Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 101041 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 505(@200wpm)___ 404(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101041 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 505(@200wpm)___ 404(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Not a single symptom, to be honest. No nausea or sore boobs or whatever else women have to deal with when they’re with child.
As I pass a Walgreens on the corner, I almost consider going inside and grabbing a take-home pregnancy test, but before I can step through the automatic doors, logical thought wins out. Just because a nurse had to ask me if I was pregnant doesn’t mean that I’m pregnant. Geez.
Maybe you secretly want to be pregnant? Maybe, deep down, you wish you could have Flynn’s baby?
“Oh, for the love of everything. I have got to stop,” I mutter to myself and hitch my purse up higher on my shoulder. I don’t miss the strange look I get from a woman eating her sandwich on a bench, but I put my head down and focus on getting my ass to the subway so I’m not late for work.
I have an apartment in Nolita to stage, and I’ll be damned if I give Tara even an extra five minutes of time to start making changes on my design plans. The woman is a little too into farmhouse chic, and the three-bedroom, three-million-dollar loft EllisGrey has under contract is the opposite of shiplap and barn doors.
Not that there’s anything wrong with a little Chip and JoJo influences. I’ve seen Fixer Upper, and I adore everything the Magnolia brand stands for, but this loft is not the place for it. It needs a minimalist design with sleek, sophisticated touches.
Once I make it onto the subway, I find an open seat across from a college-aged guy with headphones on and a book in his lap, and I proceed to take my cell phone out of my purse and see what I’ve missed.
A few work emails.
And a boatload of texts inside my group chat with Winnie and Sophie.
Sophie: I am freaking out. FREAKING OUT. How is my wedding less than two weeks away?! I haven’t even decided how I’m going to wear my hair or what shoes I’m going to wear with my dress or whether or not the caterers should serve shrimp cocktail at cocktail hour or…basically a million other things I’ve yet to figure out.
Winnie: But you have your dress. Which is downright gorgeous. And you have everything else figured out with the caterer. It’s all good in the wedding hood, my soon-to-be sister-in-law. You have no reason to worry.
Sophie: You swear it’s going to be fine?
Winnie: Promise.
Sophie: Can you also promise that my soon-to-be-husband isn’t going to do anything crazy like plan a flash mob in the middle of our reception or give me a lap dance while he’s taking off my garter?
Winnie: Uh…
Sophie: Winnie!
A laugh jumps from my lungs as I read their exchange. Pretty sure Sophie is asking Winnie for a promise that she cannot guarantee.
Winnie: What? You know I have no control over what my crazy brother does. Jude is nuts. I’m just thankful it’s him and not Ty that’s getting married. Truthfully, the only wedding I looked forward to was Flynn’s because he’s so damn laid-back, but he just up and married Daisy without inviting any of us.
Winnie: P.S. I love you, Daisy! And while I was mad at you both when I first found out, I’m only thankful that I have you as my sister-in-law now.
Instantly, I go from laughing to staring down at the phone with a knot in my chest. I’m starting to feel like such a fraud for lying to Winnie, for lying to everyone about the truth of Flynn’s and my marriage.
A marriage that will come to an end soon.
My interview is the morning of Jude and Sophie’s wedding. Which means, if all goes well, not too long before their actual wedding, Flynn and I will no longer need to keep up the fake-marriage pretenses.
And even though his family has accepted me with open arms and started to feel like my own family—feel like the family I’ve always wished I’d had—I’ll have to move back to LA and go back to my life there, and Flynn will go back to living his life here.
A life that doesn’t include me.
Flynn
I flip two steaks on the skillet and turn to grab some seasoning, but when I spot movement out of the corner of my eye, I turn to find Daisy setting her purse and keys on the counter. Normally, she announces her arrival in some adorable way like “Honey, I’m home!” or “Flynn, I’m starving! Feed me!”
But tonight, she came in like a fucking ninja.
“Hey, babe,” I greet, but it’s like she doesn’t even hear me.
Daisy’s face is devoid of her normally bubbly expression, and her eyes are distant, as if she’s too busy inside her own head to even notice her surroundings.
“Babe,” I repeat, and she looks up to meet my eyes.
“Hi,” she responds, but her voice is quiet, timid even.