25. Showtime
SHOWTIME
Asher
“You’re utterly ah-maze-zing,” Eleanor Greer says to Maeve as we sit down for brunch at their home. “The very second I saw your portfolio, I just knew—you were the one to bring my vision to life on the walls of the arena.”
I knew she had real talent. I’ve known it for years. I’m tempted to chime in and say, Yeah, she’s fucking awesome, but I also know my role here is to support her.
Maeve’s cheeks turn a little pink as she offers a grateful, “Thank you so much, Mrs. Greer. I’m excited to start on the mural.”
“And we’ll be moving fast. This week. Did your agent tell you it’s this week? I hope so. I’ve already been telling my friends about you,” Eleanor says, sounding like she’s had too many espressos from the gleaming Rocket espresso machine on her kitchen counter.
“I can start this afternoon,” Maeve replies gamely.
Eleanor’s eyebrows rise. “Let’s go to the arena after brunch. We can do the site assessment today. Initial measurements. Photos. Clementine will be there too,” she says, mentioning the team’s general manager, and yup. Eleanor’s got the energy of a Border Collie.
We’re in their grand mansion in the Presidio, where the massive dining room is adorned with portraits of their Maltipoo mix, Holmes.
He wears a suit in one painting and in another, a Sherlock Holmes deerstalker hat.
Holmes had greeted us at the door earlier, offering a paw for shaking before trotting off to his tartan dog bed with a pipe stuffy that looked custom-made for the cute little dude.
“Bye, Holmes,” Maeve had called out, which must have scored her major points with Eleanor.
“I’m there,” Maeve says, matching Eleanor’s energy with equal enthusiasm.
“Wonderful. As I was saying,” Eleanor continues, her sleek blonde bob looking custom-ordered from the rich white ladies’ bougie catalog.
“Even after I saw your work, I opened the search to other artists. I felt like I had to. Just to be thorough, just to make sure I wasn’t falling in love at first sight.
But I kept coming back to you.” She sets down her water glass and offers a confession to all of us.
“I have this dream of owning a museum. I don’t know if that will happen, but for now, I can put art on the walls at our team’s arena.
It was meant to be.” She glances at her husband, Spencer, next to her on their side of the table. “Don’t you think?”
“Just like you and me,” Spencer says, adding for our benefit, “she’s got a great eye for talent.”
He seems comfortable to take the back seat, which makes sense because, well, they both own the team, but Eleanor calls the shots.
Years ago, she started a venture fund with him that made billions, and they bought the team together.
“Once Eleanor has her mind made up, there’s no turning back,” he says, proving my point.
He leans in to give her a quick kiss on the cheek, and she flashes him a smile that’s just shy of flirtatious, paired with a knowing look.
Then, returning her focus to Maeve, she enthuses, “And finding out you’re newly married to one of our star players?
Well, that made it seem like kismet. And,” Eleanor adds, “we love to work with the players’ partners when feasible. Like Cookie Melissa, Hugo’s wife.”
“What does she put in them?” Maeve asks brightly. “Because I’m addicted to them.”
“Me too, and I’m dying to get her recipe.
” With a tap on the table, Eleanor seamlessly shifts topics.
“You must try the quinoa salad. It’s one of our favorite recipes.
” She nudges the platter toward us. Her gaze brims with curiosity as she looks between us.
“And tell me all about you two. I want to know everything.”
It’s showtime, and we’ve put in the practice. “Well, we’ve been friends forever,” I say, glancing toward Maeve as I serve some quinoa onto our plates.
“Friends to lovers,” Eleanor says, then looks to Spencer with a playful smile. “Like us.”
“Yes, love,” he says fondly.
Eleanor returns her attention to us. “How did you first meet?”
Ah, hell. I steal a glance at Maeve. We didn’t discuss how open we should be about the past particulars. Should I admit we met at a grief support group? She’s intensely private, never wanting people’s sympathy as the orphan.
I don’t want to add a lie when we’re already in deception territory. But, like on the ice, I’m quick to spot an alternative play when I’m blocked, and I take that opening now.
“We met at a community center,” I say. It’s true—our group met there. “And right away, I noticed how big her heart was.”
Also true.
Eleanor gasps, her eyes shining a little. Spencer smiles at his wife, clearly touched by her reaction.
Luckily, I can share the real story without giving away the private details. “She was caring and thoughtful, and she helped a lot of people with her openness,” I say, looking at her.
Maeve smiles at me, her eyes soft. “So did you.”
Eleanor reaches for her husband’s hand. “That’s lovely.” She pauses, then asks me, “Did you know then that you simply had to marry her?”
Did I? When she walked into that meeting ten years ago, I saw something special in her hazel eyes.
They were sad, deeply so. But also hopeful.
She knew she needed people. She knew she needed to talk and found what she needed.
And I suppose I did too. We bonded over late nights snacking and watching comedies.
Anything to escape the ache—me for Nora, who’d died before we could even try to be just friends, and Maeve for a life without her parents.
We started visiting dive bars and diners, conducting hot sauce tests on burgers—veggie burgers for her—and we parlayed that into a decade of big adventures.
“I was impressed with her ability to handle hot sauce,” I say dryly.
Maeve gives me a look, shaking her head. “No, you were jealous that I can take it hotter than you can.”
“You’re so mean, Mrs. Callahan,” I tease the woman next to me.
She bobs a defiant shoulder. “It’s just the truth.”
Looking at the Greers, I point my thumb to Maeve. “She never lets me live it down. Fair, I suppose, since her heat tolerance is ghost pepper-level.”
Maeve stage-whispers, “He’s still in the green pepper stage.”
Spencer tosses his head back, chuckling, then deadpans, “No shame in that, Asher. At least you’re decent on the ice.”
“I won’t quit the day job, then,” I say, laughing.
“You’d better not,” he says sternly.
Eleanor presses for more romance. “So you bonded over hot sauce, and then you knew it was meant to be?”
Spencer tuts, squeezing his wife’s hand. “Darling, I’m sure it took them time to figure it out.”
Time. So much time. Was it wasted, though?
Did I squander all those years when I could have been…
what? Romancing my best friend? I dismiss the thought as pointless.
Something in me is broken and has been for just over a decade.
I wasn’t even in love with Nora when she died, so it’s not like I’m hung up on my first love.
But losing her—someone I had loved, someone I wanted to keep as a friend…
It’s the kind of moment that changes a person.
You realize all the ways that real love, in all its shapes and forms, can go wrong.
But Maeve and I aren’t doing this romance for real.
So I give Eleanor the rom-com vibe she’s after.
“Well, the funny thing is,” I confess, “we made a marriage pact two years ago.” It’s another bit of edited truth, and it fits with our public story.
“I suppose that’s when I knew it was meant to be. ”
“Ah, I love it. A pact,” Eleanor coos.
I picture Maeve and me at Beckett’s wedding the night we made the pact. The night I first noticed Maeve’s glossy raspberry-colored lips and discovered how perfectly she fit in my arms. The moment I came face-to-face with how hungry I was to kiss her.
“Yeah, I knew it then,” I confirm, my words thick with the memory, heat rushing through me.
Maeve’s smile fades as she stares at me, lips parted, eyes wide like she’s never seen me before. Or, rather, this side of me. “You did? Back then?” she asks, like it’s just the two of us here.
In for a penny, in for a pound. I shrug, owning it. “I did.”
She’s quiet for a beat, her brow furrowing at the unexpected revelation. Well, it was certainly unexpected to me. But Maeve recovers with an easy smile, picking up the story and sending it toward the goal. “I thought he was joking about the pact,” she tells the Greers with a chuckle.
“But why?” Eleanor’s eyes sharpen, her nose twitching like a Bloodhound as she gestures to Maeve’s hand. “He gave you that ring. Clearly, he wasn’t joking.”
Oh, dammit. No wonder Eleanor’s dog is named after the famous English sleuth.
Why didn’t I think about the inconsistency in the ring timeline with a marriage pact?
Is Eleanor trying to deduce why, if Maeve and I were engaged before Vegas, is she wearing that big, shiny gem for the first time today?
Because pics will prove this ring is new.
I’m convinced the words Sham Marriage flash in ruby-red neon over our heads.
But Maeve serenely raises her hand, admiring the ruby, seeming even a little transfixed by it.
“The ring is only new. But I suppose it was meant to be too. I was looking at this ring months ago in my favorite jewelry shop. It’s my color—red.
And when we returned from Vegas, Asher surprised me with it. It still hardly feels real.”
My shoulders relax. What a perfect response and a brilliant save.
“Nothing says real like a big ring,” Spencer tells me in a man-to-man tone.
“Don’t I know it,” I say, leaning into his vibe for the moment.
Then Maeve locks eyes with the romantic across the table from her. “Actually, Eleanor, the whole thing kind of feels like a dream. Or like a dream becoming reality. And I suppose when we made the pact, it was sweet and playful, and I wasn’t ready to believe it could be real.”