29. There’s Always a Catch #2
“I mean, is it like a holiday?”
“Yes, it’s National Calendar Celebration Day,” Max says. “Want to go calendar shopping?”
I wave them off, check my phone, and…it hits me. “I’m a dumbass.”
Miles grins and spreads his arms wide as we reach Gin Joint. “Yes, he finally gets it!”
Wesley smirks. “Honestly, we all kind of knew you were just the pretty one. But why are you just realizing it now?”
I flip him the bird, grinning. “Pretty and smart, thanks. It’s my two-week anniversary with Maeve tomorrow, and I need to get her something—something good.”
Cue the jeers. Dear god, the jeers. They’re worse than expected, and they don’t stop as we head inside and order.
But I don’t care. Maeve will love a two-week gift for our fake marriage, especially after the one-week one.
It’ll show her what a good temporary husband I am.
Besides, she deserves gifts. But what to get her?
After the server leaves, Wesley points to me. “This is going on the DickNose board.”
“We don’t need a top-five list,” Max chimes in, stabbing the table with a finger. “This, tonight? You remembering a two-week anniversary? It’s all we need on the whiteboard of Asher’s Obsession with Maeve.”
I stare him down. “Says the guy obsessed with Everly.”
Max nods proudly. “As it should be.” Then, he levels a no-bullshit stare at me. “What’s the story, Callahan? You’ve had it bad for her for a while. You just went out and got married?”
His tone says he’s not buying the story I was selling the other week at morning skate. He’s waited almost two weeks for me to ’fess up on my own. I can’t say I didn’t see this line of questioning coming.
“The whole spur-of-the-moment thing did make me wonder if it was so spur of the moment,” Miles puts in, tone curious, maybe a little skeptical too.
I scratch my jaw. “Yeah, the thing is…” But where to start?
I don’t want to get into the marriage pact.
I definitely don’t want to get into how Maeve was in a funk in Vegas and I wanted to cheer her up.
But saying we got drunk-married does a disservice to the situation too. I try again. “It’s complicated.”
Miles’s eyebrows shoot up. “As in the nine-month variety of complication?”
“Fuck no,” I say, faster than I can shoot on an empty net.
“So what’s up then?” Max asks again, never one to mince words.
These guys deserve the truth. “Look, the wedding just sort of happened. We were hanging out, having fun, and it seemed like a good idea at the time.”
Wesley tilts his head, pauses, then cuts through the vagueness. “But you stayed married. And don’t give us that whole kisses-equals-kindness bit.” He rolls his eyes. “You seem way too into the two-fucking-week anniversary for this to be anything but something that maybe you want to keep happening.”
Way to see right through me. I drag a hand over the back of my neck, weighing the situation again. These three guys are my closest friends on the team, and they’ve already sniffed out enough of the truth.
“Look,” I begin, then fuck it. “She’s…great. Okay? You happy now?”
Wesley offers his palm to Miles and Max. “Pay up, fuckers.”
My jaw comes unhinged. “You bet on this? Assholes.”
Max shakes his head, annoyed, but pulls out some bills from his wallet while Miles taps on his phone, presumably Venmoing some money to Wesley. “What the hell was the bet? You all were giving me shit about this forever.”
Miles sighs heavily. “We bet on who’d get it out of you first tonight.” He nods toward Wesley. “Bryant won.”
I spread my arms out wide. “Seriously?”
“Like this surprises you?” Max asks.
He has me there. “Honestly, no.”
“Also,” Wesley says with a shit-eating grin, “I am very happy now. And two hundred bucks richer.” Then he leans forward. “So what’s next?”
I shrug. “No idea.”
“But you’re staying married?” he asks.
“For a couple of months, give or take.” The words taste sour on my tongue.
“Good luck with your obsession, man,” Max says. There’s no sarcasm in his tone, just genuine concern.
I’m not sure how to answer him. Fact is, I am obsessed with my wife, and I don’t know what to do about it. Maybe this is where I really do need some luck in my life.
When the server swings by with drinks, I’m grateful for the distraction.
Miles lifts his scotch, then says, “I guess that makes me officially the last man standing,” he says, though he furrows his brow. “Sometimes, I wish that weren’t the case.”
“Is there someone?” Max asks.
Miles shrugs. “Maybe, but it’s complicated.”
“As in, the nine-month var—”
“No! God no.” Miles tosses a napkin at me.
“In what way then?” Max presses.
As they talk more, I give in to the obsession, flashing back to the night Maeve and I got hitched, wondering what would make for a good present for her, then to last week, too, and the gift I got her. In no time, I have an answer. Now, if I can just find a place that works as fast as Maeve.
A few searches later, I’m placing an order for something special, asking the store to deliver it tonight. Then, I relax and knock back my beer, picturing Maeve’s reaction when she opens the present.
When I return to the hotel with Max an hour later, I run into Everly in the lobby. She’s just said goodnight to a friend, and once her friend leaves, she turns to me with a smile. “Just the man I wanted to see,” she says.
“I thought I was that man,” Max cuts in, growling.
She rolls her eyes at him. “I see plenty of you.”
“Because I’m your type,” he says, planting a kiss on her cheek before walking away to give her space. He’s respectful like that when it comes to her job.
“What’s up?” I ask, curious.
Everly waggles her phone my way. “Eleanor is going to be donating a lot of money with that repost,” she says, then gives me the figure, and damn.
“That’s nice,” I say.
“Stop making my job so easy,” she teases.
“That was all Maeve,” I say, since my wife deserves the credit.
Actually, she deserves so much more than credit.
As I head into the elevator, a new realization hits me—Maeve isn’t a good luck charm.
She’s a good luck catalyst. That wasn’t fate or fortune looking out for us.
That was Maeve seeing what I wanted—for the Greers to know how I feel—and then making it happen.
My heart thumps harder at the awareness, and I grab my phone and send her a text, telling her the good news.
Asher: You did this. You. Not luck. Just you.
Maeve: I’m an instigator.
Asher: The most diabolically clever instigator I’ve ever met.
Maeve: The best compliment I’ve ever gotten. Also, here’s a gift for you.
Attached is a digital badge, something she probably made in Photoshop. It’s a blue ribbon and it says Best Two-Week Temporary Husband.
I laugh lightly, but the laughter fades when I spot the next image under it and the words for you.
A black-and-white pop-art sketch of a couple almost kissing. It’s small, but it does funny things to my chest as I sink back into bed, running my finger over the silhouettes. I can’t stop touching it. I can’t stop thinking of her. And I can’t help wishing for many more badges.
Most of all, I can’t stop loving the words for you.
* * *
In the morning, another text lands. It’s a photo of Maeve in the T-shirt I had made for her last night and rush-delivered to her place. She’s giving the camera a look like she can’t believe I did this, but there’s a hint of a smile on her lips—even as she’s flipping me double birds.
But I’m grinning too. In the pic, she’s not wearing any pants, so really, I won. I’ve got a photo of my wife in her two-week anniversary shirt that says Quick-Draw Maeve.
She looks so spectacular, so…Maeve. Playful, sexy, all the things that make her, well, her, that I take matters into my own hand.
Happy anniversary to me indeed.
* * *
Later that morning, while I’m riding the exercise bike in the hotel gym before we take off for the next city, Everly marches in with a too-pleased smile on her face.
I pull out my earbuds, and she says proudly, “I’ve got some press requests about you,” she says, all business now. “And they involve Maeve.”
Didn’t have that on my bingo card today. “Everything okay?” I ask, ready to do battle for Maeve if I have to.
She holds up her hands like she’s telling me to stand down. “It’s mostly feel-good stuff. You want the details?”
“I do,” I say, still pedaling, my heart and legs pumping fast.
She rattles off a few lifestyle news sites that I’ve never heard of that want to do features. Stuff she can mostly handle on our behalf. Then, she adds, “Webflix has an entertainment news show that’s pretty popular. The Good Stuff.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of it.” It’s a soft show, focusing more on lifestyle than gossip.
“They love you and Maeve and the whole viral kindness thing. And they want to do a piece on the two of you.”
Well, that sounds like something the Sea Dogs would eat up, and it’d raise Maeve’s profile on her own merits, not just mine. “I’m interested. What’s the catch?”
Because there’s always a catch.
Everly glances around the workout room to check if the coast is clear. Then, lowering her voice, she says importantly, her meaning crystal clear: “They want to shoot it in your home. Where they think you and your wife live together.”
I stop pedaling, my feet freezing mid-motion. “They think—” I start, but the rest of the words stall. We live together.
Then, they speed up on a loop in my head—we live together.
My pulse kicks into overdrive. This feels like Christmas, my birthday, and our anniversary all rolled into one, wrapped in a bow of dangerous temptation.