Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
She’s your daughter’s best friend.
Walk away before things get messy.
I repeat those two lines over and over in my head. I just got Bellamy back in my life. I can’t mess that up. Her best friend smells like the sweetest honey and has green eyes so bright a man could get lost in them.
Amanda Holton is as gorgeous as she is off-limits.
I can’t let myself forget that.
Pulling into the parking lot of the restaurant, I park the SUV, remove my seat belt, and grab the keys before climbing out. I’ve already got Mia’s car seat in my arms by the time Amanda’s retrieved the diaper bag.
“I can take her,” she offers.
“No way. I only get a little bit of time with her before you two will be riding off to your place, and I go back home alone.” I wink. “Take the break, Momma.” Then I make another stupid move.
I place my hand on the small of her back and lead her inside like they’re both mine. The waitress seats us, and Amanda excuses herself to the restroom, asking me to order her a Dr. Pepper. I make quick work of freeing Mia from her car seat. She laughs as I hold her hands and help her stand on the table. She’s so tiny, we’re still at eye level as I make funny faces at her.
“Here you go. I’ll give you a few more minutes, give your wife time to look at the menu. You have a beautiful family,” the waitress says, smiling at Mia before she disappears.
My family.
Amanda and Mia.
I smile at the little girl who’s oblivious to the war raging inside me. I should have corrected her, but I kept my mouth shut instead.
Maybe I’ll pretend that, just for tonight, the two of them are mine. Then, tomorrow, I’ll stop this madness.
They’re not mine.
I can’t have them.
Ten
Amanda
* * *
I hate going to restaurants to eat by myself. It makes me feel uncomfortable. Even if it’s just Mia with me, her presence eases my anxiety, but tonight, I don’t have my daughter. My best friend and her husband stole her from me.
Okay, they didn’t steal her, but they insisted that Mia and Coral have a sleepover. So, here I am, a Saturday night, and I’m about to take myself to dinner.
And I’m nervous about it.
I considered pulling up the dating app I downloaded a few weeks ago, which I haven’t touched since. It was a good idea at the time—at least, that’s what I told myself—but the trust just isn’t there. I hope that one day I’ll feel ready. Until then, I need to get used to doing things on my own. I can’t be the odd woman out when my friends and their husbands all get together.
That’s my life now. Honestly, that’s been my life since long before my divorce. When we’d been married, I’d made so many excuses.
He made me look like a fool.
Taking a deep breath, I pull open the restaurant door and wait for the hostess to greet the couple in front of me. They’re holding hands and smiling, and I’m green with envy. It’s been a long damn time since a man has looked at me like that. Looking back, things had been different between Ethan and me for a long time; I was just too naïve to see it. I wanted our marriage to work, but it takes two and all that.
My heart is racing so hard I’m half convinced people walking past me can hear it. The hostess and the couple in front of me surely can. My palms are damp, and I subtly wipe them against my dress for the tenth time. I don’t even know why I’m this nervous. I’m just having dinner. Alone. Other people do it all the time. It’s not illegal. It’s not tragic. It’s not a public declaration that I’ve failed at life.
So why does it feel like I’m about to step onto a stage with a spotlight aimed directly at me?
This is stupid. I could easily turn around, grab Chinese takeout, go home, kick off my heels, and binge some trashy reality show. That sounds safe. Comfortable. Free of judgment. No awkward glances from couples across candlelit tables. Yeah, that’s the better plan.
I pivot on my heel, fully committed to retreating to the safety of my couch and my comfy pajamas, when I slam straight into something solid.
Not something. Someone.
Hard.
Warm.
Immovable.
“Oh, my goodness, I’m so sorry,” I blurt, heat flooding my cheeks instantly.
Perfect. Absolutely perfect. I can’t even make a graceful exit. I have to physically assault someone on my way out.
I keep my eyes down for half a second, mortified, fully aware of the strong hands around my arms, steadying me. The touch is firm but careful, grounding me before I can stumble back in my embarrassment.