Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 140184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 701(@200wpm)___ 561(@250wpm)___ 467(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 701(@200wpm)___ 561(@250wpm)___ 467(@300wpm)
Seeming to notice my discomfort and want to get rid of it, Jonathan asks, “You want to listen to some music?”
I nod, thankful for the distraction.
He nods too, hitting the brake as we stop at a red light. “What do you want to listen to?” he asks, grabbing his phone.
“I could really go for some Taylor Swift right now.”
“I got you.” He taps the screen a few times, then suddenly “Shake it Off” starts playing. He drops the phone back in the cupholder, then starts tapping the steering wheel in time with the beat and I can’t stop a grin from transforming my face.
“Jonathan Granville, are you a secret Swifty?”
“Secret? Fuck that, this is my jam,” he says playfully, causing me to burst into laughter.
He starts dancing and I double over, and then we’re singing along and dancing in the car as we drive down the road.
I never thought I’d have fun with Jonathan, and definitely not today, but that two minutes of him goofing off and teasing me as we listen to Taylor Swift makes me feel so much better, my aching stomach dissipates for the first time since I woke up in his bed this morning.
Like the other breaks today, unfortunately, it doesn’t last.
Because when we pull in the driveway, Milo has just gotten home, too.
My heart stops beating, then races as he looks back at the car. I shrink down in the seat, wishing I could slide into the floor so he can’t see me.
In Jonathan’s car, with Jonathan.
It feels like rubbing salt in the wound and I’m so uncomfortable, I want to crawl out of my skin.
Jonathan puts the car in park, his gaze trained on his father.
“Get your things and go inside.”
I swallow. He sounds unsure how this is going to go, too.
My stomachache comes back, full force.
I don’t want to move from this spot. I want to hide here until Milo can’t see me anymore. I want to turn invisible.
“I can’t just… walk past him.”
“Sure, you can,” he says levelly. “He’s a big boy, he’ll be fine.”
“This is his house. It feels so rude.”
“You can talk to him later, but I need to talk to him first.”
I suppose that’s fair. It’s his father, after all.
Jonathan gets out first and walks up to his dad. I wring my hands and try to steal glimpses to see what’s happening without looking up and making eye contact.
Jonathan walks around him and stops in front of the garage so Milo’s back is to me.
I breathe a sigh of relief, grab my bags and my new purse, and make a beeline to the front door, the buzzing in my ears too loud for me to hear anything they’re saying, thankfully.
I stop in the kitchen and grab a bottle of water so I don’t have to come back down, then I hurry up the stairs before Milo and Jonathan come inside.
My heart races as I close the bedroom door and lean back against it.
All the relief I felt just a few minutes ago feels like a daydream.
Reality crashes down around me.
I look at the bed where Jonathan fucked me last night and remember all the filthy things he said to me.
Yeah, it was what I needed in that moment.
But I don’t know how I’ll ever look Milo in the eye again.
Chapter twenty-two
Milo
The house is somber and still when I hear the sound of footsteps on the stairs and instantly become alert.
It doesn’t feel like her, but I hope it is, anyway. I haven’t gotten a good look at Kennedy since last night. All the bullshit aside, I need to see for myself how she’s doing.
I’m sitting at the kitchen island trying to get some work done—work I don’t technically need to do right now, but I need to keep my mind occupied, and this seemed the best way. I couldn’t sleep for shit last night, and the dull ache behind my eyes isn’t helping matters.
I hold my breath as I wait for someone to round the corner. I know how much water Kennedy drinks and how long she has been upstairs; she should be thirsty by now.
I’m disappointed when it’s my son who saunters into the kitchen.
My fists curl up unconsciously and I have to make an effort to unclench them.
I guess she is thirsty, so she sent him down to get her a drink.
The knowledge sends a blast of heat through my veins, but I try to ignore it.
I’m not used to feeling this adversarial toward my own son, but it’s hard not to after last night.
I watch as Jonathan takes two bottles of water out of the refrigerator, then focus my attention back on my open laptop so I don’t have to look at him when he turns around.
“We should probably have dinner at some point,” I state.