Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 61149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
And having a baby.
A baby that Val and I are both spitefully hoping is a girl simply to watch my fiancés freak out about it.
“It screamsssssss fairytale,” Posie dreamily gushes over the fluffy nightmare.
“It screams can’t pee,” I playfully poke. “And as a pregnant woman – that will most likely still be pregnant when or if we do this whole pony show – I’m definitely gonna need to pee.”
“But it’s so pretttyyyy,” pouts the female beside me, face flopping into the open palm connected to the arm resting on the countertop.
“Then you wear it.”
“I’m not the one engaged.”
“Yet.” Returning my attention to my laptop where I’m rescheduling my doctor’s visit courtesy of the crummy weather casually occurs. “Pretty sure Paolo wouldn’t have brought you home to meet his parents for the holidays or added you to their vacation planning with Pleasure Tales – who I would kill to do the books for – if it wasn’t already in the plans.”
She girlishly screeches once more. “You think so?!”
I click the calendar button to find a new opening for January. “I would bet a pink slip on it.”
Light snickers are woven into her asking, “You let Kipp pick the movie again, huh?”
“It was either that or listening to him lecture me on proper vehicle preparations for winter storms.” Post clicking, I meet her mirth filled gaze. “I think I chose wisely.”
“Def.”
“And I hope to do the same when picking a dress…if I pick a dress.”
“What do you mean if?” Her brow scrunches together. “That’s twice you’ve said if.”
I click a few more options to officially submit the appointment change. “It’s not exactly something we’ve talked about.”
“You wearin’ a dress?”
“Us having any kind of ceremony where I would need a dress.”
“Pretty sure they’re gonna do whatever you wanna do, sweetie.” My focus cuts back to her. “So, the question is what do you wanna do?”
It’s impossible not to shift in my seat over the investigation into my own wants.
Desires.
Dreams.
Things I never fully envisioned due to never believing they really mattered.
That’s what being hunted does to you.
You develop a mental system in which the only future you concern yourself with consists of the hours directly in front of you.
How many miles you need to go before gas or sleep?
How many hours of sleep can you actually survive without.
Can you wait to pee or eat until you’ve crossed county lines where you can get lost in a crowd instead of being the lone customer remembered when someone comes asking because you know without a doubt that they will come asking.
Being able to have wants…and wanting my men was so foreign.
So unexpected.
So unbelievable that even now…sometimes…I don’t believe it’s real…
That we’re real.
Engaging in anything and everything I desire whether that’s being spanked or double fucked or sticking my tongue in someone’s ass while they’re bent over the hood of a car, they should be working on is equally inconceivable most days.
But dreaming?
Actually dreaming?
Actually dreaming of a wedding and family and future where there’s no reason to ever look over my shoulder again?
That’s still something I – truthfully – struggle to keep in the do column.
Even with Brad dead.
Maybe because I can’t ignore this gut twisting feeling that everything’s not over.
Maybe because that feeling grows exponentially stronger each passing day that we don’t hear a fucking word about his monster of a mother.
God, the woman would give Freddie Krueger night terrors.
“This is a lot of silence.” Posie points her index digit at me and rolls it in a circle. “And it’s making me sad.”
I do my best to brush off the discomfort that’s dropped onto my shoulders with a crooked grin. “It’s my wedding. I can be sad if I want to.”
“I don’t think weddings are supposed to be sad.”
“Technically, they’re a party, and I can be sad or even cry if I want to.” Grabbing the pen off the counter is mindlessly done. “Lesley said so.”
An undeniably clueless expression crosses her face. “Who’s Lesley?”
“Lesley Gore.” One push allows the writing utensil to be put to use. “The singer of that song.”
“What song?”
Not twitching a glare is impossible. “I think you and Kid have some sort of daily bet about making me feel old.”
“You’re not old.” She turns the page in the magazine. “And you’re definitely not too old to be a princess at your own wedding.” Posie tapping her latest discovery receives my stare regardless of the pen scribbling across my inner forearm. “Look. At. This. Tiaraaaa!”
Unsure of what I find more unappealing – the gaudy hair piece or the lacy covered eighty-foot train draped along the stairs the model is posing on – leads me to good-naturedly goading, “Shouldn’t you be working?”
“I am working,” sassily corrects the person I have no doubt I could ask to be in my wedding party if we have one.
Will ask?