The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(89)

“I will admit, when I opened the door tonight, it was like seeing a ghost.”

“You did look pretty pale.”

“I’m always pale,” she jokes.

And laughs, smiling, so big and wide it makes my fucking heart…race.

Jump. Leap. Skip.

“Anabelle.”

A grin. “Elliot.”

“I love you.”

Say you love me, too. Say it so my palms stop sweating and my heart stops palpitating, and I can catch my breath. Put me out of my goddamn misery, because I’ve been miserable the past few weeks without you.

Say it, I silently plead.

Please.

Finally, she does.

“I…I think I’ve loved you since you brought me home and I looked up from your bed and saw you standing in the doorway—that had to have been the moment. I was embarrassed, but I also knew you had a beautiful soul, and I looked like such shit.”

“You didn’t look like shit—you looked gorgeous.”

She rolls her big blue eyes. “You’re just saying that now because you love me.”

Maybe, or maybe she was thrown in my damn path so many goddamn times for a reason, which sounds crazy, but…

There it is.

The story of us.

“Do you want to take off your coat?” She interrupts my musing and I glance down at my puffy coat, brows raised. I hadn’t realized I was wearing my jacket because I was engrossed by one thing. Her.

“You’re okay with me staying?”

“I’ve been waiting to hear you say that for months, Elliot. Months.”

“Then I’m staying.”

“Say that again.” Her sweet voice is a whisper.

“I’m staying,” I whisper back, reaching for her. “I love you and we are doing this.”

“We’re really doing this.”





Elliot Nine months later



Once upon a time, I would have thought I was suffering a loss—the loss of my youth and social life and career. I didn’t realize how much I would be gaining—how could I possibly have? I was young and foolish and vulnerable after leaving Iowa, leaving Anabelle. I didn’t leave because I wanted to, but because that was my plan.

Education, career, social life—in that order.

In that order, always sticking to the plan.

But if everything went according to plan, Rex Gunderson wouldn’t be prancing around an engagement party, holding my daughter, and he sure as shit wouldn’t— “I still cannot believe Gunderson is the godfather of my freaking child.”

Next to me on the lawn, Anabelle smacks my arm, a gentle warning. “Would you stop complaining so loud, someone will hear you.” To mollify me, she grabs my hand, lacing our fingers together. “He loves the baby almost as much as we do.”

“I know,” I grumble. “And it’s really fucking annoying.”

I had to draw the line when Anabelle wanted to use Regina as Lilly’s middle name. Rex. Reginald. Regina.

No.

Hell fucking no.

My lip curls at the thought, earning me another nudge.

“Babe, wipe that disgusted look off your face! This is a happy occasion—and look how cute they are!”

Rex the Moron, AKA my baby’s godfather, is holding my daughter, parading her around the party like The Lion King, stopping every time a hot girl croons in their direction. “He’s using Lilly to pick up women. How are you okay with this?”

My girlfriend snorts. “Pfft, it’s harmless, and you have to admit, it’s working. He already has a date for Saturday night.”

She says that like it’s a good thing.

“Would you please go take the baby from him? She’s not a pimp.”

Anabelle gives me a sidelong glance. “Did you just compare our precious daughter to a street pimp?”

“Babies and puppies are the best marketing ploys. He obviously knows this.” I nod absentmindedly, staring off toward Gunderson and Lilly. “Give it a few weeks, he’ll find a way to get ahold of a puppy, too.”

“Probably.” Anabelle shrugs with a laugh. “But he is an amazing babysitter.”

“No comment.”

But the little fucker is. I hate acknowledging it, but it’s true. Gunderson is always there when we need him, especially if I can’t be home to help. Like a slowly thawing iceberg, I’m warming up to him.

Slowly.

Like the berg that dropped the Titanic—really, really fucking slowly.

“Just look how cute she is in her pretty little dress.”

She does look cute, and Lilly is a tiny, pink spitting-image replica of me, which pisses Rex off, so I guess that makes things even between him and I.

“I should go grab her anyway. I bet she’s getting hungry.”

Eye roll from Anabelle. “Lilly is not hungry—I fed her right before we got here.”

“But she’s sucking on his shirt sleeve.” Even I know that’s a stretch.

“Would you relax? She’s teething. Stop dreaming up reasons to take her away from Rex.”

“But…”

Anabelle slides up to me, stepping into my arms, pulling them around her waist. My hands slide over her hips, and I stand ramrod straight, letting her tease me.