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“Sounds like a plan. I’ll text you during the week?”
“Sure.”
He begins to walk away but stops, leaning into my ear. “I honestly forgot how beautiful you are, Presley.”
My body reacts instantly. I melt at his words, missing the familiarity.
I close my eyes for a brief moment as he walks away, his lingering scent invading my senses.
I miss him, and now all I can think about is Friday night.
My dinner date with my ex-fiancé. The once love of my life. Jason Hart.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I toss and turn all night, thinking about Jason and questioning whether or not I made the right decision. Well, truth be told, if I hadn’t parted ways with him then, I wouldn’t have had my son. But now, after seeing Jason turn up at my doorstep, I wonder if it’s too late for us. Being in the company of Jason Hart was easy, carefree, and relaxing. He’s not the type of person to create unnecessary drama, unlike some other jerk I know.
Haden, as predicted, hasn’t texted or called me after storming off in a huff. This game of his is getting old and his short temper only causes more friction between us. Yet, when we get along, I really enjoy being around him. Is there such a thing as male PMS? I swear, Haden Cooper could be the frontrunner for a nationwide campaign for it.
My mind refuses to shut down and just when I begin to fall asleep, Masen wakes up, demanding to be fed. Half asleep, I nestle him into a feeding position and try to keep my eyes open. For some unknown reason, he refuses to latch on, squirming uncomfortably and crying. Following the normal routine, I check his diaper, attempt to burp him, then try again to feed him. He still refuses to latch on, and an hour later, I am out of my mind.
“What do you want, Masen?” I cry, rocking him back and forth.
Nothing appears to work and I’ve already deemed myself a horrible mother. I grab my cell and dial the Jerk’s number, not expecting him to pick up after our argument earlier tonight. After several rings, he answers. The background is loud, and no surprise, he’s probably at a club getting wasted.
“Malone, are you okay?” he yells over the noise.
“No, I’m not. Masen won’t settle and I don’t know what to do.” I hold back my tears and, of course, Masen continues to wail over me.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
That twenty minutes feels like forever, and the second my door buzzes, I scramble to answer it. Haden enters immediately, throwing his helmet, keys, and cell onto the sofa and grabbing Masen from me. He’s dressed in a pair of black dress pants and a dark grey shirt rolled up at the sleeves; it’s different from his normally casual attire of jeans and a tee on the weekends. He looks good . . . real good. But hey, what do I know? I’m sleep deprived and sex deprived, and neither one of those problems would be solved anytime soon.
He moves towards my bedroom and I follow behind him. It only takes a couple of minutes of Haden rubbing his back in a circular motion for Masen to finally settle. When ten minutes passes without a single sound, my emotions and tired state get the better of me and I begin to cry.
“I can’t do this . . . alone.”
“You’re not alone. It’s just one bad night,” he reassures me.
He moves to sit down on the bed, keeping Masen comfortable and quiet while I continue to stand there like a sobbing mess. I’m a wreck, dressed in my old baseball tee and boxers with my hair a wild mess. Heavy bags have formed under my eyes and my skin appears dry and pale.
“This is hard. Look at me . . . I haven’t slept. My hair hasn’t had a proper shampoo in forever.
I’ve been wearing the same shirt for like the past two weeks because I can’t get to the Laundromat. I have no clue what I’m doing!”
“Presley . . . just calm down. It’s not that bad. Why don’t I get my mom here to come help you for a few hours? She’s dying to spend time with Masen.”
“Not that bad?” I raise my voice slightly. “I’m a mess . . . and . . . I feel like the worst mother in the world. I bet Eloise won’t look like that when you guys have babies. She’ll probably just push that baby out and—”
“Presley . . .”
I continue to ramble on, ignoring him. “And I bet she has that type of hair that is silky and smooth all the time like those shampoo commercials where the chick just flicks her hair and she looks like she just stepped out of the salon.”
“Malone,” he raises his tone.
“What?” I say, exasperated from my rant.
He doesn’t say anything further but nods his head, motioning for me to look at my chest. I look down and through my shirt that my milk has leaked and left two patches. Just fucking great . . . and here come the waterworks.
