Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
My heart literally hurts for him, burning in my chest all the way to his gram’s house and the drive to Minneapolis. It’s still burning when we reach the ER doors just as they’re wheeling Aaron in on a gurney.
He looks rough, banged up, and in a lot of pain, but relief floods his eyes when he sees his grandmother standing just inside the lobby. “G-mom, you came,” he murmurs, love thick in his voice. Then his gaze lands on me and his smile grows even wider. “And you do love me, Mel. I knew you did, you little hot mess. I love you, too.”
And then he’s gone, whisked deeper into the bowels of the hospital while I stand there, torn between feeling terrible for the man and wanting to shoot a spitball into his face.
Gram pats me on the back, “He’s had a head injury, honey. And hot mess is a term of endearment in our family. It means he likes you as much as you like him.”
“I don’t like him, Delores,” I say. “At least not in that way.”
“Right,” Gram says, nodding as she starts toward the check-in desk. “And I hate it when Slasher does that thing with his tongue.”
My head rears back. That was…unexpected from Aaron’s eighty-two-year-old grandmother.
This entire night is unexpected.
My phone chirps in my purse and I pull it out to see a text from my ex, Ben, asking me where I am. He and his boyfriend, Radcliffe, have been waiting outside the pub where they watched the Super Bowl for nearly an hour. That’s when I remember that this is the start of my ex’s twice monthly Monday through Wednesday visitation with our son.
The son I put to bed and left with my brother…
Who I will now have to call and beg to pluck my toddler out of bed, dress him, and tote him over to the beer hall before Ben has more ammunition for his accusations that I’m doing too much and can’t keep up with my schedule anymore.
“Shit,” I mutter.
Maybe Aaron’s right.
Maybe I am kind of a hot mess.
The thought makes me determined to find a spitball, so I’m properly armed the next time my nemesis tells me he loves me.
Because I don’t love him back. Not one little bit.