Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92140 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92140 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
It seemed like the ghost of old Zach was making an appearance. And speaking of the old Zach . . . he’d been married? I recalled what he said about having a vasectomy—because his ex-wife had wanted him to. I wondered when that was, how long he’d been married—for God’s sake, did he have other children? Was he even for sure divorced? What did I really know about him?
Someone knocked on my office door, and I pulled myself together. “Yes?” I called. “Come in.”
It was Nelson, the manager, with a question about final count for a luncheon we were hosting tomorrow afternoon. I got up to find my phone and check my email, and Nelson noticed the broken glass.
“Shit. Accident? Or did you get mad and throw it?” he teased.
“Accident.” I avoided his eyes. “The count for tomorrow is one-thirty-five.”
“Got it. Want me to bring you a broom?”
“Nah. I know where it is.” I shooed him out. “Go on and finish up so you can get home. It’s been a long day.”
“Thanks. Let me know when you’re ready to leave and I’ll walk you out.”
I nodded, and he shut the door behind him.
Reclining on the couch, I glanced at my three new text messages. One was from Winnie, one was from Frannie, and one was from a number I recognized as Zach’s.
My breath caught in my throat. Should I read it? I decided to defer the decision by dealing with the family messages first.
Winnie wanted to know how everything had gone today. Frannie complimented me on the wedding tonight and invited me to Sunday dinner tomorrow night. I thanked her, replied yes to dinner, and sent Win a note that it had gone fine and I’d call her tomorrow.
Then I stared at the final unread message with trepidation.
I didn’t have to read it. I could just delete it. Then I could delete his number like I was supposed to last night. Forget about him and move on. Did I really need to know more about him or rehash what we’d done? What would be the point?
Nothing could ever come of this. We couldn’t date, for God’s sake. He was Mason’s dad. I had no desire for a secret relationship—I was too old to sneak around. Nor did I want a long-distance relationship. And we were not on the same page in terms of life goals. I wanted a family. He’d had a vasectomy.
We were not meant to be. Every single sign pointed to no.
But . . . I could at least read the message, right? I didn’t have to respond. I could read it and then delete his number.
I opened his text.
Hey. I know I said I’d wait for you to reach out, but I can’t stop thinking about you. I feel like I owe you so many apologies. But as soon as I start typing them, I realize it’s bullshit. Because I’m not sorry. Being with you feels so good, I can’t regret a single thing we’ve done. In my head, I know it’s wrong and can’t go on. But I hope you know that every other part of me wishes it could. I’d still like to talk to you tonight, there are things I’d like to explain, but I understand if you’d rather not.
I read it several times, completely torn. I knew what I should do. And yet, just like Zach couldn’t bring himself to apologize, I couldn’t make myself delete his message or his number. Not yet, anyway. I wanted a few answers first—at the very least, I wanted to know that he was the man I’d thought he was.
Instead of texting, I called him.
“Hello?” His voice made my belly quiver.
“Hi,” I said hesitantly.
“Are you home now?”
“No, I’m still at work. But the guests are all gone.”
“You’re there alone? Is that safe?”
I smiled. Maybe he was the guy I thought he was. “It’s fine.”
“But you’re not going to walk out to the parking lot alone, are you?”
“There are still employees here, and I will walk out with someone,” I assured him.
“Okay. Good.”
“You’re back at the hotel?”
“Yeah. I just packed up. I’m leaving early in the morning.”
“Oh, I thought you were here until Monday.”
“I changed my ticket and got on a six a.m. flight tomorrow. I’ll call Mason and explain that something came up at work.”
“Did it?” I asked hesitantly.
“No. I just feel like I should leave.”
“Because of what happened tonight with me?” I sank deeper into the couch, as if under the weight of additional guilt.
“It’s not your fault,” he said quickly. “I think it’s a combination of intense attraction for you combined with a fear of—of . . . I don’t know.”
“I think you do.”
He exhaled. “You’re right. I do. I’m just ashamed to say it.”
“Listen, I think you and I are past the point where we need to feel shame about anything we say to each other. As long as you don’t tell me you’re married.”