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)
She must be talking about the time in high school when I finally let Jared Catalano kiss me. After senior year, the summer before he left for college. Everyone thought we were already dating, but we were only hanging out, and yet somehow I could never bring myself to make a move. Not until the annual senior bonfire the last day of summer, but by then it was too late. I didn’t see him again until our five-year class reunion.
Faith brings it up whenever she wants to make a point.
Like now.
I laugh into my wine at the memory, bubbles from the jets tickling my skin. “I prefer to err on the side of caution.”
“Mm, caution is for crossing the street. This is texting a hot single dad with great hands.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “Not exactly life or death.”
My face flames hotter than the water. “I realize this, Faith. You don’t have to belabor the point.”
“Oh but I do,” she says cheerfully. “Only ’cause I know you. You like him, and he likes you. So if you wait too long, that’s not being cautious—that’s self-sabotaging.”
I tip my head back against the edge of the tub, staring at the sky. “Okay. Fine. Later tonight. At home. When I can obsess over punctuation without you breathing down my neck.”
I sink deeper into the water, letting the bubbles roar in my ears for a moment before surfacing again. “This feels different, though. Plus, there is a child involved.”
“Sure,” Faith says, softer now. “But don’t turn that into a reason to hold back so long you miss your chance.”
I hate when she’s right.
Chapter 27
Hayes
An entire day has passed since Layla left.
I feel like a complete asshole because
I didn’t check to see how she was doing when she landed.
I didn’t check to see how she was doing when she arrived home.
Fact is—I haven’t checked in with her at all.
Why?
Good fucking question.
Here’s the ugly, ordinary truth: I was gonna.
I even drafted something while Benny brushed her teeth—Had a great week. Text me when you’re home?—but then bedtime morphed into an earache, which turned into my daughter waking me up in tears at 11:40 p.m., which turned into a low fever and me sitting on the bathroom floor with a wet washcloth and a kid who wanted to sleep upright on my chest like she did when she was three.
It wasn’t until around 2:00 a.m. that the fever broke.
By three, she finally passed out in my bed. I slid out like a ninja, tossed a load of her bedsheets and towels in the washer, and set my phone on the dryer while I was loading it.
Then I fell asleep on the couch. Phone stayed in the laundry room.
Morning came and went, and Layla hadn’t messaged me, either—because she’s sane and has a life—and I told myself I’d send the message once I’d showered and shaved and I wouldn’t overthink it.
Then I overthought it.
Then . . .
Something wild happens.
My phone pings, and I grab it, assuming it’s my agent, or my publicist, or one of my teammates giving me shit. Or Benny’s nanny. But it’s not.
It’s her.
Layla:
Hey. Just checking in—how are you and Benny doing now that you have the house back to yourselves?
I grin at the counter like an idiot. She could’ve written anything, and I’d still be smiling.
I lean a hip against the island and type.
Me:
Hey. We’re good—house is quieter but not quiet.
Me:
Actually . . . Not great last night. Benny spiked a fever and we were up for hours. Phone ended up in the laundry room, which is my excuse for being slow.
Me:
I was thinking about you.
Layla:
Poor kid. I’m glad you’re both hanging in there.
Layla:
Full disclosure: Faith was giving me a major amount of shit because I didn’t have the guts to text you. But I had wanted to, because . . . I miss you. Both.
Me:
Tell Faith she wins. And—we miss you too.
I wait for three dots to appear as she thinks of what to say next.
She doesn’t disappoint.
Layla:
Faith says I shouldn’t admit how much I’ve been thinking about you, but since she’s the reason I’m even texting—there it is.
Me:
You have no idea how good that is to hear.
Shit. That sounded really fucking lame.
Layla:
Then maybe you should have texted me first, ha ha. For a second I thought your thumbs were broke.
I wince and run a hand over my jaw. She’s not wrong.
Me:
You’re right. I should have. Truth is, I was planning to but then I felt buried. Benny was sick, and by the time I came up for air I felt like I’d already fucked up by not texting you when I left you at the airport.
I’d given her a quick, friendly kiss because Benny had been up my ass, sad about her leaving, and I didn’t want to make a whole thing out of it in front of her. Fast goodbye.