Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 128307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
She’s been hiding… from me.
After entering the apartment, I toss my keys onto the entryway table, which still holds many FBI files. Although the apartment sits in darkness, I know Macy is home. I can feel it in my bones.
Even though it’s late and she had an early start, I’m drawn to her room like a moth to a flame. I can’t stop my steps, even with my head screaming at me to walk in the other direction.
Before I know it, I’m standing outside her bedroom door, knocking softly. I don’t mean to be a dick, but she is the only person on the planet capable of helping me compartmentalize everything. She will help me make sense of the chaos in my head.
I also need to see her and make sure she is okay. She missed Kendall’s sale because I forced her to take paid leave for a crime I know she didn’t commit. She’d never blame me, but I need to make sure she isn’t blaming herself either.
“Mace?” I knock again, harder this time. Still no answer.
I brace the hinges before opening her door. Macy is asleep, curled on her side with one hand tucked under her cheek and another resting on her swollen stomach. Her hair is spilled across the pillow, a dark halo against white sheets. Even in her peaceful state, a hint of worry is etched between her brows.
“Are you the cause of that, little guy?” I murmur as my hand hovers an inch above the drastic movements of her stomach.
A kick big enough to force Macy’s stomach to brush my fingertips brings a smile to my face. It is the first genuine smile I’ve had since leaving his mother’s presence this morning.
Once the rapid movements of Macy’s stomach settle, I watch her for a few minutes. I’m eager to find out how she’s doing and get her perspective on Crew’s investigation, but I won’t wake her.
I’m an ass, but according to Agent Cartwright, that’s only to everyone not named Macy Machini.
When I brush a strand off Macy’s forehead and my fingers linger, she stirs but remains asleep.
I’m glad. It’s getting harder to ignore how things have never been normal between us. But expecting any truth after being swamped by lies is asking for heartbreak. It will be better for both of us to keep this conversation off the agenda for a little longer.
With my mind made up, I whisper, “Night, freckles,” before I leave her room and softly close her door behind me.
33
MACY
Despite tossing and turning half the night, I wake before sunrise. The apartment is wrapped in a soft gray hush that makes everything feel simultaneously possible but impossible. It eases the guilt I’m carrying, though it doesn’t eliminate it.
I deserve its sluggish reprieve. I hate myself for how I pretended to be asleep last night when Grayson came home. I was grateful he didn’t immediately fall back on the crutch of sleepless sleepovers and groggy morning kisses, and that I didn’t have to remind him that there’s comfort in boundaries, even when they’re fragile.
But the questions swirling in my head are too invasive to speak out loud, and Grayson can read me like a book, so I figured it was best to pretend I was asleep than risk him unearthing the turmoil that kept me awake half the night.
My unborn child didn’t make my deception easy. He wiggled in excitement when Grayson’s voice trickled into my room. You’d swear he already recognizes Grayson’s voice.
Smiling at the thought, I press a hand to my stomach. My smile splits from ear to ear when a faint roll squashes a part of my son’s body against my palm. I think it might be his booty.
Though his kicks are weaker this morning, I’m enjoying them more than I have previously. They don’t seem foreign anymore, and they make me happy instead of sad.
After waiting for his movements to taper to the occasional wiggle, I take a long shower. The scorching water pounds away the tension in my shoulders, and the hot barbs feel so blissful on my skin that even when the water runs cold, it’s an effort for me to switch off the faucet.
I dress in comfortable “work” attire. My work will be done on the couch, but it’s still important to remind myself that I am part of something big. What I do matters, and more people than just my sister are relying on me.
When I reach the kitchen, the first thing my eyes land on is Grayson. He’s sitting at the island, chugging coffee and reading a file. He’s so deep into the paperwork Crew shared yesterday that I’m skeptical he slept at all.
He looks up when he comprehends that he’s being watched, and when he spots me, the lines scoured across his forehead soften.