Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 45531 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 228(@200wpm)___ 182(@250wpm)___ 152(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45531 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 228(@200wpm)___ 182(@250wpm)___ 152(@300wpm)
“I’m not ashamed of you,” I say firmly.
“I get that, but it’s natural, isn’t it, to wonder what people think?”
“I was just thinking that,” I admit.
“And?”
“They might assume we’re father and daughter.”
I’m almost scared to admit this fear, but with Madison, I want to share everything, and that includes insecurities.
She folds her arms tightly. She’s wearing a pink shirt buttoned up, with a stylish jacket draped over her chair. Her hair is down, wavy, beckoning to my hands, demanding that I gently run my fingers through it.
“Let them think whatever they want. Remember? The truth… and the truth is, I don’t give a damn.”
I raise my glass. “Here’s to not giving a damn.”
She laughs as we clink them together. “This does feel like a date. Not that I’d know…”
“You’ve never been on a date before?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“Is that because of the stuff your mom says about men?”
I haven’t discussed what happened yesterday with Veronica and the uncomfortable implication in her words. There’s no firm proof Veronica wants me, only hints, and this setting feels too intimate to bring that in to ruin it.
Sure, Maddie and I can’t touch. We have to pretend we mean nothing to each other, but it’s still dinner. It’s still a date.
“Partly,” she says. “But it’s also… well…”
“Well?”
She gets adorably nervous.
My mind gallops ahead to a thousand moments in the future, instances in which Madison will show the same nerves. I see her courtside for one of our kid’s first basketball games or sitting in the crowd for a musical performance, her maternal focus clear on her features.
“You can talk to me,” I tell her.
“I know. I feel that way, too, which is crazy, isn’t it? Why should I feel comfortable doing that?”
“The why of it isn’t important to me,” I say, my tone getting grim.
If we venture into the why of us, the conversation will veer toward the secret I’m barely containing inside myself. She doesn’t know that I’m superimposing a wedding dress over her regular clothes every second, unable to stop. She doesn’t know I can almost feel the floor against my knee, the pressure I’ll experience when I propose.
“We’re comfortable with each other. We can talk to each other, and that’s no small thing. Anyway, you changed the subject.”
She nods shortly. My hands are like wild animals, chained, attempting to break free of their constraints. To brush her hair from her face, to cradle her cheek gently, to reach under the table and claim her thick thigh.
“Boys have never shown much interest in me,” she says softly.
“That’s insanity.”
Her laugh is all the light I never knew I needed before I met her. “I don’t think other people see what you see when you look at me, Jacob.”
I smirk. “I’m sure there’s a quote there…”
She tilts her head, thinking. I wish I could take a picture and save this forever… her pensive lips, her furrowed eyebrows.
“Don’t doubt yourself just because nobody else sees what you see,” she says after a pause. “There’s a chance you’re wrong, but there’s also a chance everybody else is. Doesn’t it freak you out, thinking of me trawling through all your interviews?”
“I enjoy thinking of you sitting in bed dressed in shorts and a tank top—bra optional—reading through them…”
When I mention her outfit, she looks down at the table.
“And it’s true,” I go on. “I see how beautiful you are. Honestly, I’m tempted to call you a liar. How can no man have ever wanted you? But I’m glad that’s the case. I’m glad the rest of the world is so blind. I’m glad you’re—”
Mine, I was about to say. I could’ve wrecked everything, but then the waiter saves my ass.
“Are you ready to order, or would you like a few more minutes?”
The meal is a battleground, but I’m fighting myself. Fighting the instincts roaring at me to get closer to her. It feels unnatural being so distant, maintaining this space as though I should be ashamed of her. It’s the last thing I should feel about my woman. Shame? It doesn’t belong.
“I was thinking about your dad,” I say out of the blue.
She lowers her fork, a piece of pasta speared on it.
“If you want, I could help you find him.”
“I already did,” Madison murmurs.
My hand twitches under the table. I’ve placed it against my leg to make the journey longer if my resolve breaks. I’ll have more of a chance to stop myself.
“What happened?” I ask.
“This was when I was fourteen.”
Only five years ago. I don’t care. Time means nothing. We mean everything, but public perception may not be so forgiving.
“Mom had a few pictures of him on a memory drive. I was able to reverse image search him. He’d used one of the same pictures for a profile photo on his social media, which was set to public.”