Page 53 of Married to the Frenemy

“I’ll have my lawyers get right on it.” I beam.

“Good.”

Turning, she makes her way toward the stairs. Just as she’s about to disappear, I call out.

“Hey, Haley?”

“Yes?” Her eyes meet mine.

I open and close my mouth several times, unsure what I even want to tell her. Why I called her name.

Actually, I know why. I just don’t know if I can finally say the words after so long.

“I’m sorry,” I finally tell her.

“It’s not your fault. I?—”

“I’m not talking about your douche of an ex,” I interject. “I’m talking about us.”

She swallows hard. “Us?” Her voice trembles.

“Yeah.” I run my fingers through my hair. “I’m sorry for anything I may have done that made you feel…unwanted.”

She pushes out a long breath. When she returns her eyes to mine, she almost looks lighter.

“Me, too.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

HALEY

I lean my head against the cool porcelain of the claw-foot tub in Beckham’s bathroom as I relish in the warmth of the water enveloping me. The aroma of lavender wafts through the air, making me feel more relaxed than I have in a while.

I can’t remember the last time I’ve slowed down enough to just soak in a tub. Since Maggie was born, I’ve had no choice but to dedicate every waking minute to working and finding a way to provide for her.

But Beckham’s right.

How can I expect to take care of Maggie if I don’t take care of myself first?

And after today’s unexpected encounter with Oliver, this is exactly what I need.

Noticing my fingertips beginning to prune, I reluctantly get out of the bath and wrap myself in a plush towel from the warmer Beckham installed after he saw me throw a towel in the dryer before jumping in the shower one day.

It’s just one of the many things he’s done for me over the past few weeks.

That’s the thing about Beckham. He doesn’t do these things for the fanfare or in expectation of anything. He does them because he wants to. I’m not used to that.

After toweling off, I slip into a halter dress and cardigan, pausing to apply a fresh coat of eyeliner and lip gloss before making my way back downstairs. I tell myself the only reason I put on a dress is because of the gorgeous weather.

Not because I love the way Beckham looks at me whenever I wear one.

When I emerge into the kitchen, my heart melts at the scene that greets me. Beckham and Maggie stand by the counter, Maggie on her step stool as she helps Beckham prepare a marinade.

“That’s it. Just a little more brown sugar,” he encourages.

Despite his towering height, he bends down to Maggie’s level, gently guiding her small hands as she scoops a spoonful into the mixing bowl.

“Like this?” Maggie asks.

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