Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 154728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
She was a mix of Kane and me, my ice and his fire.
After five minutes of small talk, Finn casually said, “Got a report of an attempted shooting from this property.”
“Is that right?” Kane replied just as casually, holding Mabel upright on the counter.
Finn nodded.
“They happen to mention they were trespassing and takin’ photos of my woman nursing my daughter?” He spoke in a calm tone, but it was impossible to hide his underlying fury.
Finn’s face became stony, no longer the friendly neighborhood sheriff. “They did not,” he murmured, putting down the coffee cup. “You got a permit for that?” He jutted his chin to the shotgun that Kane hadn’t even bothered to hide.
I’d have to have a conversation with him about deadly weapons being left around when there was a baby in our house close to crawling.
“Yes,” Kane lied easily.
If the gun came from Knox, there was absolutely no way he had a permit.
“Pftt.” Finn took another sip of his coffee. “Well, then I’m going to have to inform that photographer,” he snarled, “that he’s lucky I’m not charging him and inform him that I’ll have that same sensibility with any of his friends.”
The message was clear. The town of Jupiter, law enforcement included, was on our side. Everyone had closed ranks around us. This didn’t immediately stop the circus, but it helped assuage it.
Our life continued on.
Twenty-Eight
My fingers were itching.
They had been. For a while.
They itched for knives. For pans. Pots. Minor burns.
A culinary kitchen.
And not rushed meals I threw together, panic racing through my veins even though Kane promised he ‘had’ Mabel. I was unable to slow down in our house. I knew that everything I was experiencing were common traits of motherhood—the sense of constant urgency, that no task could be done properly, only rushed through. It would all pass, my sister and the books promised. But this new way of life felt cemented into my personality.
I tried to grit my teeth through it.
But I was grinding them to dust.
Kane and I were sitting in the living room, the television playing in the background. Kane liked TV now. He was partial to The Real Housewives. Go figure.
Mabel was sleeping happily on his chest.
I was tucked into his side, her gentle breath caressing my face. My favorite thing in the world.
Kane had bought digital photo frames and peppered them around the house, each one loaded with pictures of her we’d snapped. I was watching that, not The Housewives.
“I love her,” I whispered, looking from her to the frame playing a slideshow of Mabel’s short but wonderful life. “I love that I’m her mother,” I continued, wringing my hands in anticipation of this confession. “But I don’t love being a mother.” I avoided Kane’s eyes. “I mean, I don’t love being only a mother. It doesn’t fit me. I feel like I fail her because I can’t be here all the time every day without losing my mind. I need something more. I need a kitchen. I need to create food, and I need to be something else in addition to being her mother. And I feel like there’s something wrong with me for not being content with just taking care of her.”
There it was. I said it all. All of those shameful thoughts that had been simmering during the short months I’d been her mother. The short months that felt like years and seconds all at once.
My gaze blurred as I watched the pictures switch, saw her adorable, chunky face grow more beautiful, more aware, more inquisitive with each passing slide. More shame piled onto me as I watched, overcome with love.
There must’ve been something wrong with me if I couldn’t be utterly fulfilled by being there for that perfect human being.
Kane’s fingers at my chin forced my gaze to him. I readied myself for judgment, disappointment, looks I no doubt deserved. But on his handsome face was only tenderness.
“Need you to stop talkin’ shit about my wife,” he rasped in a low tone.
I scrunched my nose in confusion.
“I’m not your wife.” I voiced the first thing that came to mind since it was pretty important. “I know I’m sleep deprived, but even I would’ve remembered if we’d gotten married.”
He smirked, the expression boyish and roguishly sexy simultaneously. Although I was exhausted, overwhelmed and emotional, I felt that smirk right in the pit of my stomach.
“Yeah, well, we’ve gotta rectify that. Soon.” He stroked my bottom lip with his thumb. “Not a traditional guy, but I’m a possessive one. Want you to have my name. Want you as mine in every single way possible.”
Yeah, I felt that one again. In a big way. Evidently, my vagina was not as exhausted as the rest of me.
I didn’t know what to say to what was essentially a marriage proposal. Except he wasn’t proposing anything.