Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86808 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86808 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“No,” I say with an emphatic shake of my head. “And in case that wasn’t clear enough for you… no, no, no, no.”
“Why not?” It comes out as a petulant whine which, surprisingly, has worked to Michelle’s benefit a lot over the years.
“Didn’t you hear the part where I said I’ve got no time to go on a vacation with you? Which means I’ve got no time to go on dates.”
Especially not with a man who is completely out of my league. Blind dates are bad enough, but to be on one with someone who would never have asked you out if given a clear choice ahead of time would be soul-rending. I almost shudder thinking about it.
“I call bullshit.” She points a finger at me, her bloodred nail expertly manicured and polished. “You might be under the gun now because of Rebecca leaving but you’ve made no effort to date since your divorce from the Antichrist—”
“I went out with Jeff Timmons,” I interrupt, making a pointed reminder that she isn’t quite accurate. “And that date was so bad, you wonder why I don’t—”
“Just stop.” She holds up her hand, palm out, and I snap my mouth closed. “You’re avoiding going out because George did a number on your head.”
“He traded me in for a sex kitten,” I grumble.
“He’s a narcissistic asshole who did you a favor. You were horribly unhappy in that marriage and him banging his receptionist was the best thing that ever happened to you.”
This is not the first time Michelle has said those words and it won’t be the last. And she’s correct… I was incredibly unhappy in my marriage, but I never would’ve left. I tried with all my might to make it work. Tried to be everything George wanted but it was never good enough. He always tore me down, complaining about the way I cooked, the extra ten pounds I put on over winter, the way I cut my hair. He hated the fact that I worked hard for my career. George wanted someone to cater to his needs, and while I did a damn good job of maintaining our household and being a good wife while working an arduous job, it was never good enough.
Yeah, I’m better off without him. My sister speaks the full truth.
George Foyette did a number on my head, and I don’t have it in me to put my trust in another man. Which means there is no sense in dating. It’s a waste of time and besides… I have my job and family to keep me happy and fulfilled.
CHAPTER 4
Ethan
Despite my size and tough-as-nails attitude, I feel utterly dwarfed inside the old-fashioned courtroom. It isn’t the high ceilings or the large, arched windows, but rather the oppressive magnitude of the situation. The mid-morning light bathes the polished wood-paneled walls upon which hang oil portraits of stern-faced judges. They seem to stare at me in harsh judgment as I tug on the knot of my tie. The dark blue silk with a silver geometric pattern seems too modern and pretentious and I can’t help but wonder if it might count against me.
Not that I even know what I stand for. Through the last four sleepless nights and after listening to advice from my parents and siblings, I’m still at a loss as to what to do with my alleged new daughter.
Just thinking I might be a dad is enough to churn my stomach. Even my family’s presence can’t calm the rage of emotions within me.
“Isn’t this courtroom just grand?” my mother whispers with her Irish brogue as she leans into my shoulder. Fiona and Tommy Blackburn abandoned their three-month-long trip through New Zealand to run back to Kentucky to be at my side today for the court hearing. They not only want to show the support of a loving familial unit but deep down I know my parents are pining for grandchildren and they may now have one ready-made.
The question about the courtroom décor should irritate me, because there is nothing lovely about this entire situation. But I take a moment to look around and attempt to appreciate what she sees. Anything to get my mind off the fact that a little girl who may or may not be mine will be walking through those double doors at the rear of the gallery any moment.
I ignore the judicial paintings and instead admire the craftsmanship of the rich paneled walls rising up to an arched ceiling adorned with crown molding and intricate plasterwork. At the apex of the arch is a hand-carved decorative medallion from which a massive brass chandelier hangs. Its etched glass globes are fitted with Edison bulbs, providing what would be an ambient glow if not for the bright sun slanting in from the windows flanking the judge’s bench.