Page 6 of Before I Loved You

How am I going to be a good mother when I barely had enough time with my own?

two

PAUL

“Oh my God! Are you Paul Weston?”

Stopping dead in my tracks, I spin around on the balls of my feet, longing to see those angelic emerald-green eyes I’ve been dreaming about for the past month.

The ones I see every single damn time I have my hand wrapped around my cock with my eyes closed, savoring my delicious memory from the night with the girl of my dreams.

The girl with no name.

Or, as I’ve been referring to her in my head, She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

But as my eyes land on the girl before me with long, straight blonde hair and dull brown eyes that widen in my presence, I let out a disappointed sigh.

No, she is most definitely not the girl from my dreams.

Her red-headed friend beside her grips her shoulder in excitement. You would think this would be something I’d be used to by now, but I’m not.

And it hasn’t seemed to get any easier over time.

If anything, it makes me feel more isolated and alone.

Sometimes, I feel like an animal in a zoo, biding my time in an enclosure behind a glass wall for everyone to gawk at, purely because of the last name on my basketball jersey.

But they don’t know me.

Not the real me.

I plaster on a fake smile, knowing these girls are fans and it’s not their fault I feel like this.

This is a me problem.

“Yes, I am.” I hitch my sports bag over my shoulder, rolling my neck.

“Could I… I mean, can you sign something for me?” the blonde girl asks nervously.

“Of course. What did you want me to sign?”

She opens her purse, digging through it, and then quickly pulls out a Sharpie.

“Can you sign my shirt?” She turns around, moving her blonde hair over her shoulder. It takes me a second to realize she’s wearing my jersey.

Taking the Sharpie from her, I lean down to sign her back.

This girl’s not too short, probably just over five feet tall. But being six foot nine can make most average-sized people appear small compared to me.

Something I’m very used to.

Of course, it didn’t deter She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. If anything, she loved it. Proven when she climbed me like her own personal ladder, wrapping her luscious thighs around my waist as I fu—

“Thank you!” the girl squeals in excitement, taking the Sharpie from my hand.

“Anytime,” I respond, internally shaking my head to rid myself of thoughts of that night.

Not something I’ve easily been able to do.

---