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Aaand the bud of hope I was nurturing a moment ago shrivels. “Loud and destructive. And here I was thinking you liked me.”
He shakes his head, his eyes search mine. Serious. So serious. The silence lasts for an amount of time that tells me this moment is important, that I should pay attention to what comes next.
“A force to reckon with.”
Gravity ceases to exist and all the hair on my body stands on end as we stare at each other. His gaze pulls away from me, returning to the sledgehammer he’s holding. “The type of woman a man holds onto with both hands and never lets go.”
This is it. This is the moment when everything changes. The moment when that restless feeling in the farthest reaches of my soul quiets. The moment I fall off Cloud Nine and land on a rainbow made of cotton candy. The moment I fall irrevocably in love with the man standing before me.
We’re at family Shaw’s house for a barbecue. Last night, after the revelation landed on my head as gently as a piano, I pleaded a headache and hid in my room. Around midnight as I was staring at the ceiling in total darkness, I heard him enter, get into my bed and wrap himself around me. It took everything I had not to cry like a little bitch. Somebody revoke my badass card.
I didn’t speak a single word on the car ride over. Every time I glanced over at Ethan, I found a soft smile on his face. Why he was smiling is anybody’s guess. I’m chalking it up to him being blissfully ignorant to the shit floating around in my head––and more importantly, my heart.
“Would you look at the gorgeous man holding that baby,” Camilla says wearing a stupid grin. I lift my sunglasses and squint at the men standing under the shade of the patio awning. They’re far enough away from the pool chairs we’re occupying that we can have a conversation without masculine ears eavesdropping––by design of course.
Ethan gently bounces on his feet with the baby safely tucked in the cradle of his arms.
“Yeah, he loves babies, miniature horses, and glitter,” I mutter sourly and drop my wayfarers back down.
I’m pissed. Actually, I’m beyond pissed. Love was not part of the plan. As a matter of fact, it was the opposite of the plan. And yet here I am, staring at the gorgeous man with the baby in his arms––with my heart tripping over itself every time our eyes meet. I’m ready to poke them out of my head just to get some relief.
“You need to have one soon so our kids can grow up together.”
If this doesn’t deserve an eye roll, I don’t know what does. “I’ll get right on that for you. Speaking of kids, when do you think yours is going to grow out of this ugly stage?”
Her loud bark of laughter gets everyone’s attention. Cal and Ethan glance our way. Finding us uninteresting, their attention returns to the baby.
“Reginald,” she shouts. “Ethan has the baby. Are you going to check the hamburgers, or do I have to do it?”
Calvin’s black brows lower in a squinty scowl that could be seen across a football field. “I’m handling it,” he informs his wife.
With a fake grin, she mutters to me under her breath, “He’s driving me caaraazy. The worst mother hen.” After which she shouts, “Thanks, Boobear.” Then she pokes my arm. “Look at Ethan. The man’s a frigging fertility treatment. He would seriously cause a stampede if the women of Manhattan could see this.” Then she snickers.
Yes, hilarious. I can’t even muster a smile.
“Calvin’s dying to take the baby back,” she adds.
Calvin’s eyes dart between the grill he should be manning and his son, eyeballing the situation as if he expects Ethan to drop the kid any minute.
Denying it is pointless. In hindsight, it’s clear I’ve been stumbling towards love since I sat outside that courtroom with everything at stake, and him by my side telling me I could count on him. How could I have let this happen? Every time I think about moving to L.A. I get a chill up my spine and a cramp in the gut. Cassandra’s words keep haunting me.
“Hand me the potato chips,” I say, the need to drown my sorrows in food is strong.
“No. I’m still mad at you for ditching me at that shitty draft party,” says my so-called best friend. Her stare down has Sicilian vendetta written all over it. She tucks her bare feet up, her normal size feet that is, on the oversized lounge chair and raises a well groomed brow.
“I’ve already apologized a million times. I had jizz in my hair. There was no good choice.”
Camilla grabs a handful of potato chips and makes a big show of popping one after another in her mouth. “Being a hoochie is no excuse.”
