Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 101041 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 505(@200wpm)___ 404(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101041 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 505(@200wpm)___ 404(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
I don’t deny it. I don’t even stay silent or just offer a nod. I face the truth head on.
“Yeah, Rem. I love her.”
“Shit, I’m sorry.” He shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. “I just came blazing in here, all fixated on the fact that you were lying to me, but I didn’t stop to think about what was actually going on with you. I’m a real fucking bastard.”
I nod. He chuckles, but it’s devoid of amusement.
“I didn’t plan on it,” I admit. “When Daisy and I made the pact, I didn’t plan on it ending like this.”
“Yeah, well, that’s usually how it goes. I mean, when I asked Charlotte to marry me, I didn’t plan on it ending with her leaving me at the altar. But love is a real motherfucker.”
And that right there, seeing what Rem went through, still goes through because of it, is exactly why you’ve stupidly tried to avoid it this whole time.
My mind drifts to the distant past, and I think about the night of Rem’s bachelor party when all four of us Winslow brothers were young and had our whole lives ahead of us.
I think about how excited Remy was and how ridiculous Jude and Ty were.
I even think about the stupid fortune-teller that Jude made us all go to after a stripper had all but torn Rem’s boxer briefs to shreds with her stiletto.
You mean the fortune-teller who correctly predicted Rem getting left at the altar? And the same one who also correctly predicted Jude would make a bet that would change his life?
Instantly, the words crazy Cleo said to me ring loud and clear in my mind.
“There will be a night, though. One wild, unexpected night in a seemingly predictable life where you, my sweet boy, will make a pact with a stranger from which there will be great consequence.”
Holy fuck.
One wild night. A pact with a stranger.
How in the hell did I miss this?
Probably because you wrote Miss Cleo off as a nutjob.
“What are you going to do?” Rem asks, pulling me from my racing thoughts, and I look at him long enough to come to a final conclusion.
“Make sure that fucking fortune-teller is wrong about the consequences.”
“Huh?”
“I gotta go, Rem,” I say and snag my keys, phone, and wallet from where I left them on the kitchen counter. My mind is made up, and there isn’t a damn thing anyone can do to stop me.
“Go? What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Lock up when you leave.”
And that’s the last thing I say to my eldest brother before the door of my apartment slams shut behind me.
Daisy
I’m alone in the bathtub in my hotel room, and about twenty pregnancy tests are scattered along the edge of the tub and the floor and the sink like some kind of pregnancy-obsessed hoarder lives here.
And every single one of them tells me the same thing—Pregnant.
Holy fucking shit.
I’m pregnant, my immigration interview is tomorrow, and mere hours ago, I lost my ever-loving shit and told my fake-husband/real-baby-daddy that I’m done and moving back to Canada.
If this weren’t my actual life, I’d probably think it was a joke and have a good laugh about it.
But all I can do is sob.
Big fat tears stream down my cheeks, and I just stare at the grout work of the tiles and wonder how in the hell I managed to get here.
Eventually, I find the will to get out of the tub and tip-toe past the pregnant evidence. Once I pace a little in front of the flat-screen TV, I grab my phone out of my purse and tap the screen to check for notifications. But when I realize I must have turned it off after I panicked over Dr. Fields’s big news, I turn on the damn thing and decide that I need to call the two people who might be able to help me sort all of this out.
The screen comes to life quickly, but I’m immediately hit with a low battery notification. I rummage in my purse for my charger, but I quickly realize it’s not with me; it’s at Flynn’s apartment.
Son of a bitch! Can’t anything go right tonight?
Hopeful that I have enough juice to at least make this call, I get Gwen on the line first, then Damien, until we’re all sitting on a three-way FaceTime.
It’s late—very late, actually, even for West Coast time—but there’s no complaint about it because the second they both spot my splotchy, tear-stained face, their reactions are basically the same.
“Daisy? What’s wrong?”
“Oh my God, doll. Are you okay?”
“I have something I need to tell you,” I say, biting the bullet of truth through a shaky voice. “I’ve lied to you both.”
“What are you talking about?” Damien questions, and Gwen tilts her head to the side.