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“Yes?” I call across the room.
“Guess who’s got a letter,” Kelly says, a happy quirk in her voice.
I yank my hands out of my pants and leap to my feet so fast I almost trip over myself. I feel like a freaking kid on Christmas morning as I rush over to the door, pushing thoughts of Madden’s captivating eyes and the shivers he sends all over my body to the back of my mind.
Okay, not all the way to the back of my mind, but as far as I can possibly get them so I can focus on his words… not his image, his body, his eyes, his hulking throbbing everything.
As I pull the door open, a deflated feeling hits me when I realize that I might’ve misjudged this whole situation.
A letter doesn’t necessarily mean a letter from him.
Kelly stands with a letter in her hands, her hair slightly damp from the light summer rain falling outside.
She’s got a big wide smile on her face, as though she hasn’t considered the possibility the letter might have nothing to do with Madden.
“How do you know it’s from him?” I ask as I take it.
“Well, not to be the meanest bitch who ever bitched, but it’s not like you receive handwritten letters very often. In fact, I can’t remember the last time either of us got one.”
I laugh at her lighthearted tone, which always lets me know she’s joking and she doesn’t mean anything by her bantering comments.
“Okay, fair point,” I laugh. “Yeah, you’re right. I can’t think of a single time. But it still doesn’t mean it’s him.”
“Well, there’s only one way to find out…”
I wander over to the kitchen divider and reach over for a knife. As I slice the envelope open, I warn myself to be careful. My hands are shaking like crazy, mirroring the hammering that courses all through my body.
As soon as I take the letter out, I dart my eyes to the bottom, to the name.
My legs feel like they’re going to turn to jello when I see Madden Mitchell written there in bold striking handwriting. I’ve never seen his handwriting before, except for his signature on photos of signed copies online.
He writes in solid blocky text, not at all fancy, making me think of him sitting there holding a pen in a tight-clenched fist as he writes the letter, struggling to fight back endless thoughts of me, struggling to push away mountains and mountains of lust.
But of course, that makes no freaking sense.
How could he want me?
He doesn’t even know what I look like.
And if he did, he’d want me even less.
“Well?” Kelly says, standing off to the side as though respecting my privacy. “Are you going to read it?”
“Oh.”
I giggle, shaking my head, as our eyes meet.
A silent message glints in her expression, as though she’s lightly teasing me for drifting off into the clouds.
Again.
I turn my gaze to the letter, fighting to focus past the thundering beat of my heart, the tingling which whispers up between my thighs and strokes at the already-wet place there.
Dear Maddison,
I was very moved by your letter, and I can tell you have some innate writing ability. If this doesn’t seem ridiculously forward, I’d like to invite you for a casual meeting so you can show me some of your work. I don’t normally do this, but your story about your parents had a profound effect on me. And, without knowing why or how, I can tell we’re kindred spirits in more ways than that. I hope you don’t find me presumptuous.
Yours, with warmth,
Madden Mitchell.
PS. Feel free to email [email protected] if you would like to meet. While I do rather enjoy letter writing, it isn’t the fastest mode of communication.
I stare at it for a long time, the paper trembling in my hands, making a rustling sound as I try to fit his words into my head.
Tears sting my eyes as I turn to Kelly, studying the uncertainty in her expression.
For a crazy second, I think she’s playing some twisted trick on me, but Kelly has never been cruel, would never be so cruel. She was the one who used to stand up for me in high school when bullies and mean girls threw vicious comments my way, sometimes about my curvy shape, other times about my parents’ deaths.
I stare and stare at the letter, my womb giving an urgent pulse inside of me.
The thought should be ridiculous, but there’s no other way to describe it, not when I feel the sensation unfurling inside me, shattering and spreading like a crack in glass.
It tells me to believe in his words, to take him up on his offer, and to find a way – to do anything – to get him to put a baby inside of me.
Heck.
What am I thinking?
