Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
I wipe my eyes. The message says delivered. I pick my phone back up, not ready to stop. Not ready to let it go.
I’m not going to send it, but I can type it. I can say it somewhere. Even if it’s just for me.
Maybe I’ll feel better.
Forgive me, please forgive me, but I think I’m falling in love with your husband.
There. I said it. And now that I have, I have more to say.
I see now why you loved him, Mariah. I was always a good sister to you. I never let myself look at him as anything but a brother. But god, he’s hot. He’s funny. He’s sweet. He’s hardworking as hell. And he makes me feel safe. I like who I am when I’m with him. I like how I feel.
My finger hovers over the X. Just delete it. Just delete it.
But when I try, my phone freezes. The screen locks, and it gets hot in my hand. Overheating again. I forgot this has been happening.
Oh shit. Oh fuck.
Now I can’t delete it.
Panic rises like fire in my chest.
“You stupid motherfucking—”
So I go nuclear. I press the power button and hold it down until the screen goes black. Power off. Power down.
I’m breathing like I just ran a marathon. My hands are shaking. Okay. Okay. Let’s be rational.
First—even if it sent, what are the chances he sees it immediately?
Second—if you shut off the phone, doesn’t that stop the message from going through?
Third—what’s the worst that could happen?
Worst case? He reads it. He realizes I’m crushing on him. And he doesn’t feel the same way.
Fuck. My. Actual. Life.
I power the phone back on. My stomach flips over itself. I open messages.
And scream. Out loud.
“No! Oh my god.”
The message sent. The fucking message sent. Shit, shit, fuck, shit.
I dial Vadka. Fast. I have to get to the house. I have to find her phone. I have to delete the message. I try to delete it on my end, but all it says is:
“This message may not be deleted by all parties.”
Perfect. Fucking useless.
He answers, all calm and casual.
“Hey, what’s up? We haven’t left yet. Are you okay?”
God, of course that’s his first thought.
Are you okay?
Yeah. I’m fine.
No. I’m not.
“Why don’t I just come to your house? You don’t have to pick me up for dinner. We can do something else.”
There.
“Well,” he says slowly. “I already promised Luka I’d take him to the place with the french fries and the animal-shaped milk cups.”
“…There’s a place that has animal-shaped milk cups?”
I want one.
Shit. Focus.
“That’s cool. But we can head back to the house after, if you want. Hang out for a bit, maybe watch a movie. Put him to bed, you know? Let it feel like dinner time, not just some rushed afternoon.”
So I send Zoya a quick SOS message and tell her as much as I can.
Zoya
Oh god. I’m on it. I know he still has her phone and I might be able to locate it because Rafail tracks all of them and she was on our family plan. Stay calm.
Okay, this might work out. I can do this.
I’m staring out my window, nerves coiled tight, when I finally see them. Vadka’s just pulling up, and before I can even get to the door, I see him already out of the car, unbuckling Luka from his seat. And—wait. Is Luka holding flowers?
Oh my god. He is. That little boy is actually holding flowers.
I open the door, and there he is, standing with a proud little grin, a colorful bouquet in his tiny hands, and Vadka just behind him, looking… a little sheepish. Which, honestly, might be the most shocking part. I’ve never seen him with such boyish charm.
“Vadka,” I say, smiling even as my heart does this slow, weightless somersault. “I would've come out to the car. You didn’t have to unbuckle him and all that.”
Vadka shrugs, serious. His brow creases as he ruffles Luka’s hair, that quiet, protective energy radiating off him naturally. My throat tightens. Somehow, seeing the way he is with this little boy makes my own need to be protected, cared for, and cherished heighten.
“I need to teach him how to be a man,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “A real man doesn’t wait curbside for his woman. He goes to the door. Luka—open the door for your auntie. Let her have a seat.”
My heart does a full-on collapse.
“That’s right,” Luka says, nodding solemnly, like he’s practiced the line a dozen times. “And brings her flowers. You look so pretty, Auntie. So, so pretty.”
He hands me the bouquet, beaming, that one dimple of his popping like a secret weapon he absolutely knows how to use. I crouch down, kiss his sweet cheek, and wrap him in a hug that I never want to let go.