Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92140 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92140 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
“I am. I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“So what’s the problem?”
I paused, knowing what I was about to say was all kinds of fucked up. “The problem is I’ve got twelve hours left here, and I want to spend them with her.”
“Are you nuts?”
“Yes. She just . . . does something to me, Jackson. I know it sounds stupid and weak, but she does. I can’t explain it.” I closed my eyes. “I keep trying to twist the pieces around, like I’m looking for some kind of loophole that would make one last night with her okay.”
“There isn’t one.”
I frowned. “I knew you’d say that.”
“Of course you did. It’s why you called. You know what you have to do—stay away from her and get on that plane.”
“I haven’t even told you the worst part.”
“Jesus Christ. How much worse can it get, Zach?”
“Mason’s wife is fucking pregnant. I’m going to be . . . I can’t even say it.”
Jackson burst out laughing. “Aww, you’re going to be a grandpa! Or will it be Pawpaw? Grandpappy? Hmm, I think you’re more of a Gramps.”
“I feel like I’m in the Twilight Zone.”
“Well, Pop Pop, you’re not. This is your reality now—you’ve got family. And the Zach Barrett I know would put his family first.”
“I hear you.”
“Good. Because sex with a hot young thing is great, and I’m sure it’s making you feel like you’re drinking from the Fountain of Youth, but dude—find a hot young thing that isn’t your son’s ex.”
After hanging up with Jackson, I went down to the hotel gym and worked out. When I got back to the room, I cleaned up, ate overpriced room service, and watched some stupid TV. The hours I had to kill were dragging.
Around nine o’clock, I called Millie.
“Hey,” she said softly. Just hearing her voice made me long to be next to her.
“What are you up to?”
“I’m watching Antiques Roadshow.”
“Antiques Roadshow?”
“Yes. I’m addicted. Have you ever watched it?”
“Never.”
“Zach Barrett, you are missing out! People bring in their garage sale finds and stuff they inherited from long-lost aunts or shit they just have sitting around in their attics, and they find out what it’s worth. I mean, sometimes it’s just junk—which is terrible if the person paid a lot of money for it—but sometimes people discover they bought a ten-thousand dollar pair of French porcelain vases for five bucks at the church yard sale!”
I laughed. “Sounds . . . exciting?”
“It is! This show has drama, intrigue, suspense, mystery, emotion—whenever I need to escape the real world, Antiques Roadshow is where I go.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“How was your day?” she asked.
“Okay, I guess.” I wondered what she was wearing.
“You survived brunch?”
“Barely.”
“I’m sorry. Was it hard to be around Mason?”
“Yeah.” I frowned. “Harder than I thought it would be. I don’t deserve the way he looks at me or speaks about me—not just because of you, but the whole situation. I wasn’t there for him. I’m not Father of the Year.”
“But he likes you. He’s proud of you.”
“Yeah.” I squeezed my eyes shut.
“I heard they announced Lori’s pregnancy. One of my sisters saw it on social media.”
I didn’t want to think about that. “How was your day?”
“Good.” Her tone brightened a little. “I did a bunch of business research, and then I went to my parents’ house for dinner.”
“What kind of business research?”
“I’m thinking of opening a wedding gown shop,” she said. “Specifically, a shop that caters to plus-sized brides.”
I asked her to tell me more about it, and she talked excitedly about the fashion show she was putting on next spring, what she’d discovered about supply and demand for a shop like she envisioned, how she knew exactly who her ideal customers would be, how nervous she was to make a career change, but also how passionate she was about her ideas. Listening to her was so captivating, I didn’t even realize how much time had gone by until she brought it up.
“Oh my God, I’ve literally just rambled for twenty minutes,” she said. “You’re probably bored stiff.”
“Not bored at all,” I told her. “And believe it or not, I’m not stiff either.”
She laughed. “As soon as the word stiff was out of my mouth, I was like—oh crap.”
“For once, I am talking to you without a hand in my pants, I promise. I told myself before I called you that I would act like a responsible adult and not a hormonal teenager.”
“I like both sides of you.” She paused. “I wasn’t sure if you’d come over or call or . . . or what.”
“I wasn’t sure what to do either.”
“So you’re leaving tomorrow?” There was no mistaking the hope in her voice.
“Yes. On that six a.m. flight. But Millie.” I steeled myself.
“Yes?”
“I can’t see you tonight.”
Silence. “Okay.”
“It’s not because I don’t want to—you have to know that.”
“Totally,” she said, her tone more businesslike than it had been before. “I agree one hundred percent.”