Page 87 of Already Callin’ You Mine

But that’s the past. It doesn’t matter anymore. He’s not a part of our lives. We’ve started over here in Hickory Hills.

Except that hurt still lingers. Still makes me worry. Because I’ve invited someone new into my life. Our life. Otis’s life. And Otis thinks Jace walks on water.

Which, he kind of does. He’s cute, and funny, and thoughtful. The two of them laugh and carry on like the best of friends. Jace even pointed out Silver Lake to Otis on the way home from my parents’ on Sunday, telling him that they’d have a “man date” and go fishing there this spring. Otis has been “practicing” with Socks ever since.

Add in that he’s smart, successful, and can kiss like no one I’ve ever met…

And what do I bring to the table? Nothing. Stretch marks, a dirty house, and enough baggage to fill a U-Haul. Not someone that any man should want.

All aboard the hot mess express, y’all…

That is, until he wants off the ride.

No, we’re not going there either. I don’t think he’d hurt us on purpose, but that doesn’t mean it won’t still happen. Because things happen. That’s how it works. Otis is too young to understand that. He’d be devastated.

My phone buzzes against the lunch table, startling me and jolting me back into the moment. Reminding me that I need to stop thinking about Jace. Stop my one-woman pity party. Get to finishing this sandwich so I can try to make a dent in my emails before I leave.

Oh, and fill out Otis’s paperwork.

“It doesn't count toward your body count if you didn't finish,” Margeaux says, so definitively it sounds like she’s reading a statute out of one of her law books.

I look toward her, not sure I heard her correctly. But Sawyer’s on it.

“I don’t think that’s right.”

“Sure it is.” Margeaux shrugs one shoulder. “Why should it count if it was incomplete?”

“Well, when you put it like that.”

I shake my head, still trying to make heads or tails of this conversation, and the nonchalance with which these two are discussing such a topic. Then again, as a lawyer and a PhD, I suppose I shouldn’t be all that surprised.

“Right, Presley?” Margeaux looks to me for confirmation.

Errrr….ummmm….

I pause, my mind whirring like my mama’s salad spinner after a good day at the farmers’ market. Part of me doesn’t disagree—after all, she makes a strong argument. However, following her logic, my count is then…one.

Jace.

No, that can't be right. I was with Cody for eight years. We have a child together. I had to have finished at some point with him. At least once. Right? Right. Except, I can't remember any. Not once. But there is no way I went eight years without an orgasm.

Nope, no way. I know I didn’t. It’s just that none of them are particularly memorable. Not bad—I mean, is there even such a thing as a bad orgasm? So what if I couldn’t feel them all the way into my extremities leaving me as useful as a limp noodle, or still experiencing aftershocks days later simply by thinking about them like Jace delivered on Saturday.

Fuck, I’m a goner…

There I go comparing them again. I need to stop. This isn’t a competition. If it were, Jace would be winning, but that means nothing. Nothing.

My phone buzzes again, derailing the train of thought. Something that is probably for the best. The last thing I need to be thinking about is Jace. Even if he did give me multiple, mind-wiping orgasms. Ones that are only more proof that I need to put space between us.

I’m in too deep as it is. And this time, it’s not only my heart on the line when he decides he’s done playing house. It’s Otis’s as well. And that’s where I draw the line. I need to protect him.

I need to bow out now.

I need to guard my own heart too. But that’s been broken before. I’ve pieced it back together more than once in this life; I can do it again. My little boy doesn’t need to know that pain quite yet. It’s going to hit sooner than I would like as it is. As soon as he starts to ask about his dad, and I have to choose between lying to him or hurting him with the truth.

Panic fills my chest, my lungs tightening at the thought. It’s all too much to handle. Doesn’t matter how badly I want it—want him. I can’t go down that road. Can’t open us up to that hurt.

Can’t spend my days waiting for the other shoe to drop. I’d rather spend my nights fantasizing about the man rather than worrying about when he’s going to change his mind.