Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
There’s one more thing in the box. A bottle of Glen Scotia 15. Nice, Mark. That’s a real treat. So I find a glass and pour myself two fingers of scotch. No, three fingers. I barely ate dinner, but who cares.
I take my phone into the bedroom. Time for a little photo shoot. And an hour or so from now, I can call my man and tell him how much I miss him.
51
THE ECLAIRS ARE REALLY GOOD HERE
MARK
Here’s something nobody ever tells you about childrearing—kids turn into psychos in December. There should be a whole parenting book just about surviving a month of sugar cookies, Santa cravings, and Christmas break.
There could be an entire chapter just for advice on how to get the song “Jingle Bells” out of a guy’s head.
My kitchen is trashed. Bits of cookie dough are everywhere. But at least the last cookies are out of the oven, so I can leave Rosie and Alba at the kitchen table with their sticky tubes of icing and their sprinkles.
“No sprinkles on the floor, girls,” I beg.
“Sorry, Daddy,” Rosie says. “The cast makes me clumsy.”
“Does it hurt?” I ask for the millionth time this week.
“Nope,” she says. “But Blackbeard just stepped on my pinky toe.”
“Ah.” My tone is dry. “Another trip to the ER then?”
“No, Daddy. His feet are soft.”
Alba giggles.
“Good to know. I’ll be in the living room if anybody needs me.” But I sure hope they don’t. It’s been a rough week. Bridget hasn’t said she blames me for Rosie’s broken arm.
But I know she totally blames me. Heck, I blame myself.
I head into the living room, where Valencia has just poured us each a glass of red wine. Zoe dashed out to pick up sushi for dinner from the Japanese restaurant around the corner. “Better your kitchen than mine,” Valencia says.
“Gee, thanks.” I take the wine and we both line up our feet on my coffee table.
“Your tree looks great, though. At least you have that.”
“It’s nice, right?” I gaze at the colored lights and wish that Asher were here to see it in person. It’s almost eight o’clock, and he’s probably asleep already. An hour ago, I had to tell him that I was elbows deep in cookie dough and unable to sneak away for our usual phone call. And I feel terrible about it too. His birthday is tomorrow. I was supposed to be on a plane tonight.
“Stay with us, Mark,” Valencia says softly. “Don’t go towards the light.”
I turn back to her quickly. “Sorry.”
“I bet I can guess who you’re thinking about right now.”
“Doesn’t make you a genius.”
She laughs and touches her wine glass to mine. “Does he still feel guilty about Rosie?”
“Yup. Even though I told him it was actually your fault for taking the girls to see Cirque du Soleil.”
“That was a year ago!” she says, scandalized.
“No kidding, but he doesn’t know that.”
“Aw, Mark.” She clutches her chest. “You’re such a softy.”
“Never call a man a softy. That’s mean.”
She chokes on her sip of wine and then howls with laughter.
My phone buzzes with a text in my pocket. I ignore it. Asher is asleep, and there’s nobody else I want to hear from right now. Bridget actually decided to capitalize on my canceled trip by getting tickets to a Broadway show for tonight, since we switched weekends with Rosie.
I’m not even surprised.
“Mommy?” calls Alba from the kitchen. “Can Rosie sleep over?”
Valencia gives me a sideways glance. “You know, her arm does seem fine,” she whispers.
“It’s still broken, though,” I whisper back. “You don’t need to deal with that.”
“Not this time!” Valencia calls to the girls.
My phone vibrates again. And again. And then two more times.
Hmm.
With a lazy sigh, I pull it out of my pocket. The texts are from Asher? It’s two in the morning in Paris. What’s that about? I open the first one and gasp.
The first message is a picture of Asher wearing nothing but the unbuttoned white polo and the briefs I sent him. Plus, an unfocused smile.
The second is a picture of him without the polo. And the smile is downright blurry.
And then the texts start.
MARK HONEY THE ECLAIRS ARE REALLY GOOD HERE IN PARIS. THERE IS ONE BAKERY THAT PUTS GOLD LEAF ON TOP. I WANTED TO TAKE YOU THERE TOMORROW.
I DON’T KNOW WHY EATING GOLD IS COOL. IT JUST IS.
I’M SAD AND A LITTLE DRUNK BECAUSE PARIS IS AMAZING BUT YOU AREN’T HERE AND I DON’T LIKE IT AS MUCH AS I THINK I SHOULD.
THIS JOB ISN’T EVERYTHING AND I MISS YOU ALL THE TIME AND I LOVE YOUUUUUUUUUU.
“Holy shit,” I whisper.
“What’s the matter?”
“My superhot wingman is drunk texting me.” And I love every single word. Especially that last part.
Valencia gasps. “Did he say anything mean? Isn’t that a thing with you guys?”
“He told me he loves me.” I don’t want to look away from the screen. I can’t actually. I just stare at those three words. And I feel them too. Everywhere.