Page 103 of The Thing About My Secret Billionaire

“Yup.” She makes a sound like she’s sucking her fingers. “Stop giving me a hard time. There are worse pregnancy cravings.”

“Yeah, but at this rate that kid’s going to come out covered in pink frosting and sprinkles.”

“Careful, or I’ll extend my maternity leave and you’ll be lost without me. Anyway, what do you need?”

“Remember that idea you had about sending soccer gear to summer camps?”

“Yup. The club merch store is ordering some kids’ shirts for me, and Drew is working on a list of equipment I could send.”

“Great. Carry on with that. But also look into setting up our own soccer camps.”

There’s silence on the other end of the phone.

“Brooke? Is your mouth too full of doughnut to speak?”

“More like my jaw was too slack. Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“I’m saying, let’s start a bunch of freesoccer camps for kids from families who otherwise wouldn’t be able to afford to send them to one. We can make some day camps, some sleepovers. And they need to be all over the country. We can talk about it when I get back.”

“Free? You mean you want to fully fund it?”

“Yes.”

“Have you been day-drinking?”

I ignore that. “It’ll be great. We’ll get Drew involved too. She’ll eat this shit up.”

Just talking about this, voicing these ideas out loud, turns on an adrenaline buzz. My body is kind of tingling with how much good this could do and how much fun it could be.

Of course it could be great PR too but, for once, that’s not my primary concern—doing good is, doing something to bring joy that doesn’t involve marble bathrooms and designer light fixtures to others’ lives.

“Are you saying you want to spend a fortune on thisandbe involved?”

“Yeah. Like you said before, it’ll be fun for me.”

She blows out a long breath. “If this kid is born with a permanent shocked expression, it’ll be your fault.”

“I’m not that bad.”

She snorts. “You’ll want Maverick Developments and Boston Commoners branding all over this thing, right?”

“Nope. Come up with a new name for it.”

“Not even a teeny tiny ‘brought to you by Maverick Developments’ in the corner of things?”

“Oh hell, yes. But just don’t make it the main thing. Don’t call it Maverick Soccer Camps or anything. Marketing might have a good idea. Let’s brainstorm with them.”

“Well, I don’t know what happened to the MillerMalone who went off to muck out donkeys, but I like the one who’s come back.”

Alongside the angst over Frankie, I do also have this weird kind of giddy feeling. Since I got home, there’s been a certain lightheaded otherworldliness to everything. Like my brain’s rebooting, or resetting itself, or like someone’s gone through it with a Shop-Vac and cleaned out all the shit.

“Okay,” Brooke adds. “I’ll get on it before you change your mind.”

“I won’t. And I’m taking the afternoon off. You do the same. Have a great Thanksgiving tomorrow.”

“If you’re not drunk, are you high?”

“Bye, Brooke.”