Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“I’ll grab you some napkins,” Grady says easily, strolling toward the counter. He leaves her with me, like he’s testing the situation.
The silence that falls is brutal.
“You came to talk?” she asks finally, voice quiet. “Is that what this is?”
I nod robotically, glancing over her shoulder at the guy she’s now seeing. “I had no idea you were seeing someone seriously.” A beat. “I wanted you to know I . . .”
I can’t finish my sentence.
Seriously, what would be the point? She’s got a mountain man of a boyfriend now. What does she want with a single father who doesn’t even live in the same zip code?
Her mouth purses, the kind of expression that cuts deeper than raised voices ever could. “You haven’t called.”
“I know.”
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
“I know,” I repeat, the cups hot against my fingers. “I’m sorry.” I step back, tossing them into a nearby trash bin, unable to stomach the thought of bringing one of them to my lips. “You’re right—I shouldn’t have come.”
It feels like I just threw away the last chance I had.
Her brow pinches beneath the brim of her red hat. “I didn’t say you shouldn’t have come. I’m just . . .” She exhales. “I’m confused, Hayes.”
My fault.
Totally my fault.
Guilt is a luxury I can’t afford. I’m built for snap decisions and clean cuts—first and ten, first down, if something’s not right for Benny, I change the plan. No second-guessing. In my world, hesitation gets you benched or, worse, hurt.
But guilt is what I feel in this moment. Not guilty for wanting Layla. I’m guilty for how I didn’t tell her. For modeling the exact kind of behavior I don’t want Benny to think is love.
“I understand,” I say, swallowing my pride.
Digging the hotel key card from my pocket, I thumb the raised letters and hold it toward her. “I’m at the lodge, room 402. If you want to talk, I’ll be there tonight. If you don’t . . .” My chest tightens. “I’m glad I got to see you.”
She stares down at it. Remains still.
That’s when Grady returns. The bastard brings a brown paper bag that’s obviously baked goods, holding it between us like it’s the most normal thing in the world. He breaks the silence with his irritatingly deep drawl.
Who is This Fucking Guy?
“Blueberry muffin,” he tells us. “They were out of chocolate.”
“Tragedy,” I say sarcastically, stuffing the room key back into my pocket. I back up a step, having worn out my welcome, then another, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my jacket. “All right, well. Take care.”
She barely bobs her head. “You too.”
I cut across the lot and climb inside the rental truck; the world goes quiet except for my breathing and the dull thud in my chest. Steering wheel, meet forehead.
I rest there a second, eyes closed. “You fucking idiot.”
I put my palms over my eyes until tears threaten.
“You are not going to cry,” I say. Sniffling. Sitting up again, wiping my nose. “Here’s the plan. You go to the lodge, you sit in the lobby like a normal person and have a fucking drink. You do not text her—she has a new boyfriend. This is fine, everything is fine.”
Benny and I will be fine.
Things will eventually go back to normal, when it was just me and her and that was all I needed. None of this love bullshit.
Layla doesn’t need you. Or want you.
My eyes burn.
Because I’m weak, I thumb open my phone. Our last text thread sits there, having petered out days and days ago. I stare at it several seconds, pissed at myself for letting the conversation die.
I start the ignition and turn the heat up. Idle the engine.
Open a text to Skylar with the intention of updating Benny, but what the hell do I tell her? I cannot very well say Layla Has a Boyfriend. She’s already replaced me, Dad fucked up! Big shocker!
Still. She’s the one person I can text without making everything worse.
Me:
Hey Skylar—can you let Benny know all is well and that I’m going to bring supplies home for Slime? She’s been begging for a gallon of glue and I’m weak, so I’ll bring some home.
Send.
I toss my phone to the passenger seat and back the truck out, the urge to head straight back to the airport strong.
The wipers thump slow across the windshield. Main Street blurs—strings of early lights, a carved wooden loon pointing tourists toward the lake, a couple in matching raincoats sharing an umbrella, and a sign on the art store that shouts, Fall Wreath WorkShop Here!
Awww.
Barf.
I’m never coming back to this fucking town.
Chapter 36
Layla
My hands will not stop shaking as I watch him go.
The rain makes a curtain of the block, blurring Hayes until he’s a figure in the distance, tall form and wide shoulders and . . . and . . .