Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77827 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77827 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
My eyes scan the bill. Neither of us has been to the doctor, to my knowledge, but this is dated three weeks ago. My heart sinks when I keep reading.
No. No, this can’t be right.
Reaching for my phone, I pull up an internet tab and search the medical facility, and tears prick my eyes.
He didn’t.
Rage. Shock. Pain, unlike anything I’ve ever felt, courses through my veins. Grabbing the bill, I shove it into my purse, reach for my keys, and rush for the door. I realize I don’t have shoes on, so I slip on a pair of winter boots that most definitely do not match my outfit, but I couldn’t give a single fuck about that right now. I’m not putting my feet back into those torture devices, and I need to see him. I need him to tell me to my face what he’s done. The truth is written in black and white, but I need him to say it.
I don’t have a car. I don’t really need one living in New York. I sold mine when I moved. Now, if I want to go home, I rent one. Sometimes I just fly. Todd’s office is three blocks from our place, and mine is three blocks in the opposite direction, so we both walk.
That’s why I’m walking now. Well, stalking is more like it.
I’m sure I look like a pissed-off woman as I storm down the street, shoulders colliding with mine, muttered curses trailing behind me. I barely notice any of it. The walk blurs, swallowed by the heat building in my chest.
The paper in my purse might as well be on fire for the rage it’s causing inside me. By the time I reach his building, I don’t hesitate. I shove through the doors and stab at the elevator button, jabbing it over and over like I can force it to move faster.
My destination is the eighth floor. Todd started on the second. His goal is the top twenty-five. I know that because it’s all he ever fucking talks about when I do see him.
My finger hammers the button again. And again. As if sheer persistence will drag the elevator up to me quicker, make the doors open faster.
Finally, they slide apart.
I step inside and hit the number eight just as the doors close behind me. My foot taps on the floor, and I wring my hands together. The ride is smooth and quick, thankfully, and less than a minute later, I’m stepping off the elevator and stalking down the hall toward Todd’s office. The lights are dim, and on this floor, it seems everyone has gone home. Only Todd, the man who likes to burn the midnight oil, skip dinner, and sneak around behind my back to get procedures, is here.
His office door is open, so I step inside. He looks up, surprise written all over his face.
“Baylor? What are you doing here? I have work to do,” he says as soon as he sees me.
My hands shake as I tear my purse from my shoulder and dig for the piece of paper. A medical bill, left open for the world to see on our kitchen counter. Once I have a grip on the bill, I slap it down on his desk.
“What is that? What’s going on?”
“Explain that.” I point to the crumpled-up medical bill.
“Are you going through my mail now?” he asks, clearly annoyed.
I huff out a humorless laugh. “You left it out on the kitchen counter. I was cleaning up your mess.”
“Why are you here, Baylor?”
Is this man for real? “Seriously, Todd? Three weeks ago, you told me you were at a conference, and this”—I stab my finger at the paper on his desk—“tells me that you were indeed not at a conference. You were getting a fucking vasectomy! Tell me I’m wrong,” I plead. Because we’ve talked about this. About a family, and how important that is for me. He agreed. We were on the same page. At least, we were.
“You went through my mail, you read the statement, why are you here asking me?” He sits back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest.
My mouth falls open in shock. “You lied to me, Todd. You made a decision about our future, one we both had already discussed multiple times, without talking to me.”
“My body, my choice.” He smirks.
I’m trying real damn hard to keep my country roots from showing. “You’re right.” I nod. “It’s your body. Your choice, but we said we wanted kids. We made plans to get married and have a family.”
He shrugs unapologetically. “Changed my mind.”
“And you didn’t think to clue me in?” I ask, my voice shaking from anger.
“Apparently, not.”
He has a bored expression on his face as he watches me. This man before me, he’s not the same man I met five years ago, who swept me off my feet. He’s disconnected, cold, and uncaring. This career has changed him. Hell, maybe it was this city. He’s not a New York native either. Whatever it is, or a combination of that and so much more, it’s clear to me that we are no longer compatible.