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)
“That man is compliance itself.”
I roll my lips together to contain my reply because Jenner wouldn’t think so if he’d been in my bedroom last night. But I’m not about to tell him how he used a pair of tube socks to tie me to the bed or how he wouldn’t let me go until I come three times. That’s not compliance, not when I begged to be released. I thought I sounded pretty convincing, too. I also found myself completing all three tasks, and every time I did, he rewarded me with an “I love you.”
I love him too, though I’ve yet to say it. I might even love him a little more for all his patience.
“Oh, Daddy!”
“You know Roman doesn’t like it when you call him that.”
“Correction, Roman doesn’t like it when I call him my daddy. Besides, I was talking about this silver fox on the ’gram. I am digging those hot pants!” The mind boggles, but not so much as I’d like to take a look. “Speaking of social media,” Jenner adds, “there’s a message for you on the High Ground’s Facebook page.”
“For me?” I don’t have anything to do with the running of the page. I set it up reluctantly, but Jenner maintains it. Technology and I rarely see eye to eye. Also, historically, I’ve avoided any kind of social media outlet, though that’s kind of unnecessary since Roman found me anyhow.
Am I allowed to say I’m glad about it? Because I am. Things are . . . good. Wilder loves having his dad around, and I can kind of feel myself unwinding. Just last night, I’d opened my memory box, which was a little like open heart surgery to begin with. I’d shown no one my small treasure haul before. It’s not such a big haul and not worth very much, but that doesn’t mean it’s not important. There are a pair of tiny socks belonging to newborn baby Wilder, along with his hospital tags. Nana’s locket with mine and Holland’s picture. The ribbon from my wedding bouquet that just a week ago I would’ve rather swallowed it than admit I’d held on to it. Last, I’d pulled out the ring he’d slipped over my finger in the wedding chapel. The one he’d worn on his pinkie finger. The gold was warm from his skin, I remember. It had given me such a tiny, secret thrill.
When I’d tried to hand it back to him, Roman folded my fingers over it.
“Keep it for Wilder.”
“Don’t you want to give it to him yourself?”
“I’ll tell you what,” he’d murmured, his hands still encompassing mine. “You hang on to it for a little while longer. Until you’re ready to swap it for something a little more sparkly.”
My heart did this strange little wobble, and though his words were delivered with a smile, I couldn’t lift my head to see. I wanted to cry, cry tears of happiness as I felt something shift inside me. Maybe I could do this. Maybe love isn’t about deserving. Maybe the trick is being brave enough to take the risk.
“It was a comment on a post about Annie’s doughnuts. You were in the frame, serving someone. I think she was called Chelsea.”
“What?” I take a moment to make sense of Jenner’s words, basking in love’s afterglow. “But I don’t know any Chelsea’s,” I add absently.
“She seems to know you. She sent the Facebook page a message.”
“What did it say?” I turn to face him, but he barely glances up from his phone.
“I didn’t read it. What?” Affront passes across his features when he looks up. “I haven’t!”
“That’s not like you.”
“Honeybun, I hate to break it to you, but I think you’re all out of secrets.”
“Because that’s the way I like it,” I add with a tiny, nervous laugh.
“Kennedy, dear?” Ursula’s voice pulls my attention, carrying across the space from where the pair sits at a table by the window. “Do you know what time Roman will be back? He promised to pick us up in his new car because it looked like rain this afternoon.”
“He’s getting a new car?” I say at the exact same minute as Jenner all but shrieks,
“He’s getting rid of the Aston Martin? But he promised me a ride in it!”
“Roman promised you a ride in his what?”
“Car, Kennedy.” His hand slides to his hip. “Did you know baby daddy was getting a new car?”
“Stop calling him that. I don’t even know what he drives now. Before. Ever,” I add with an exasperated shake of my head. I own a Toyota Camry that I mostly keep for the school run, larger grocery trips and emergencies. As I can usually be found here or at home, and the distance between the two is the walking kind, I rarely use it.
Is it odd that I haven’t seen what Roman drives? Odd that I don’t care?