Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 129084 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129084 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Wide awake is an understatement.
What do I do?
“Hold him until he falls asleep again.” Cassandra’s advice comes to mind.
Since he’s already pulled himself to his feet, I ask, “Are you going to go to bed or—”
His arms shoot into the air again.
It’s my sign. I reach in and pick him up, pulling him against my chest. Our faces are close enough for me to see his eyes even better and for him to see mine. His tiny fingers rub over the scruff on my chin, and he grins. “Hey there,” I say again, just to make him feel at home in my arms.
It’s odd how at home I feel already holding him.
I move to the cushy chair and settle in. Rocking him in my arms comes to mind from movies and such that I’ve seen, but I think he’s past that. Before I can arrange him, he lays his head on my chest under my chin. One hand holds me, and the other wanders as if it moves of its own accord.
Grinning, I take it and hold it in my hand. His eyes close without needing prompting. His breathing steadies, and he’s fast asleep. With one hand, I pull my phone from my pocket and text Liv:
Don’t worry about us. Maxwell and I are doing fine.
14
Olivia
My heart stops beating . . .
And then it rolls across my chest like thunder.
I should feel panicked seeing Noah holding my baby. But I don’t. My heart feels too big for my chest to contain, every beat magnified like someone’s hooked an amp to it. I worry it’s too loud for the quiet of a nursery, and I’ll wake them up. I close the door so they can sleep a bit longer without the interruption of my blooming emotions getting in the way.
But I can’t resist and peek inside again.
There, in the chair where I’ve rocked my baby to sleep through the past year, sleeps a giant of a man, and cradled in the nook of his arm is Maxwell. Both slumber like reflections of each other.
Maxwell’s ninety-five percentile ranking in size, well, it’s not from my side of his family. In appearance, from hair to eye color, Maxwell is his father’s son.
I have such conflicting feelings, a hurricane of them swirling around my head. Is it okay to love the sight of them together? To hope that Maxwell could have the love of a supportive dad?
Our past has dictated every move we’ve made and each word exchanged since he walked into that conference room. Getting to know him has been a struggle of my own doing. I knew . . . deep down, I already knew he was a good man. Not just from how he made love to me with care, but by putting my needs before his, and holding me in the aftermath like we could survive the next morning.
Leaving my number for him wasn’t as hard as I thought, considering I was fresh off a breakup. It also wasn’t done in a moment of weakness. I didn’t expect to connect with anyone. It’s not what I was looking for, but spending time with him changed something in my chemistry. He wasn’t just a physical attraction; we were fireworks together in bed. It was more. He had me believing we were more than a one-night stand. I followed my heart and believed him.
After that, I blamed the alcohol for blurring my rationale. My relationship aside because that’s another story altogether, I’ve come around to the idea that Noah not calling me isn’t something I can hold against him. He has a right to play a role in Maxwell’s life. Seeing them together now cements that in my heart.
It’s only right he knows sooner rather than later.
I close the door as a wave of emotions barrel over me. Leaning against the wall, I drop my head in my hands just as the tears start to fall. The unknown is terrifying. I’ve imagined a million different scenarios, but I won’t truly know how he’ll react until I tell him.
The grief over losing time with my son to share him with someone else, the joy I’d carried in my heart when I realized how much this would mean to Maxwell to have a father who’s there for him, and the mixture of being out at sea on a life raft that was never meant to weather the storm—yet I’m surviving—have me floating between the three in uncertainty.
Warm hands caress my shoulders, and Noah’s arms envelop me. “It’s okay, Liv.” Tears transfer from my face to his chest as I breathe in the cologne lingering on his skin. He holds me to him. I don’t fight it like I’ve been carelessly fighting him since he’s been in the city. With the image of him holding Maxwell still in my head, I soak him in. “Why are you crying?” he whispers against the top of my head and then places a kiss there.