Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
And yet, one question remains… why Atlas?
I know what the easy answer is. He’s successful and makes more money in one season than I’ll probably earn in a lifetime. But money isn’t everything. I may be a social worker who clips coupons and shops sales, but I can be a damn good mom on a budget. Grayce doesn’t need luxury. She needs love, stability and someone who won’t run when things get hard.
I flip through the stack again, my vision blurring. Grief burns behind my eyes, but underneath it, the sharper blade of anger. At Gray, for leaving me with this impossible mess. At Atlas, for looking like the letter was a death sentence aimed at him instead of a lifeline for Grayce. At myself, for not being enough in Gray’s eyes.
I swipe the tears away and force myself to think practically. I’ll need a death certificate before I can file insurance claims. I’ll have to write an obituary and that thought makes me want to crumple into a heap.
A sharp rap at the front door startles me. Grayce squeals happily in her playpen, as if she knows who it is. My heart beats faster, equal parts dread and… a feeling I can’t quite pinpoint.
I push up off the floor, stroking Grayce’s head as I pass by. “Be back in a hot second, Graycie.”
She coos at me, blowing a spit bubble.
I take a deep breath in the foyer, forcing myself to be nice and push the anger back. I absolutely forbid myself to show him my grief. I don’t trust him with that vulnerability.
I swing the door open and there stands Atlas Karolak. Short, dark hair that’s parted on the side, oddly sharp and neat. Hazel eyes that I notice shift between green and gold depending on the light. He’s tall, easily six three, and built like the professional athlete he is—broad shoulders, powerful chest, thighs that test the seams of his jeans.
It irritates me how good-looking he is. Gorgeous, really. The kind of man who turns heads when he walks into a room, and he struts like he knows it. Well, he doesn’t strut so much as hold himself with utter confidence, but I hate that even in my grief, even in my anger, I notice how magnetic he is.
“I’m back,” he says, voice low and rough. If a man as hot as this can ever look like shit, it’s after their best friend dies. His skin is pale, his eyes dull with grief.
“Hey,” I echo, stepping back to let him in, even though a part of me wishes I could slam the door and shut him out of this whole thing.
“Where’s Grayce?” he asks.
“Back here.” I turn and head toward Gray’s office, knowing Atlas will follow.
The minute we step inside, Grayce perks up from her playpen, giggling like she’s just seen her favorite toy. She plants both hands on the mesh wall, knees wobbling as she pushes to her feet.
Atlas stops dead. “Wait… she can do that? Stand up on her own?”
There’s genuine surprise in his voice, and a flicker of pride warms me in spite of everything. “Yeah. She’s been pulling herself up for about a week. Won’t be long before she tries to take her first steps.”
He walks over slowly and squats until he’s eye level with her. She beams and grabs at his finger when he offers it. Grayce laughs, bouncing on unsteady legs.
“Strong like her dad,” Atlas murmurs, his expression softening in a way that hurts me to look at. “You know, your dad once tried to carry me piggyback through the neighborhood when we were ten. Didn’t make it a block before we both wiped out in the street. Skinned knees, road rash, the works. He still swore he was strong enough. Guess you got that from him.”
Grayce chatters back at Atlas, like she understands every word of his story, and my chest squeezes. God, what she’s lost.
What we’ve lost.
I clear my throat, needing to break the spell. “Have you made a decision?”
Atlas glances over his shoulder at me. The softness vanishes as he rises. “No.”
“Well, when will you?” My voice comes out sharper than I intended, but I don’t regret it.
“Soon,” he says. “I need to do something first. Plane leaves in four hours.”
He’s leaving? “Where are you going?”
“I need to talk to a friend for some perspective,” he says, noncommittal. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
I sink into the chair, dragging a stack of papers onto my lap. “Fine. Do what you need to do. I’ve got plenty here to keep me busy.”
“Do you need any help?”
“No.” My tone is clipped. “Gray was very organized. I can handle it.”
He hovers anyway, awkward and too large for the space. Irritation prickles under my skin. “You want to be useful?” I mutter without looking at him. “Help me with the obituary.”