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)
“He looks like you in this one.” I lift the frame containing a photograph of an infant Wilder, cradled in his mother’s arms. Not able to help myself, I add, “But there’s no escaping that he’s got your husband’s eyes.”
“Why did you have to tell him that?” she explodes, snatching up a kid-sized laptop and hugging it to her chest. “What the hell, Roman!”
It occurs to me that, though she’s kind of loud, she’s trying not to shout, which means that Wilder isn’t likely to be awake. I mean, I kind of knew he wouldn’t be, but you can’t blame a bloke for hoping he might catch a glimpse of his own kid. I can cope with Kennedy inviting some arsehole around as a decoy or a security blanket. A security blanket against my expectations or against her naughty thoughts? I’m not going to think about it because anything to do with her and him and blankets will only make me very unhappy. The lack of Wilder’s presence does give the potential for a private tête-à-tête.
“So you’re saying it’s my fault you double booked?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Briskly crossing the room, she takes the frame from my hand. “I invited Drew for dinner.” Her movements are jerky as she places the frame back and the laptop down, moving to the kitchen doorway again.
It’s probably a good idea. Comfortable surfaces = the potential for being horizontal. And I think she deserves the honest kind of horizontal, not the angry kind.
“You’re here to talk about Wilder,” she throws over her shoulder. “I don’t see a double booking.”
“I’m here to see you,” I bite out, the words falling from my mouth before I can temper them.
“Are you jealous?” She turns, and I’m more interested in watching her expressions than I am her taunt. The way her dark eyes flare, part shock, all interest.
“Jealousies are for blokes with tiny dicks and self-esteem issues, babe.”
“Ho-ho, clearly not an issue you have!”
“You know it,” I reply with a wink, following her delectable and angry arse to the kitchen.
“I meant self-esteem issues, you arrogant ass.”
The wider my smile becomes, the more it seems to piss her off. But I’ll take it because any reaction is better than indifference. “Oh, I thought you were talking about my cock.” Her eyes flick down. The power of suggestion works strongly in this one. “You can understand why.”
“Th-That happened so long ago I can barely remember,” she retorts, her chin high and haughty.
“Really?” I purr, moving a little closer. “I think about it all the time.” I press my forearm to the doorframe, filling the space as colour floods her cheeks. “Anytime you want a reminder, just say the word.”
Her response is more than verbal but less than words as she swings away with displeasure. Which is, I suppose, what I get for being such an obvious wanker. I swallow my grin, allowing it instead to spread through my veins as I step fully into the kitchen.
“It’s a nice little place you’ve got here.” It looks like something from a TV show set in the 1950s and not for the kitsch factor either. A little worn around the edges, the yellow and white cabinetry looks original. The appliances are newer; a modern stainless-steel stove, a microwave over it. A matching dishwasher and silver fridge, covered in photos and childish artwork. On the side, hangs one of those huge calendars parents use to track their kid’s schedules like they’re mini-CEOs. This month’s commitments include several soccer practices, homework due dates, and school pickups and drop-offs. A childish star is drawn around the words my birthday party in wobbling penmanship.
Hang on. The dates don’t work by my count.
“Someone important?” I ask mildly, tapping the calendar.
“What?” Kennedy leans in, peering at the calendar. “Oh. It’s Wilder’s party. He had chickenpox back in February, so we put off his birthday until this month. School’s almost out, plus the weather in February is awful around here.”
“What date in February?” It seems a bit fucky to be asking my own son’s date of birth.
“February twentieth. He was born late.”
Before I can etch the date in my memory, I find myself speaking again. “Can I come?” I don’t think I’ve ever sounded so desperate.
Her chest rises and falls as she blows out a breath. “I guess. But we need to talk about more important things first.”
“Thanks, Kennedy.” And I mean this sincerely as I swallow over the sudden lump in my throat. “That would be . . . that would be great.”
“Yeah.” Her voice is soft, and my heart does a painful little jig. “Of course.”
I swing back to the fridge before I vomit a ball of emotion and gratitude all over her feet. The fridge. Solid. Unemotional. Practical. Except for the way it’s plastered with kid stuff and a smudging of child-sized fingerprints.