I plunk up one of the flavored k-cups from their stand.
“I understand you are quite busy nowadays as the owner of a sporty thing-”
“Wow, can’t even recall the type of sport that keeps you visiting Tiffany’s?” Shoving the pod into the hole is done a bit harder than necessary. “Why wouldn’t I be champing at the bit to give you more money?”
Wait.
Is it champing or chomping?
Fuck, why are idioms so damn complicated? Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of them!?
“-if it is easier or more convenient for you, princess, you can simply have your financial advisor or accountant wire the money directly into my account. I assume you are using your father’s same team; therefore, they already have all the information they need to complete the transaction.”
She is correct.
I am using Dad’s team primarily because it’s my team, too!
While Dad’s death left me completely abandoned and ill-prepared for running a multi-million-dollar franchise, having a marriage, and raising a family, I wasn’t left entirely clueless. Working with him and at his side for years came with being financially setup. Understanding how taxes and investments operate. Charity benefits. What to buy, what not to buy, and when.
Teaching me how to live that Kenny Rogers life was something Dad was really good about except when it came to the boys.
They were his blind spot.
I refuse to let them be mine.
“And Princess, if you feel obliged, could you add a few extra for me? There are these incredible boots that-”
Ending the message is swift as is swiping up the “Puck Off” mug that has a curved hockey stick handle.
She wants me to pay for her condo fees and shopping sprees?!
Is she that fucking mental?
Delusional?
Has she even worked once since her career ending injury?
Fueled by irritation is what pushes me to march back to the machine in a huff yet seeing the too young man I moved into my guesthouse last night frantically banging in horror on my glass back patio door sporting nothing but an out of season Christmas pillow to block his package has me putting the cup back down and walking his direction instead.
Welp.
If I wasn’t awake before, I damn sure am now.
Unlocking and opening it grants Brendan the opportunity to shout in my face, “Demons!”
“Oh, no, baby bear. Did you have a nightmare at your first slumber party away from home?”
He twitches me a small, unamused glare prior to plowing past me in tangible fear. “Demons! I’m being chased by. Actual. Fucking. Demons, Harlow!”
Bewilderment hops onto my expression as I fold my long sleeve covered arms across the very bottom of my crop top. “What?”
“They’ve got fucking glowy eyes!” His frame whips around before I can get in a good glimpse of his ass. “And huge fucking horns!” He lets his free hand whirl wildly around his head. “And keep making these like demon sounds, trying to summon Satan or sasquatch! I don’t know what shit they’re saying, bro, but I do know that that shit,” Brendan stabs his index finger the direction of the guesthouse, “is fucking. Terrifying!”
Not laughing at his expense is impossible.
Between his bugged-out eyes and labored breathing—most likely from running all the way over here—there’s no way not to be amused by his response to my innocent pets.
“You think this shit is funny?” Brendan squawks, clearly still scared shitless. “You think you needing to have an exorcism on your bonus house is hilarious?!”
“Guesthouse,” I casually correct backing up towards the porch where Cookies and Cream have finally arrived, jumping around, proving that they thought they were playing not attacking. “Also, not demons,” my fingers hit the porch light to reveal the adorable creatures who now expect treats, “Nigeran dwarf goats.”