Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
Wanna be in a Tayla Sparks music video?
Why not?
How about this decade’s blockbuster movie?
Sure. It’s not like I’ve got anything else going on.
But now, for the first time in what seems like forever, I know what I want. I know what I was put on this earth for. I feel in the marrow of my fucking bones I was made to love her. To be the person to take care of her. To stand by her side as we raise our son.
Who I need to be contacting is the family law firm. I should write a will. Make provision. Start getting my act in gear like the responsible adult I’m supposed to be.
A dad. And, whether she thinks she likes it or not, a fucking husband.
I slap my laptop shut and push back from the table angrily. How the hell do I get her to see that? To get her to trust in her own feelings and instincts. Because I see how she looks at me, and not just when she’s hot under my hands and desperate. I know she trusts me. I see it in the small moments; her watching Wilder and me through the kitchen window. That smile she tries to deny when we’re curled up on the couch, reading. It’s in the warm looks she sends me across the dinner table and in that frisson of delight when our hands accidentally touch.
So what the fuck is holding her back? Why can’t she trust herself?
I push a shaking hand through my hair and blow out a long, calming breath, trying to get ahold of the angry frustration building inside me. I’ve tried so hard this week to keep my hands to myself. I’ve done the whole wooing thing, like Wilder suggested. Not that I went the chocolate and flowers route because that would’ve been a bit too obvious. She would’ve definitely brought the love drawbridge up. I’ve wooed her in subtle ways. As well as the Wilder mandate compliments, I’ve done stuff like improving the quality of the wine in her kitchen, watched this TV show she loves that’s all fake Scottish accents and garish-coloured plaid. Rory Roy, I think it’s called. I’ve cooked a few times and tried to help where I can, like taking on the school run. Though, that one is probably cheating because I love hanging out with my kid. I’ve mowed and chopped trees, all without ever mentioning it. I’ve pretty much tried to show that I’m here for the long haul and not just for a quick roll. I thought that having me around the place, behaving myself, being the serious, dependable type might help her see that I can be what she needs, that she can trust me. And then that stupid prick Drew turns up, and it suddenly feels like Groundhog Day. The only difference is I’m starting to feel it’s not me she doesn’t trust. She doesn’t trust herself.
Nothing worth having ever comes easy, son. My dad’s voice suddenly echoes in my head. The greater the obstacle, the greater the achievement in overcoming it. And then, as though summonsed by the Phillips balefire or flare, my phone bings. It’s a message from Chastity, Flynn’s wife, in the family group I’ve been ignoring recently.
The subject reads: too much?
I open the attachment to an image of a T-shirt with a slogan emblazoned across the front:
PART-TIME HOOKER
On second glance, there’s also the image of a tiny fish’s head about to gobble a suspiciously phallic-looking fishing hook.
RAFFERTY: Please don’t tell me you’ve got Flynn on the books, Chas.
CHASTITY: I’m not even going to dignify that with a response. But how’s my T-shirt game?
As a family, our favourite sport is heaping shit on each other. It’s the greatest form of compliment that we include wives and girlfriends in this. Or, at least, that’s what we tell them. Secondary to heaping shit is buying each other inappropriate gifts, usually in the form of T-shirts.
LYSSA: Rafferty, honey, people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.
CHASTITY: Yes, Rafferty. Remember where you met your beloved? Actually, I think I’ll buy you this for your birthday.
Moments later, a GIF appears of what looks like a male stripper, a cartoon banana strategically placed.
AMBER: Juicy! This sounds like a story I haven’t heard!
Amber is Byron’s wife.
CHASTITY: I think baby brain strikes again, sweetie. Remember how Tee found the darling Alyssa in a brothel in Kings Cross, drunk and a little lost?
AMBER: Ohhhh. The banana threw me off.
RAFFERTY: That’s what she said.
AMBER: *Insert groan here*
RAFFERTY: Also, that’s what she said.
AMBER: I’d like to say it’s been fun . . . but I don’t tell lies. Love the T-shirt but GTG, gorgeous fam. Ruby’s crying.
RAFFERTY: Does she do anything else but?
She only cries when she’s looking at your face, I think, but don’t type in reply. I’ll only get bombarded with a dozen questions.