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“What in the fuck have you been up to?” he asks, slapping me on the back with almost frightening strength. “It’s been a while, dude.”
While I’ve known Thatch for a few years—since the day he barreled his way into my meeting with Kline Brooks and turned it into a meeting about him—I don’t have much occasion to see him outside of work. I think it’s been at least six months since I’ve even run into him here at the gym.
“Working. Traveling. You know, all the same shit,” I respond with a grin. “How are you? How are Cass and the kids?”
“Everyone is good. Crazy, but good.”
I laugh. Thatch’s wife is, in fact, crazy. Outspoken, impulsive, and sometimes unpredictable, she should come with a “may cause serious injury or death” warning like a firework.
The last time I spent time with the two of them, we met up for drinks at a cigar bar in SoHo and somehow ended the night in Midtown with Cassie doing a white-girl-wasted version of “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” in a bar that didn’t even have karaoke.
“How’s Kline?”
“Boring as-fucking-ever,” he says with a smirk.
I laugh. Anything tamer than doing ninety on a dirt bike, and Thatcher Kelly thinks it’s boring.
“When are you settling down and tying the knot like the rest of us pathetic bastards?”
I smile at the gossipy question, and he pounces.
“Ah, a smile! So, when can Cass and I meet her?”
“Meet whom?”
“Your wife-to-be.”
“Slow your roll, dude,” I say with a laugh. “Pretty sure I have to find her first.”
“You’re not dating anyone?”
I shake my head, and he narrows his eyes.
“No man ever smiles at that question unless they’ve got the lady in mind.”
An image of Maybe pops unbidden in my head, and I jump on that shit like a member of the goddamn WWE.
Holy shit, why would I think of her right now?
I try to steady my racing heart and answer the inquisitive giant as normally as possible. “No lady yet. But I’m thirty, Thatch. Pretty sure I’ve got time.”
He snorts. “Yeah, well, I’m well past thirty. I’d like to attend the wedding before I get arthritis.”
“I’ll do my best,” I say with a laugh, and he smiles.
“See that you do. And listen, I’m thinking about starting up a poker night. Boys-only kind of thing once a week. You interested?”
I shrug. “Yeah. Sounds good. Let me know when you get it set up.”
“Will fluffing do, Lo-Dog.”
I shake my head at his ridiculousness and give him a chin jerk goodbye. I’m sure I’ll be seeing him for poker soon, though. When it comes to Thatcher Kelly, you learn pretty quick that once he sets his mind to something, it’s a guarantee it will happen.
By the time I make it out of the gym and toward the subway station, it’s nearing eight and I’m so hungry, I’m contemplating asking the guy sitting across from me for a bite of his Chipotle burrito.
Thankfully, my place is only one station away.
Sure, I could have used my driver, Sam, but his daughter had a dance recital tonight, and I’m not too keen on being responsible for scarring children emotionally. Her dad should be there, and I have two feet and can handle the short subway ride and walk on the rare occasion when he can’t drive me.
Fifteen minutes later, I step inside my apartment, grab the menu from the cabinet and call in an order from the restaurant across the street, and jump in the shower.
They’re usually quick with delivery, and I don’t like to mix food and sweat.
Luckily, I finish up and am pulling a white T-shirt over my boxer briefs when the bell rings, indicating someone’s arrival. I head down the hall, and the elevator door slides open to my doorman, Gill.
“Hello, Mr. Ives. Your food order.”
I reach out to take it from him with a smile. “Thanks, Gill. Still have money, or do I owe you some more?”
To keep things more secure—you wouldn’t believe how many weirdos there are out there trying to get my address off the internet—Gill acts as a middleman for me on deliveries. I keep a rolling supply of money with him to pay for everything.
He smiles and shakes his head. “I’m all set, Mr. Ives.”
“Thanks. Don’t forget to tip yourself,” I remind him.
He nods once and steps back onto the elevator.
I spread out the contents of my bag on the counter—broiled salmon, broccoli, and lemon-butter rice—and grab a plate from the cabinet. But before I can serve it up, a message alert makes my phone buzz on the marble countertop.
I move to it quickly and scoop it up. I can’t even pretend I haven’t been waiting for this message all night. And thankfully, since I’m home alone right now, I don’t have to.
Maybe: *flashes Billionaire signal on buildings all over New York City* Are you there, Billionaireman? I’m ready for your help fighting my neuroses.
