Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 111732 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111732 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Selena enters the chat to let us know she had a fabulous night with Grayson at a hotel and has invited him to spend tonight with her as well, since her son is spending the weekend with his father. We collectively cheer Selena on, since we know she rarely dates and never jumps straight to sex when she does, and Selena assures us it’s nothing serious but a whole lot of fun.
As I’m saying goodbye to my friends, the shower turns on behind Max’s bathroom door, so I press the button to call my father, slide out of bed, and pad on bare feet toward Max’s kitchen.
“Hey, sweetie pie,” Dad says.
“Hi, Daddy-o. Can I stay for breakfast with Lucy and Frankie?”
“Of course. Take your time. How was the slumber party?” Am I imagining it, or is Dad’s tone a bit snarky? Does he suspect his wild child didn’t actually sleep over at her best friend’s house last night?
“It was fun. Just like old times.” I take a seat at Max’s kitchen table. “What are you and Ripley doing?”
“We’re finishing breakfast now—chocolate chip pancakes, of course—and when we’re done here, we’re going to the park.”
“How fun. Can I say hi to her?”
There’s a shuffle, and then, the sweetest, most glorious squeaky voice fills my ears. I ask my sweet girl about breakfast. And then, we talk about her upcoming outing to the park. I tell her I love her to the moon and back and promise to come home soon, and she quickly gets off the phone, having lost interest. It’s a relief. If Ripley had begged me to come home, I would have ditched breakfast with Max. But now that it’s clear both Dad and Ripley are perfectly happy without me there, I feel even more excited to get to spend a bit more time with my hot golden god.
Dad’s voice returns, and we say our goodbyes. After disconnecting the call, I look around Max’s kitchen for his coffee maker, which is when a couple of framed photos on a nearby shelf catch my eye. Curious, I walk over to them to get a better look and instantly have a heart attack.
No.
My hand shaking, I pick up one of the framed photos. In the shot, there are two smiling, blonde little boys with a man who’s obviously their father. And the father is Alexander.
No.
This can’t be.
But it is.
That’s definitely Alexander. He’s much younger in this shot by at least twenty years. His hair is blonde, instead of silver. But still, that’s him. No wonder Max reminds me so much of Alexander. Because Max has Alexander’s DNA inside him!
I feel sick.
Dizzy.
Like I’m going to pass out.
Oh, God. I fucked Alexander’s son.
Panicking, I search “Max” and “Maximillian” and “patent attorney Seattle” on my phone, along with Alexander’s last name of “Vaughn.” And there it is. Max’s gorgeous face on the website of his high-end law firm, with his name underneath his photo listed as “Maximillian Vaughn.”
My heart crashes and I sprint with my phone into the hallway, praying Max is still in the shower. If so, I’ll grab my clothes and throw them on in record speed, and then sprint away, never to be seen by Max again. Thankfully, Max and I haven’t traded phone numbers or last names yet. So, I should be able to disappear without a trace.
Except that Selena is dating Grayson now, and Max knows Grayson.
Fuck!
I race into Max’s room and freak out when I realize the shower isn’t running anymore behind the closed bathroom door. Which means I’d better get moving.
I look around frantically for my clothes on Max’s bedroom floor before remembering they’re on the floor in the living room. Breathing hard, I race out of the bedroom and start furiously throwing on my clothes in the living room.
“Marnie?” Max says behind me.
Fuck.
I turn around, half dressed, to find Max standing before me with wet hair and a white towel around his trim waist. He takes in my frantic body language. My half-dressed frame. “Are you . . . leaving?”
It takes me a half-second to find my voice. But when I do, I’m able to choke out, “Yes. Sorry. Something came up and I have to go.”
Max looks concerned. “Is everything okay? Is it something serious?”
“No, just time sensitive. For work. There’s been a little snafu with some . . . ingredients. For a client.” I can’t fathom how or why a private chef who’s not presently at a job would suddenly need to deal with ingredients on an otherwise languid Saturday morning, but it’s all my panicked brain could come up with on the spot.
Max’s jaw muscles pulse. “Glad to hear it’s not a matter of life and death.” His Adam’s apple bobs. “Can I give you a ride home?”
“I’ll grab an Uber.”
“Let me drive you, Marnie.”