Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 69129 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69129 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
“Batman doesn’t wear Spanx.”
“Debatable.”
The twitch of objection I display instantly gets her victoriously cackling, revealing a very familiar tried and true page in our epic adventure.
Brynley Wilcox loves getting under my skin.
And I can’t resist letting her.
“I’m thankful to report that Operation: Cotton Candy Sweet as Gold – because it will never be Sweetie Gold to me – is complete.”
Confusion scrunches my entire face.
“You have no idea what I’m referencing, do you?”
There’s no reluctance to my headshaking.
An overdramatic sigh is accompanied by her head falling completely backwards. “Fuck, I miss Puppet Boy.”
“Is not something I wanna hear less than two minutes after my wife was just on her knees.”
Bryn immediately returns her gaze to mine, salacious smirk swiftly following. “Now who sounds jealous, Mr. Wayne?”
“Of what, Ms. Kyle?” I stretch my arms along the back of my couch. “I’m the only who gets to play with your leather whip.”
“Is that a request?”
“Is that an option?”
“It is if we can keep Captain Cockblock locked in his cell all night.”
“Pretty sure you’re not supposed to villainize our child.”
“Pretty he’s not supposed to be capable of cock blocking at supersonic speeds.”
Not chortling is impossible. “And where is our little hero in training?”
“Most likely trying to sweet talk Jessie into stopping at Yasmine’s Yummies on their way to the park.”
“Wonder where he learned that from.”
“Number One.”
The reference to our shared best friend – who I honestly can’t wait to get back from his island secluded honeymoon either – receives a dark glare and deep grumble of disapproval.
Wy unarguably loves J.T. the most out of his two uncles.
Calen Connelly may build the best sandcastles – and grill a mouthwatering crab leg – but “Nucle Day T” cannot be beat.
Whatever my son wants to do – whether that be block building under my desk at the estate or karate chopping cookies in the middle of the couch – my best friend is always willing to be his sidekick, insisting it’s in the Godfather contract he signed.
Of course, there was an actual contract, but that wasn’t in it.
The document stated that if anything were to happen to me and Bryn, leaving Wy orphaned, that J.T. would raise Wy as his own, and our shares in the company would be his until Wy was of age to responsibly inherit them at which time J.T. would receive a payout worth the price of the shares based on their current market value.
Having him sign paperwork to make it official wasn’t something I wanted to do – much like having Bryn scribble her name on a prenuptial agreement – however it was non-negotiable according to Hawthorne who claims his job is increasing in difficulty each year courtesy of the continuous changes.
Changes I could’ve never imagined myself making a decade ago.
Changes I know are only possible because of Bryn.
My beauty.
My prey.
My everything.
“Between a couple hours at the park, Swinging Sushi with Gami and Gampi, and Tots with Thoughts, his private academy book club-”
“Toddlers shouldn’t have book clubs.”
“Toddlers also shouldn’t have private academies.”
“I want our son to have the best education mentally, physically, and emotionally.”
“Which is why we are in a fucking toddler book club.”
I reluctantly tip my head in her direction to acknowledge that she has a valid point.
“What I’m saying is…when you combine all of those things together, the chances of Captain Cockblock having any energy to put on his cape at sex o’clock are finding a mint condition of Detective Comics #27 slim.”
The unique reference to a recent purchase curls the corners of my lips upward. “That was worth every penny.”
“And seeing me in that black lingerie piece with the nipples cut out will be worth every second of sitting through The Very Hungry Caterpillar for the tenth time this week.”
Against my own volition a small cringe crosses my face.
“Weston,” my wife firmly begins, eyes noticeably narrowing, “this better not be the portion of the conversation where you give me an excuse for not coming to this shit.”
“I don’t have an excuse. I have a pressing engagement.”
“How can you possibly have a pressing engagement today that you didn’t fucking have yesterday?!”
“Bedford, the lead director of our beer expansion team, moved his flight to Michigan from Friday to tomorrow due to a number of bars in Ann Arbor and Applecourt willing to engage in a product sampling of both Runt’s and Morgan’s, which means our dinner discussion regarding the possibility of adding an import beer from Doctenn to our catalog had to be shifted from Thursday to this evening. And while J.T. technically returns today, he doesn’t return to the office until Monday, meaning I have no choice but to attend the meeting that can’t be rescheduled for fear of the company reconsidering their willingness to sell.”
Bryn briefly presses her lips together before asking, “Can you at least come to the park with us?”