Three Strikes and You’re Mine Read Online R.S. Grey

Categories Genre: Contemporary, Forbidden, Romance, Sports Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
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There’s no interjecting and no way to cut in and answer one question or respond to a remark before she’s rattling off another. It’s as if for the last few years, she’s been bottling up everything she would ask if only the right person came along. Turns out, I’m that person.

“Also, do you like getting manicures? Dad got me a gift card to get my nails done for my birthday. He said he would go with me, but I could kind of tell he really doesn’t want to have to go, but you’ll go, right? You’ll get your nails done with me?

“And you don’t have to be nervous about dealing with a kid because Maria tells me I’m the best kid she’s ever nannied!” She nods eagerly. “Really, she said that! And you can tell me no and send me to my room and say stuff like, ‘Well no dessert for you tonight, missy!’” She wags her finger for emphasis. “And I won’t even be mad. I won’t! I’ll just be so happy you’re with me.”

She buries her head against my chest, and we sit there for a second.

The crushing weight of a child’s love isn’t crushing at all.

It’s weightless. Termless. Restriction-less.

It’s the most freely given love there is, and I wish more than anything that Harper’s mom was here to experience it. She would be so proud to see what a wonderful young lady Harper has grown up to become. So thoughtful and energetic, savvy and sweet. I hold Harper on my lap as I promise her we will go back-to-school shopping together, we will find a pair of shoes she feels comfortable and confident in, we’ll get her some fantastic socks too, and a backpack she loves. I tell her my little cousins like to put keychains on their backpacks to make them feel more personalized, and Harper immediately loves this. She has the genius idea of making some keychains out of the seashells we’ve collected today. We’ll sort out the ballet lessons, and I’ll be dressed to the nines at that mother-daughter tea. She doesn’t need to worry.

Before we stand to walk back to Luke, I pause and look out at the ocean, past the white-capped waves crashing to the shore, past the rippling blue water shimmering with the reflection of the sun. I find the farthest point in the distance, on the horizon line where blue meets blue, and I make a solemn promise to Nadine to take care of her baby girl, to watch out for her, to stick up for her, to be a consistent loving force in her life, a shoulder to cry on, an ear when she needs one. She’s safe with me.

Together, with our hands linked, we walk along the shore to find Luke. He’s starting to pack up our beach toys, dipping one mermaid Barbie after another into a water bucket to get the sand out of their hair. He sees us coming and stops to smile.

“What were you two talking about?”

“Oh, just girl stuff.” I wink at Harper, and she attempts to wink back at me.

The rest of the weekend consists of a lot of packing and logistics. I deep-clean the kitchen Saturday afternoon, and we order takeout for dinner. Luke goes over his schedule with me for the next few weeks. It’s daunting but doable. He’ll start practicing with the team on Monday, and Thursday we’ll head to Miami. He asks me privately if I’d prefer to have Maria or another nanny accompany us down there, and for now, I’d rather keep Harper close. The two of us will get by just fine. We can hang out in the hotel and order room service and watch movies, we can stretch our legs on the beach and, of course, cheer him on from the stands during the games.

On Sunday, we load up, leave the Hamptons house, and head back to the city. We pull up to Luke’s townhouse on the Upper East Side by late morning.

“I can give you a tour,” Harper says, taking my hand and tugging me inside.

It’s a warm and inviting house that checks all the fancy boxes. A hoity-toity person would salivate at the idea of living here. There’s a whole room dedicated to wine, a butler’s kitchen off the main kitchen that’s bigger than Miles’ whole apartment (not that that fills me with glee or anything…), an elevator, a gym, a garden, a terrace. What stops me in my tracks, though, are the signs of life among the amenities: the gallery wall in the hallway leading to the kitchen that’s covered in framed artwork Harper’s brought home from school over the years, the stack of puzzles in the living room, the Pinkalicious books lined up on the bookshelf near the TV where there are probably supposed to be prized antique sculptures.


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