Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 90337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
She nods. “I know, Hunter. I understand exactly how serious this is. The question is—do you?”
Then she’s gone, leaving me with the faint scent of her perfume and the unsettling feeling that she knows something I don’t.
But that’s ridiculous. She’s sixteen years my junior and just heard about this plan tonight. There’s no way she’s thought this through with more attention to detail—and the possible long-term ramifications—than I have.
I’ve covered all my bases.
Now, I just have to see if Elaina’s up for playing the game…
three
ELAINA
The contract sits on my kitchen table like a bomb that could explode at any moment.
I’ve been circling it since I finished in the café an hour ago, picking it up and putting it down again, squinting at the tiny text through my clearly inadequate +1.25 reading glasses until my eyes burn and my head aches. Between the small font and my stubbornly uncooperative eyeballs, I can only make out about every third word, but the words are doozies.
Custody. Visitation. Compensation. Non-disclosure.
And, of course, “Termination,” which feels ominous as hell in any context, but especially in a contract about making a baby with a man who treats emotions like an allergen he’s thankful to be immune to.
“He’s probably a sociopath,” I tell Captain Crunchypants as he army-crawls across my worn floorboards, in hot pursuit of his catnip ball. “Like, for real. What does it say about me that I’m dying to get naked with a sociopath?”
My ancient gray tabby pauses his hunting to shoot me a look that says, “The heart wants what it wants, pumpkin. But so does the pussy, and sociopaths are sexy as hell.”
I nod. “They really are. It’s the charisma, I think.”
“And the confidence. Love a confident man.” The Captain pounces on his catnip ball, holding it trapped between his paws as he rolls over on his back. “I wouldn’t mind seeing Hunter again, either, baby girl. That man has amazing hands. The way he stroked my fur…”
I sigh. “Yeah. He’s really good at the stroking part.”
“So good,” the Captain agrees with a horny sigh, like the aging queen he is. They say there’s no scientific proof that cats can be gay, but the Captain never met another male cat he wouldn’t try to mount, even after he was “fixed.” It was part of the reason I finally broke down and adopted him myself, removing him from the general adoptable cat population below in the café. He’s a menace to his fellow Toms, but a sweet, snuggly precious head with people.
It’s a good reminder that cats—and people—can be more than one thing and are often very different, depending on who they’re with.
Hunter might not be a sociopath with everyone, just with women he’s fucking.
And ones he wants to impregnate and abandon.
“But it isn’t abandonment when you know it’s going to happen in advance,” I argue. “It’s just leaving. Right?”
I glance the Captain’s way, but he’s too busy purring and rubbing his face all over his kitty cannabis ball.
That’s it. I need counsel from someone who isn’t high and has experience being human.
I grab my cell and pull up Grace’s number, hoping she won’t be busy at this time on a Sunday evening. She runs a café, too, up in Quebec City, but she also goes out at night and does fun things. It’s one of the benefits of living in a city instead of the smallest, quietest town on the eastern seaboard.
Thankfully, my only “out of town” friend answers on the second ring.
“Elaina, my love, so good to see your name on my screen,” Grace answers, her faint French-Canadian accent making me smile.
I loved the time I spent studying pastry-making in Quebec City two years ago so much, but I could never live there. Maine is already cold enough for me, thank you, and French is the hardest language. I studied my butt off for months before I left for the course and still struggled to understand most of our teacher’s instructions. Without Grace’s kind offer to translate, I would have been completely lost, and my puff pastries would never have poofed.
“Good to hear your voice,” I say. “Might you have ten or fifteen minutes to circle a problem with me? I’m struggling with a big decision and could really use an objective point of view.”
“Of course,” she says. “I’m free for two hours before I’m due to meet Jerry at the restaurant for dinner.”
I glance at the clock on the wall. “Dinner at eight p.m.? Won’t you be starving by then? I’m meeting friends for dinner at seven and that already feels thirty minutes too late.”
She laughs. “You’re so American. Eight o’clock is the perfect time for dinner, especially in the summer. Who wants to eat their best meal of the day when it’s still light out? Food, and wine, taste better after dark.”