Hello everyone.
I’m writing this from a private island in French Polynesia. The view is nearly perfect: turquoise water, white sand, palms swaying gently.
What pushes the scene into perfection is my smoke show wife lying in the sunshine, reading a John Grisham novel.
I’ve already read the book—The Pelican Brief—and what my wife doesn’t know is that, at this particular moment, she looks less like someone reading a John Grisham novel and more like the final scene of one: tan skin, tropical island, safely disappeared somewhere in the South Pacific after uncovering a vast government conspiracy.
[Running On Butter obtained EXCLUSIVE, never seen before images of the day.]