Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 170878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 170878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
I thought of handmade Christmas decorations. Chocolate brownie batter on the edge of her mouth.
I thought of rooms that smelled of her.
Her long, tanned legs. I thought of the hope in her eyes when she walked out of Marty’s office, the weight lifting off her shoulders that I’d been too self-centered to even notice she was carrying.
No. Even though hiring Hannah had caused me a great deal of pain, sleepless nights, and overall discomfort being in my own home, I couldn’t say it was a mistake. I would never say that was a mistake.
It was a gift to have her in my life. To witness the beauty of who she was. Her kindness. Her imagination. Her intelligence. All a gift.
My mistake was going on this fucking date and having to see Hannah’s eyes fill with tears, her delicate features curling in pain.
Because of me. I did that. I hurt her.
Not just today.
But almost every day since I’d met her, I’d hurt her. By trying to make myself not want her and trying to make her hate me—as if that were easier—I’d hurt her. She was soft, loving, gentle, and never fought back. Yet I’d kept hurting her. It was bad enough when I didn’t know her past, it was still inexcusable then. But finding out what she’d been married to, seeing those bruises blooming on her delicate skin, knowing it was not the first time a man had marked her… it made me sick.
I’d been able to live with it up until then, telling myself it was for the best, for the greater good. To ensure that she didn’t have any romantic notions about me. This was my backup plan if my willpower ever failed me, if I ever crossed a line by trying to come on to her. To taste her rosebud lips, palm her heart-shaped ass—
“Beau?”
I blinked. The woman seated across from me had a crease between her brows, head tilted to the side in question. Her long blonde hair was curled, wild, her face accentuated by heavy makeup. She wore a dress that was classy but still showcased a curvy body, great tits.
One of the servers at the restaurant had been trying to set me up with her sister for months. She was determined, and apparently, not scared of me. I’d utilized the number she gave me out of fucking desperation, after the moment with Hannah at the wedding.
Her hand on my thigh, her body in that dress.
“Yeah, I agree.” I cleared my throat, gambling that whatever she’d asked me was a question.
She was nice. My age. Divorced. No children. Interior designer. Polite to waiters. Allergic to gluten. I couldn’t remember her name.
Her smile dimmed. “I was asking what you wanted for dessert.”
Fuck.
I rubbed the back of my neck and took a sip of my water, wishing it were whisky. But I only had one when I knew I’d be driving. No way in fuck would I jeopardize Clara’s future by drinking and driving. No way would I miss Clara’s future. Not for anything.
“Sorry.” I genuinely meant it. It was an asshole thing to do, taking a woman on a date who I was essentially using to hurt the woman I really wanted. Then, on top of that, not having the decency to listen to her on the date I had no intention of repeating.
“It’s okay,” she replied warmly. “Dating is hard, I get it. And I know you’ve had a difficult few years. This is your first time on a date since…?”
“Since I was married.” I sighed.
Not that Naomi’s and my dates were enjoyable after Clara was born. She had to convince me to leave Clara, usually by using tears, dramatics, and ultimatums. I would reluctantly go while my dad watched Clara, only halfway listening to Naomi, pushing her away as she tried to give me a hand job under the table so I could check the baby monitor.
I hadn’t wanted to leave my daughter. And those “dates” had made it unavoidable to realize that I truly disliked my wife. Those “dates” had led me to decide to file for divorce.
“Wow.” The woman—fuck, I wished I could remember her name—sipped her wine.
“Yeah.” I shrugged.
“Are you ready to date?” she asked, peering at me as if she already knew the answer.
“No,” I answered honestly, though without the clarification that I wasn’t ready to date anyone but the five foot five, auburn-haired nanny currently living with me.
“I get it.” She smiled again, this time sadder. Once again, I felt a stab of guilt for being an asshole. “It took me three years after my divorce to properly get out there. And I’m still here.” She waved at her torso. “It’s hard.”
I nodded again, feeling like a piece of shit.
“Well, we can always have dessert at my place?” She chewed on her lip. “No strings. And I’m not saying that and secretly thinking otherwise. Truly, no strings. It can be lonely after a divorce. Not being emotionally ready but physically…” She didn’t finish the sentence, her cheeks coloring. But she didn’t look down, confidently proposing no-strings sex.