Tequila Rose by Willow Winters (any book recommendations .TXT) 📗

to do anything really on a single income in this town. If guilt could kill someone, I’d be struck dead here on my front porch. Instead my fingers just go numb and my throat tight.

“Thanks,” I say and have to clear my throat, holding the bear with both hands. “They have one at daycare and she threw a fit the other day when she couldn’t take the darn thing home.”

“I know … I heard. She’s coming along good with the transition; little social butterfly.”

An unwarranted huff leaves me. “Of course you heard. Is there anything this town doesn’t talk about?” My ears burn at the rhetorical question, knowing that kiss on the pier is going to make its rounds.

“I just asked Trent how she was doing is all,” Robert replies and a certain look flashes in his eyes. Maybe it’s doubt, but possibly regret.

Pushing the hair out of my face, I clear my head and apologize. “Sorry, I just … long day.” The excuse is a pathetic one, but it works to ease the worry from his face.

“You been crying?” he asks and a different look replaces the one that was just there.

“No,” I lie and his head tilts in an instant.

“It’s not a problem. Just … just life.”

“You need me to do anything?” he asks and I struggle to swallow the lump in my throat.

“You don’t need to be my hero,” I answer with something I’ve said a dozen times before. When he slips his hand into his pocket to grab his keys, he replies with what he’s said a dozen times too. “Maybe I want to be your hero.”

I can only smile when he leaves a quick kiss on my cheek. The opposite one to where Brody kissed me. My words and every confession threaten to strangle me.

What am I doing?

“See you soon?” he asks and he sounds hopeful. It’s different from usual.

“Yeah, of course,” I answer him and watch the man I once loved with everything in me leave. A man who’s protected me and helped me when he didn’t have to.

If this were another life, today would have been a fairytale. Brody would be my fairytale prince. But this is real life and mine doesn’t fit with his. Instead, I cry myself to sleep, and promise myself that I’ll tell both of them tomorrow. I have to make the promise over and over again just so I can fall asleep, Brody’s text going unread on my phone.

Three years ago

“I hate teething,” I say and the groan that accompanies my statement comes complete with my eyes closed and a hand over my face as Robert comes in through the front door. Slowly opening them, I speak over Bridget’s wail. “I hate it more than I hate heartburn.”

Seriously, I’d take that awful pregnancy heartburn and a bottle of Tums over my baby girl’s teeth coming in. My right leg constantly bounces with her settled on my thigh and clinging to my arm.

At the sight of Robert, she cries louder, as if I’ve been unable to hear her all night and only he can save her.

The prick at the back of my eyes comes back. “I don’t know what to do,” I admit to him.

“Give her here, maybe I can calm her down,” he offers and I give her up.

“Orajel,” I start to rattle off, “strips of frozen waffles …”

“You’ve got all the teething toys out,” Robert says and all of the primary- and pastel-colored rubbery toys on the seat next to me are evidence of that.

“She doesn’t like them.”

“What about … a cold rag?” he asks and I remember I threw one in the freezer last week. It’s just a little washcloth, dipped in water and frozen. Please, Lord, let that be my lifesaver because I can’t take much more of this.

Hustling to the freezer, I snag it and toss it to him. He catches it with one hand and offers it to a screaming Bridget who arches her back with complete distaste.

My heart plummets but Robert assures me, “Give me five.”

Five minutes. He can have all the five minutes he needs.

“Teething is a bitch,” I say as I rub my eyes and make my way back to the kitchen. With the perfectly good pan of untouched lasagna staring back at me from the stovetop, I realize I haven’t even eaten dinner. How is it already nine at night?

“Ooh, shots fired.”

“What?”

“You must be really worked up,” he tells me, swinging little Bridget to and fro in large circles back and forth, “You’re cussing like a sailor.”

The flame of a blush brightens my cheeks. “Oh, hush,” I say, waving him off although he’s right. I don’t like cussing. Doesn’t mean I don’t do it my head, though; I was just raised not to.

I mutter under my breath as I open the top of the lasagna and touch it only to find it cold, “Teething is a bitch, though.”

It’s at that thought I realize she’s not crying anymore. Holding my breath, I peek over the threshold and watch Robert still swinging Bridgey, but now she’s got both of her hands on the rag, gnawing away.

“Yesssss.” My hiss of happiness makes Robert laugh and I still in my victory crouch, waiting to make sure his laugh didn’t disturb her.

After a solid five seconds, I’m convinced it didn’t and more grateful than Robert will ever know.

Sometimes a mom just needs a break.

“You are my hero,” I whisper, my hands in a prayer position.

“I’m glad you texted me,” he says, slowing down his swings to be more gentle.

As I’m wondering if she’ll let me give her a bottle this time since she refused her last feeding, Robert suggests I go to bed.

“You look like you need some sleep,” he adds.

The last thing I want to