“Hey, I almost had you.” I grinned at the memory.
“You almost had me,” she agreed, her eyes smiling as she nodded. “Do you remember what you told me that night? You said I wouldn’t want you.”
I laughed under my breath. “I did try to warn you.”
“You were wrong. I’ve always wanted you.”
She hit a soft spot. This was the part I never said out loud. If I hadn’t stumbled into her life, Michelle might’ve had it all. And some small, insecure part of me still wondered if she knew it.
I hesitated, but I needed the truth. “Would you? Knowing what you know now… would you still marry me?”
She sat up with effort, then said, “Of course I would.”
“But you could’ve had everything, Michelle. Money. Power. That hotel.”
“Yes, I could’ve had all that,” she said, almost wistfully. “But then I wouldn’t have you or the kids.”
“Sometimes I hate that you had to choose.”
Michelle lifted her hands to my face and held me there, thumbs warm against my cheeks. We stayed like that for a beat, eyes locked, close enough to feel each other’s breathing. Then she leaned in and kissed me. It was slow and certain, and unguarded in a way that left no doubt. Her mouth fit mine like it always had, like it always would. My hands came up to her face without thinking, cradling her, grounding us both as the kiss deepened. It wasn’t about hunger. It was about knowing… and choosing. The kind of kiss that carried history and promise all at once, like love that had survived and decided to stick around.
She pulled back just an inch, our breaths warm and tangled. “I didn’t lose anything by choosing you, Scott. I gained everything.”
I traced her lower lip with my thumb, already wanting more, when she suddenly went still.
“Oh—” She laughed, breathless. “Did you feel that?”
I pressed my palm to her stomach just in time for a sharp kick. “Whoa. Easy, buddy. That’s your mother.”
He kicked again—hard.
“That one’s going to leave a mark,” I said.
Michelle smiled. “In more ways than one.”
31
MICHELLE: THE SIMPLE LIFE
2000s
Thirteen Years Later
I had exactlyfive minutes of peace and quiet. Five glorious, sun-drenched minutes on the back patio with a cup of coffee and the same magazine I’d been trying to read all week. It felt like a tiny vacation carved out of real life. I knew better than to trust it.
Then came a thump.
And a scream.
Grunting. Struggling. Another scream. A door slamming hard enough to rattle the windowpane. Still not enough to make me get up. I took another sip, fully expecting the retaliation that always came next. It didn’t disappoint. The banging started, and not just any banging. This was the rhythmic, rage-fueled pounding of a twelve-year-old boy scorned.
Thwack.Thwack.Thwack.
“Jake! Open the door!” Kyle yelled, pounding louder. “Mom! Jake won’t let me in the room!”
“Because you threw a suitcase at me,” Jake shouted through the door.
My brows shot up. A suitcase? It had better not be the one I bought on clearance from Ross last month. I inhaled deeply, summoning whatever Zen I had left, and kept reading while the fight raged on.
