Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
She has to be here.
She just has to be.
And when I find her, she’s so grounded, so fucking grounded. She thought our lives were boring before? She has no idea how boring I can make things for her.
Hell, I’ll move us out to my land outside of town and homeschool her in the wilderness if that’s what it takes to keep her safe. Her only friends will be the squirrels, the rabbits, and Tater Tot the groundhog, who lives in a burrow under the old shed.
I should move out there. The main lodge and new outbuildings are ready to go, but I could use the extra time to work on renovating the cabin we’ll use as our home when I’m running the retreat next summer. And without a soul around to set me up with, Sprout will have to give up on this crazy fantasy of hers, the one where I’m in love with Binx McGuire, and all I need is a push from my sweetly meddling kid to live happily ever after with the woman of my dreams. (And the stepmother of hers.)
But I’m not in love with Binx.
I’m obsessed with Binx. I think about Binx at least twenty times a day and dream about her every night. I’ve drawn fifteen different versions of her mouth in my sketch pad, call her way too often, and keeping my hands off her is basically my third full-time job.
Even tonight, with fear for my daughter burning through my blood and terror clutching at my throat, a part of me still sat up and took notice of “my bestie’s” see-through sweater and the black bra beneath.
That kind of attraction is fucked up. Dangerous. I learned that lesson the hard way. And while I can’t pretend to be the poster child for good decisions, I never make the same dumb mistake twice.
I will never lay a hand on Binx. I will never be anything but her friend, no matter how good she smells or how sexy she looks dancing by the jukebox at my mother’s bar or how many times her eyes light up when she looks at my baby girl.
I love Sprout too much to ruin that relationship for her.
I would ruin it, there’s no doubt in my mind. That’s what I do when I fall like this. I hold on too tight, cling too hard, dive too deep. I scare people away, even good people. Even the best ones, like Binx.
She’s right behind me. I can hear her footsteps hitting the ground. She’s probably as scared as I am. I feel bad about that, and about barreling up to her family’s party like a rampaging barbarian, but not bad enough to waste my breath speaking to the older woman who asks, “Can I help you?” in a passive-aggressive voice as I push past her, moving swiftly toward the dance floor.
I have one mission, one focus, one—
“Oh, thank God,” I mutter, my shoulders sagging as my stomach turns itself inside out.
She’s there, at the far corner of the dance floor, bouncing around with several other kids to the band’s cover of Do You Believe in Magic. My daughter, my reason for living, is safe.
And now I’m going to make her wish that she was never born.
Or at least that she never thought about leaving the house without permission and will never do so again.
“Wait,” Binx pants, grabbing my elbow and holding on tight. “Don’t make a scene. You’ll embarrass her.”
“Good,” I say, glowering down into Binx’s bright blue eyes. She’s rimmed them with eyeliner and some kind of sparkly eyeshadow that makes them even more striking than usual.
She’s fucking gorgeous tonight. But then, I knew she would be. Even in sweatpants and one of my ratty old t-shirts hanging to her knees, she’s beautiful. Dress her up for a wedding reception and she’s irresistible. That’s why I didn’t come. I know better than to put myself in situations that test my resolve.
“No, not good, you don’t want to do this,” she says, tightening her grip on my arm. Even the feel of her fingers pressing against my skin through my sweatshirt is enough to make me ache to wrap her legs around my waist and take her against the nearest tent pole.
Something I’m sure her family would love.
They’re already staring and whispering. Some speculate about who the angry man in jeans and the tattered Tool sweatshirt is. Others hiss all the details of my dive-bar-owning mother, garbage father, and time spent in prison into their friends’ ears as quickly as they can vomit up the hot gossip.
It’s been over twenty years since I was that stupid, messed up kid who got into trouble with his friends and ended up paying the price—and I didn’t even live in Bad Dog at the time—but to most people in this town, I will never be anything but a piece-of-shit ex-con. They wouldn’t want their daughters sitting next to me at the diner, let alone dating me.