Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Or think they do.
I spent just enough time on the dating apps to realize that the fact that I couldn’t have kids was a deal-breaker for a staggering number of men. Even men whose arrogant, insufferable, self-involved profiles made it clear they would likely never be quality father material.
Not like Nix…
The way he kissed Bea’s forehead last night, the way it so obviously comforted her, was all the proof I needed that he knows how to love his people. A child would be lucky to have a man like him for a father.
But I can’t have biological children, and I’m already forty. Even if Nix and I decided to jump into love, marriage, and baby makes three right away—which would be crazy—the adoption process would take time. I’d likely be closer to forty-four or forty-five by the time it was all said and done, and I’m already so tired on some nights.
Would I have what it takes to parent an infant in my mid-forties? With my thirty-five-year-old husband, who’s likely still on the road with his NHL team, only around a third of the time? And possibly even playing for another team, leaving me in a city where I have zero family or support system?
NHL players get traded all the time. But my life is here. Generations of my family have called NOLA home. I’ve never had any desire to leave. But if I fall hard for a pro sports player, there’s a decent chance I’ll be forced to choose between the man I love and the life I love.
The fact that I’ve let myself get to the point where I’m even thinking these thoughts is certifiable. I have to end this.
ASAP. The morning after the wedding.
Hell, maybe even sooner. Is petty revenge on my ex really worth risking getting embroiled in another dead-end relationship doomed to leave my intuition rolling its eyes and muttering “I told you so” over and over again in the dead of night?
“Hey, sorry I’m late,” a deep voice calls out from behind me. “It was a nasty wreck. Took forever for the ambulance to leave, then everyone had to slow down and stare as they drove by. As usual.”
I turn to see Nix walking quickly toward the gate, tension visible in his expression and dark circles under his eyes. He looks exhausted.
And gorgeous.
And…important. To me.
He’s already important. His happiness already matters way too much, a fact I tuck away to worry about later as I say, “No worries. I know how it is, and it’s nice in the shade.” My brow furrows as I nod over my shoulder. “Want to walk while you tell me what’s up? You look like you could use a walk.”
He nods, exhaling a long breath. “Yeah. Moving would be good.” His lips twitch as he falls in beside me. “I’m glad you picked this place. Nothing like a reminder that we’ll all be worm food soon to keep things in perspective.”
I wince. “Ouch. That bad, huh? Is your sister okay?”
“I think so? She’s napping before we go to dinner later, but I… I honestly don’t know.” He sighs again as we step through the gate, our footsteps quiet on the path.
By habit, I lead the way toward Millionaire’s Row, though I’m not sure either of us will be in the mood for admiring the art at the moment. Baylor is clearly struggling with something serious, and I don’t know if I’m up for a walk down memory lane today.
As a kid wandering these paths with my parents, I never imagined that a love like my mom and dad’s might not be a part of my future. And as we pass the “lucky toad” statue I used to rub on the head on the way to Aunt Marjorie’s grave, I can’t help thinking how shocked twelve-year-old Charlotte would be to learn she was forty and still spending most of her nights alone.
“She seems strong and sure of what she wants, but…” Nix shakes his head. “But I don’t know how much of that is real, and how much is an act to keep me from smashing her ex’s face in.”
My brows shoot up my forehead. “What! What happened?” I lift a hand between us, fingers spread wide. “And I hope I don’t need to say that face-smashing is a bad idea, right? Full stop?”
“I know,” he says, but he’s still so tense, like a predator coiled to pounce. Or a gun with the hammer already pulled back… “But he hit her, Char. Her piece of shit boyfriend. I walked in on her this morning while she was covering up the bruise.”
“Oh, no. I’m so sorry.” I exhale a soft, sympathetic sound, but I’m not really surprised. There was definitely something strained, almost haunted, about Bea’s energy last night.
Fleeing an abusive boyfriend would certainly explain it.