Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
His breathing is strained, but my thoughts are too scattered to make sense of this. It was only a silly notion—us together, dating, starting a family—an order I had in my head. It was too soon to dream of such things. “What do you mean you don’t know? I don’t understand what you’re saying, Laird.”
He stands to his full height and rubs across his brow. “I just found out. I don’t know the details.” A dark silhouette against the sunshine of a California spring day. The contrast is stark, matching the blindside of the conversation I didn’t think I’d be having. Shoulders fallen along with his expression, but still so stunning that I wonder if pain burdens him just to lessen his perfection because a child won’t do it. He replies, “My manager is coming over.”
The vague responses aren’t leading me to answers. The turmoil in his eyes only put me more on edge. “Why? What’s going on?”
“The record label received paperwork sent to me.” Shame coats his throat as he tries to clear it and then looks away from me again. “It’s for a paternity test. Tommy’s bringing me the paperwork they received.”
Don’t jump ahead. Live in the present, Poppy. One day at a time. Breathe. The mantras I practiced, I repeated thousands of times when I was stuck in bed, the words that helped me survive return as if I’m back in Beacon.
I can assume all the answers, try to work through this like an algebra equation to find out what X is, but the only one who can help me solve it is Laird. I slow my speeding heart, needing to be the voice of reason, if not for him, then for myself. “Is this a girlfriend?”
“No.”
“I need you to look at me.” His eyes meet mine without hesitation, though there is an uncertainty that doesn’t belong there. Understandable. I’m not sure what to think either. “We just started dating, so it’s okay if you don’t want to share quite yet. It’s not my right to know. I’m sorry—”
“Don’t apologize.” He comes around the coffee table and takes hold of my upper arms. “I hate myself for dragging my past into our lives right when we found each other again.”
He puts on a handsome face, but I think he’s in shock, mixing his words and timelines, but that can be sorted another time. “It makes me smile every time you slip and say things like that, like we’ve been together before.” I embrace him, holding him close, and find my smile spreading as I lean against his chest. Maybe it’s not the time, but selfishly, I want to enjoy these last few minutes we have before everything changes. Because it will. The test is not only about paternity, but how we survive it through the outcome.
Caressing my face, he says, “Remember I love you, okay?”
The question is ominous under the circumstances. “I know you love me.”
He nods and takes a breath that he’s seemingly been waiting to do. Did he think I wouldn’t love him because he has a child? Does he think I wouldn’t love his children because they’re born from another woman? I hadn’t noticed the cracks in our foundation, but I’m realizing we never built one. We just were one day. Ready-made.
Two people destiny toyed with, plopping us down in the middle of nowhere to see what would happen. We were tailor-made for each other. It worked. We fell hook, line, and sinker. Not a week old and the ground shifts beneath our feet.
But with all the steps we skipped, reality has hit. We don’t know each other. Not really. I whisper, “I won’t forget.” For him or me? For both of us.
A knock on the door causes me to separate, the tips of my fingers leaving him as he walks away. He says, “Tommy was already on his way over.”
We didn’t have time to talk about the role he wants me to play during the conversation or if he’d rather me go. I stand there unsure if I should, a weird feeling telling me to run.
I clasp my hands in front of me, swallowing it down to ignore it. That doesn’t work. It just lumps in my throat.
The door opens, and his manager comes in, tapping a large envelope on the palm of his hand. “Not the first time. Won’t be the last,” he says, coming in midsentence. “Oh.” He stops and looks at me. “Hi.” Looking confused, he turns to Laird. “I didn’t know you had company.”
“You didn’t give me a chance to get in a word edgewise.”
I shift, feeling more uncomfortable than ever.
Turning to me, he says, “Hello, I’m Tommy.” The back of his hand lands on Laird’s chest. “His manager.” A hand is offered with a genuine smile.
Laird is quick to step in as if I’m meeting his parents for the first time. “Tommy O’Neill. Poppy Stanfield.” By all appearances, he looks like a nice enough guy in his jeans and button-down shirt. Nice shoes but not typical for the beach lifestyle in Malibu. I assume he lives in LA. No wedding ring which surprises me for some reason.