Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
The comments beneath the photo aren’t mean, exactly. Not this time.
Invasive, sure.
Like everyone suddenly thinks they have a stake in my body and appearance. What I wear. How I don’t look like a WAG. I’m not “hot” enough. Whether or not my expression means I’m “glowing” or “miserable” or “hiding something.”
Tossing my phone onto the bed, I sink back with a sigh, one hand drifting to my stomach. Still no bump yet. Nothing anyone else would notice but me, possibly Maverick. But I feel it. The constant bloat. The tight waistbands I’ve given up on in favor of leggings at only four or so weeks. My favorite jeans are somewhere in Washington, but even if they were here, they wouldn’t stand a chance. Wouldn’t dare fit. I’ve been living in Callum’s T-shirts like they’re part of my DNA now, but I’m not complaining, they are so comfy.
“Ahh.”
I breathe in the quiet, enjoying it. Any second now Maverick will come busting through the door from his meeting and I’ll—
Three weeks.
I’ve been here almost three weeks.
Swimming in the rooftop pool. Taking walks around town in the evening after the sun has gone down, many times stopping for ice cream.
Long enough to memorize the way the elevator dings on the penthouse floor. Long enough to know what time the sun filters in through the bedroom curtains. Long enough to want to stay.
But all my stuff is still in Washington. My life is there—messy, incomplete, but it has been mine for all these years, and it’s probably time to get back and, well. Clean it up.
Get organized. Figure my shit out. Stop living out of this suitcase, even though Mav cleaned out a good portion of his giant closet for my meager belongings.
I don’t not want to be here. I’m just . . . trying to be realistic. My landlord has complained about my mail piling up. I have brides who want consultations and a wedding in six months to continue planning—not to mention next Fall Fest. If I’m no longer in Star Lake to plan it, wouldn’t now be the time to tell the rest of the volunteers? Ugh!
My mom’s called twice today alone. Everyone’s waiting for me to say I’m on my way home, anxious for more information but happy I am happy.
I should be on my way to Star Lake.
I should be.
But then there’s Maverick. Who makes me laugh at midnight and brings me decaf lattes and rubs my lower back without being asked. Who looks at me like this baby is the best thing that’s ever happened to him—like I’m the best thing.
And that’s the problem, isn’t it?
Because if I stay . . . I’m choosing a life I never planned for. If I go, I’m walking away from the only thing that’s felt right in a long time.
I rub my temple, heart suddenly too full for my chest. I don’t know what the right move is yet—but I do know I need to pack. Or at least pretend to. Maybe it’ll help me figure out what I’m really willing to leave behind.
One suitcase on the bed, a half-folded tennis skirt beside it, and zero actual progress. Mostly, I’ve been standing here, staring out the massive penthouse windows like they’ll show me the answers I don’t have yet.
Behind me, the penthouse door clicks open.
I don’t turn around.
“Annabelle?” His voice drifts into the room, low and warm, the kind of voice that can melt through even the most conflicted spirals.
“In here,” I call, still not moving.
A few seconds later, I feel him behind me. I sense more than hear him take in the suitcase, the open drawers. He doesn’t say anything at first, just wraps his arms around my waist from behind and rests his chin on my shoulder.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting organized.”
There’s a pause. “Washington?”
I nod again, unable to turn and look at him.
He’s quiet for a beat, then asks, “So you’re going home?”
“No,” I admit. “But I figured I should at least start preparing like I might.”
This wasn’t supposed to be forever, just a chance to see if we fit.
Maverick exhales against my shoulder, the warm puff of breath sending goose bumps skittering down my neck. Another pause. Then, casually, like he’s changing the subject, he says, “What if we just didn’t think about this tonight?”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
“I’m planning something.”
“Planning what?” I literally hate surprises so much.
He gives me a look, one that says “stop asking questions and let me romance you, woman.” “I need you to do something for me.”
My eyes narrow in suspicion. “Depends on what it is.”
He laughs at my stubbornness. “Put on something cute.”
“Why?”
His grin widens. “Because I’m taking you out. You’ve been in my T-shirts and holed up while I’m at the trainer and the gym—sexy as hell, by the way—but I need to see you in something that gives me a boner.”