“Don’t get so used to it,” I muttered. “Want me to go with you?”
“Maybe just, I don’t know . . .” She shrugged. “Hang out in the car? Just in case he freaks out and we need a getaway vehicle.” If the man touched a hair on her head, I was going to have a hell of a time staying out of prison.
“Man the vehicle.” I nodded. “Got it.”
I had no idea what her dad was going to do, though I was pretty positive that there would be yelling and hurt feelings—but I couldn’t go and ruin the man’s life, even if he was trying to ruin mine, without giving him a shot at redemption.
Right? It was only fair that Austin give him a chance. One I never gave my own parents.
“Hey.” Austin wrapped her arms around my body. “I don’t like that look. Want a Mountain Dew?”
“Seriously? Is that how I’m going to feel better?”
She nodded emphatically. “Or a MoonPie, I have a stash of those too.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Pickles!” she shouted directly in front of my face, then whispered, “Oops. I mean, pickles, I heard they’re good and um—”
“Is this your way of asking me to go get you pickles and MoonPies, because you know we don’t have any of those in the house, right?”
She grinned. “Good doctors take care of their patients.”
“You realize I’m not that kind of doctor, right? I don’t fluff pillows and give you junk food. Furthermore, you should know that, since you spent the last three weeks shadowing me. Just what was in all those notes you were taking for those blog posts?”
“Really accurate pictures of your ass.” She winked. “And oftentimes, I’d doodle ‘Austin loves Thatch’ and then write little hearts around our names. When things didn’t go my way, I finally just danced around your apartment naked when you weren’t home and cast a love spell on you.”
I fought an eye-roll. “Not weird at all.”
“I’m so glad you agree.” She started kissing my neck, making it impossible to think straight, and then my shirt was over my head, my pants were hanging from the door, and I was getting completely seduced and assaulted by a pregnant lady with a one-track mind and a really wicked grip.
“Austin.” I jerked against her.
“I’ll take care of that.” She bent down.
“No, you’re pregnant and—”
Just kidding.
All conscious thought left my system at the feel of her mouth, my body, her heat, her tongue.
I gripped the sink with one hand while she continued torturing me, and when I didn’t think I could take it anymore, I pulled her to her feet and pressed her body against the door, taking her mouth over and over again until she whimpered beneath me.
“My turn,” I whispered hoarsely across her neck as I shoved her shorts to the floor and found her center.
Hips bucking, she smacked my hand and let out a soft laugh. “You’re killing me.”
“All’s fair.” My answer before opening the bathroom door and carrying her to the bed, sinking into her the minute her back kissed the mattress and staring down at the gorgeous girl I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.
The thought hit me like a semitruck.
It had nothing to do with the baby.
And everything to do with her.
I’d wanted her from the beginning.
And impossible as it might sound, I wanted her more now.
Her soft moans as I made love to her were the only thing keeping me sane, keeping me from jumping off the cliff, falling to my knees, and proposing.
It wasn’t the right time.
That seemed to be the new motto of my life.
But in this moment, it wasn’t because I was afraid of what my words would do.
Until Austin, I never realized how much beauty could be found in the mess.
We had survived this mess.
The least I could do was give her a perfect proposal.
Chapter Forty
AUSTIN
I didn’t want to dance around anything, so when I walked up to my house—the house that I was going to be moving out of as soon as this all blew over—I felt empty.
Kind of like, the home I’d grown up in hadn’t really been a home, just a place to put my things. I’d always felt empty in this large house; I just never realized how empty until now. I expected some sort of sadness, another emotion, something. Instead, it was like I was walking up to a stranger’s house.
Thatch’s apartment felt more like a home, and for the first time since finding out about my dad and his mom, I was justifiably sad.
Sad that my dad had done this to our family.
Sad that he felt the only way to cover his ass was to blame someone he should be protecting—my mother.
And just sad all around that although I was bringing a life into the world, as far as I was concerned, if he didn’t apologize, he wasn’t going to share a part in it.
By the time my hand reached the doorknob, I almost itched to knock. I knew he was home, because I’d texted him earlier and told him I wanted to talk.
Mom was gone—I was meeting with her later. All she’d done was cry on the phone and apologize—like it was her fault.
We’d talked for two hours, during which she confessed that she’d suspected my dad was having an affair for a while. And whenever she would finally work up the nerve to confront him, my dad seemed to have a sixth sense that something was wrong and would come home and bring her flowers or take her out to dinner and make everything better. She had convinced herself that he was just going through a phase.
Poor Mom. She cried harder when she said she’d even followed him one day to his meetings.
Ah, the apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree.
I finally realized, in that moment, that my mom kept her fa?ade up not because she actually liked living the life where everything was a perfect illusion, but because she wanted to protect me.
Just like Thatch.
But sometimes, love isn’t enough. Her love for my dad wasn’t enough to keep him from cheating.
And maybe the sick part was that my dad loved us in his own way, just not enough to put our needs above his own. I refused to love that way, with only a part of my heart. Maybe that’s why I refused to let Thatch go—he’d stolen my heart and never given it back. So I fought him for it, and I’d like to think we both won.
I turned the knob and shivered as I took a step inside my house and saw my dad sitting at the breakfast bar, sipping coffee and reading the newspaper.
How many mornings had I woken up to this?
And how many mornings had I woken up to a note saying he was already out?
Not enough mornings where he was sitting at the table.
And too many mornings to count—where he was absent.
“Dad,” I croaked.
He turned. His eyes were sad, and then a steely resolve replaced whatever else had been present. “You knew better.”
“Wow.” I held up my hands. “I love you too?”
“I told you that boy was trouble. Now look at him, sleeping with both my wife and my daughter.”
It was a lie.
I knew that.
And so did he.