Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59445 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59445 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
It was safer not to acknowledge that shit out loud. I couldn’t lose her in any capacity, which put her strictly in the off-limits category. Didn’t matter how many times I’d explained that to myself, I couldn’t stop the fantasies that included my hands on her thighs and my head between them.
A phone rang, and Ethan checked his cell before standing up from the table. “Savannah?” he answered. “What’s up?”
My ears perked up at the mention of his contract manager for the Hurricanes, who happened to be my best friend Hendrix Malone’s fiancé. “Tell her I said hi,” I said in Ethan’s direction.
Ethan flipped me off, his eyes focused and intent as he took in whatever Savannah was saying on the other end. I laughed, shaking my head.
“You assumed correctly,” Ethan said. “Tell that shithead Porter to take your word for it next time.” Ethan blew out a breath. “No, you’re not bothering me at all. It’s Porter’s incessant need to be a prick whenever he gets a chance.” He nodded. “Right. No more adjustments. We’re almost done with this season. If he wants to renegotiate then we can do it in November. Okay. You too.” Ethan hung up the call, returning to the table with a sigh. “Fucking baseball players.”
Asher cocked a brow at him. “You getting tired of that team you busted your ass to buy?”
I pressed my lips together to keep from adding to that. We all knew Ethan had almost killed himself to get where he was today—a self-made billionaire and owner of the Charleston Hurricanes—but it was a little less-known fact that he’d only bought the team to get revenge on his ex’s husband’s family. It was a twisted tale, filled with heartbreak and some real betrayal on his ex’s end, but fuck, it made for one hell of an origin story. Not that many people outside of this table knew about it.
“Never,” Ethan answered Asher. “Just a few of my players live to make my life hell. Maddox Porter being the ring leader. He’s all jokes most the time, but fuck, he’s driving Savannah nuts with outrageous contract inquires.”
“What was it this time?” I asked.
“He wanted unlimited free sushi for the rest of the season.”
Asher chuckled, and Cross and I barely covered our laughs with rough coughs. Ethan shot us a glare that told us exactly where we could stick our humor at his expense.
“That’s one I haven’t dealt with before,” I offered. “But I did have a player last year try and demand a bonus for every arena we sold out.”
“Did you give in?” Ethan asked.
I shrugged. “Yeah, but I put a cap on it. Who knows, if you give him the sushi, maybe he’ll score more runs for you.”
Ethan rolled his eyes. “The season is almost over. He doesn’t want the sushi, he wants to drive me fucking insane.”
I laughed, then returned my attention to the hand, noticing that Doyle hadn’t even tossed out his bet yet.
“Are you going to bet, or just sit there?” I asked, my tone switching from friendly to annoyed in the span of two seconds.
Doyle threw in a chip, a satisfied little smirk on his face. “You’re in a mood,” he said. “More than usual. I should be the one digging into you, seeing as you stole a deal from me.”
I furrowed my brow, matching his bet before burning and turning the last card. Fucking missed me. Two pair was a decent hand heads up, but the last card had put three spades out there, and from the smug look on Doyle’s face, he might’ve been chasing the flush this whole fucking time.
“You’re still upset about the marketing firm?” I asked, trying to get a read on him.
Normally, I had no issues seeing right through everyone’s bullshit. It was a little gift of mine that had come in handy with more business ventures than I could count. But Doyle was different. Little hard to read through bullshit when that was all he ever spouted.
“That’s right,” he said. “You outbid me on purpose,” he continued. “I had plans to move it to Boston.”
“I did you a favor,” I said, the irritation in my voice not at all hidden.
“Not performing well?” Asher asked, finally taking interest in the conversation.
“Nope,” I said, still waiting on Doyle to bet.
“Why don’t you put the company on a chip,” Doyle said. “If it isn’t profitable by March, I get it.”
“If you win,” I said, considering as I studied him. He could easily be bluffing. He’d been riding me all night, constantly chasing hands only to lose in the end. “Did you make the spades?” I asked, wanting any sort of reaction to let me know where I stood with my two pair.
Doyle shrugged, not giving me shit. “You have to pay to find out. And that’s what I want.” He scribbled something on his chip, tossing it in. It was a bet that would be equal to the marketing firm—a microbrewery in Boston that I’d have to ask Brynn to research later.