Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
My words trail off and I pop another olive in my mouth. Francesca tilts her head. “And how was she?”
“Same. Maybe worse.”
Her smile fades and becomes gentler. “I’m sorry.”
“Her tongue sharpens when she’s drunk. She gets sentimental when she’s stoned. Luckily, I’ve developed a thick hide over the years, so it pretty much bounces off.”
“You know it’s okay to put boundaries in place, right?” She takes a sip of water. “I mean… I know she’s your mother, but you don’t have to accept abusive behavior.”
I huff a humorless laugh. “Feels like I’ve been putting boundaries in place since I was fifteen. Doesn’t stop her from stepping over them without a care in the world.”
“It’s not your job to carry it all,” she says. “Not if it’s crushing you.”
I don’t answer right away. Her words crashing into me and for a second, I have to look away. Francesca sees too much. A part that is shielded, and it scares me that she’s starting to chip away at that armor.
I think she gets that I’m at the end of my sharing because she offers me a bright smile. “How about I tell you something heavy?”
A protective instinct rises within me, almost a thrill at the prospect of giving her support. It’s an unknown feeling, but I’m intrigued beyond measure because Francesca is like bottled sunshine, eternally optimistic. She seems to have the world in her palm. I can’t imagine she bears anything heavy. “Okay… lay it on me.”
She shifts, leaning back on one hand. “Since we’re trading honesty… sometimes it feels like I’m just one bad weekend away from proving everyone right—that I don’t belong here.”
My mouth drops in surprise. “How can you even think that?”
She shrugs. “Because I’m the first, and I’m setting the standard for women. The pressure is so intense and sometimes I don’t think I’m strong enough to take it.”
I itch to pull her into my arms and wrap her in a hug. I want to tell her I’ll make all those naysayers regret their words and I’ll fix all her problems.
But if there’s one thing I’ve come to learn about this woman, she’s tough as nails. It’s her core personality. “Your talent got you here. You beat out dozens of prospects, every one of them having a leg up on you already merely because they have a dick. You fought for this, and you won. Anyone still doubting you is afraid you’re going to make them look slow. Which, to be fair, you probably already have.”
That earns me a laugh, small but real. Her eyes shine with gratitude and I know she needed an affirmation of blunt facts, not the warm embrace of comfort.
“How about one more time around the track for each of us?” I suggest.
Her eyes light up with excitement. “You’re on.”
In the end, she “beats” me by a tenth of a second. I let her. Watching her gloat is worth more than the scoreboard.
As we walk back toward the car, she bumps my shoulder with hers and leans in to plant a quick kiss on my cheek. Without thinking, I catch her wrist and pull her in for one even deeper. The kiss is unhurried but certain, and I wonder how come I’ve never been lucky enough to have this before.
When we break apart, she’s smiling in a way that makes my chest feel tight. “Going to stay with me tonight?”
“You’re bloody right I am,” I reply, and then kiss her again.
CHAPTER 18
Francesca
Morning sunlight spills through the narrow gap in my bedroom curtains, painting a warm stripe across the tangled sheets. Ronan’s still asleep beside me, sprawled on his stomach, one arm flung over the pillow I abandoned sometime in the night. His hair is mussed, the kind that normally begs for fingers to comb through, but right now he looks soft and vulnerable. My eyes travel over his broad back, which rises and falls with slow, even breaths. I want to touch him, but I refrain, letting him sleep a little longer.
I quietly roll out of bed, careful not to jostle the mattress. I swipe his T-shirt from the floor and drop it over my head as I pad into the kitchen. The tile is cool under my bare feet, the early light from the window washing everything in gold. I scoop fresh grounds into the machine and daydream as the coffee drips.
When the machine clicks off, I pour a generous mug, the dark liquid swirling as I add a splash of milk. Wrapping both hands around the warmth, I lift it close enough for the steam to curl against my face and indulge in a deep inhale of the bitter scent. I love my morning coffee ritual.
My mind keeps drifting back to last night—the steering wheel buzzing in my grip, the floodlit track, the way we traded lap times and insults until I was breathless from laughing. And then the quiet part, sitting cross-legged on a blanket with good food and honest words. We shared things that neither of us gives away easily.