Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 81333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
To say yes . . .
I grab my keys and head to my car. The key in the ignition, I head out of my subdivision and onto the highway. Nowhere to go, no one to see, I just need space and fresh air before I do something really stupid.
Like the universe is playing some kind of game, everywhere I look, I see happy couples. Couples with children. Families skipping down the sidewalk. They’re everywhere, like it’s some kind of family day out.
As I stop at a light, I notice a little girl. She’s holding her father’s hand. Hair as blonde as the sun is pulled into two little pigtails with pink ribbons on each side. She looks up and smiles like she knows me, like she’s trying to tell me something. It’s eerie as hell.
The light changes to green and I hit the accelerator hard, my heart strumming wildly in my chest.
Part of my predicament is clear: I can’t half-ass it with Layla. It’s all or nothing, one way or the other. It needs to be nothing because that makes sense. It’s logical. It’s safe. But as I turn the corner, my tires screeching against asphalt in a totally not-safe fashion, I realize my mistake.
Sometimes that play that wins the game isn’t the safe one. It’s not the pass over the middle that will definitely get you ten yards. It’s the Hail Mary at the end that you toss up with nothing but a prayer.
CHAPTER 32
LAYLA
Exposé Sexy Dad Alert: Best a Baby Daddy?
We caught up with embattled Branch Best last night at the Hopetown Mall. The charismatic (and sexy as hell) wide receiver had a little something to say about recent headlines surrounding him.
Turns out Branch is going to be a father with Finn Miller’s sister, Layla James. According to Branch, Callum’s statement was nothing more than an attempt to make Layla look bad in a bout of jealousy. Branch insists this is a non-issue.
When asked if this means he’s off the market, our favorite hottie said, and we quote, “I’m going to be the best father I can be in every way.”
We don’t know what that means, exactly, but we can’t wait for our ovaries to explode with pictures of him with a baby.
Toying with the necklace around my neck, I peer into the refrigerator. There’s nothing in there that looks good. Of course, the box of food delivered earlier today from Branch’s delivery service is in there, but I moved it to the back and created a wall with milk, juice, bacon, and a very creatively positioned tub of Greek yogurt so I don’t have to see it.
Sure, it would’ve been easier to throw it away. But I can’t do that either. I like having it in there. I’ll probably even eat it later. But every time I see it right now it makes me sad.
I’ve been sad for two days now, ever since he left. He’s called a few times and I’ve sent them to voicemail because there’s nothing to say. Anything he does say will make me cry and I’m not going to cry. I’m going to find Layla James, the one pre-Branch, pre-baby, pre- . . . love. I’m going to stop with this weak girl nonsense.
The necklace twirls in my fingers as I look at the Exposé article again. He looks so calm in the photo, wearing a light blue shirt that makes his eyes look unreal. Still, there’s something missing in them. The light, the sparkle, the mischief is gone, and it kills me.
I miss him. I miss him and his jokes, touches, and caring glances so much it physically hurts. It’s only not having him around that makes me realize how much having him around means to me. How wonderful it makes me feel. How awful it is right now.
Grabbing my purse off the sofa, I head to the front door. I have to eat and I need fresh air, so I take out my phone to call Poppy to meet me for lunch. I pull open the door and almost run into someone.
“Oh!” I say, taking a step back. “I’m sorry.”
She’s tall, with long, red hair that’s pulled back into a chic chignon. Her dress is black and long with two gold necklaces hanging fashionably between her breasts. “No worries. Probably my fault. I’m standing on your doorstep, right?” she laughs.
“Um, sure. Can I help you?”
“Forgive me,” she gushes, moving a clipboard to her left hand. “I’m Daisy Markus. Are you Layla Miller?”
“I am.”
“Oh, good,” she says. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you since yesterday. Do you mind if I come in? I really need to talk to you.”
With a puzzled laugh, I block the door. “I apologize, but I have no idea who you are or why you’d be trying to get ahold of me.”