Page 17 of Lillian

Easier said than done.

Noon rolls around, and I’m about to go pick up Grace when I finally cave. My computer screen is open to a new tab, and I spend a second biting my thumbnail, trying not to do it. Then, I type his name into the search engine.

Lincoln Walton

The first several sites are basic profiles on his company page. It looks like he still works at the same place he did four years ago. Still in corporate law. Once I’ve read all of the boring work pages, I open up social media.

His Instagram is basically an extension of his work profile. There aren’t any obligatory party pictures taken out with the boys on a weekend out. Not a single picture with a woman who looks like a significant other or girlfriend, to which a breath shudders out of me. I try not to be so relieved, but I am.

The majority of the pictures are candid shots of him out at charity galas, with guys I assume are colleagues, and a picture of what looks like him receiving an award.

Well, at least his page isn’t him half-naked with women draped all over him. Which is kind of what I was expecting. For someone who looks as heartbreakingly handsome as he does, part of me expected a cockier online persona.

With a sigh, I shut my laptop, grab my keys, and head out to pick up my daughter.

Thirty minutes later, Grace is chattering on and on about her day at school as we pull back up to the house. There was a boy who brought in his new stuffed animal for show and tell, which really excited everyone. Her best friend Lily puked on the counting carpet, and it would excitemeto know it was from an abundance of sugar and not a stomach bug that’ll hit our house next. Kids and their freaking germs.

A big yawn breaks across Grace’s face as I’m pulling her out of her car seat. This nap will be at least two hours when I get her tucked in on the couch with a show on. She rests her little head sweetly against my shoulder as I carry her up toward the steps to the front door. My keys jingle as I look for the one for the front door, but then stop halfway up the steps at the sight of a package sitting on the stoop.

I don’t remember ordering anything online, but it’s addressed to me. Since I only have one free hand at the moment, I nudge it aside with my foot, so I have space to open the door.

“What’s that, Mommy?” Grace asks sleepily.

“Just looks like a delivery, sweets,” I murmur, walking through the door.

Her head perks up. “Presents?”

“I don’t think so. Let’s see,” I tell her as I sit her on the couch and throw herDisneyprincess backpack down by the door.

The keys get discarded on the kitchen table with a loud clunk, and then I grab the big box from the stoop and sit on the couch next to Grace. Her little body leans into me as she tries to peer over the top. My finger slides under the tape, and I rip it up, open the box, and find another, smaller box inside, along with a box of my favorite chocolates.

There’s a note on top of the smaller box. I pull it out and recognize the handwriting immediately. My heart starts to race as I read the messy scrawl:

Lil,

It was great running into you. Until next time.

P.S. You looked beautiful, as always.

Heat crawls up my neck and floods my body. I’m not quite sure if it’s from anger or lust, or some combination of the two, but I’m starting to feel too hot. First of all, how thehelldid he get my address? Secondly, I’m both flattered and annoyed that he remembered my favorite sweets.

With a shake of my head, I pull out the smaller box. Before I go to open it, I notice it isn’t my name on the box, it’s Grace’s. Herfullname. The absolute asshole figured out she’s not biologically mine and therefore, not his either. So this must be his apology basket for basically calling me a selfish mother. A liar. Well, he can shove it.

Still, I open the note attached to this one, too.

“This one’s for you, sweetie,” I mutter to a now very excited toddler. She’s starting to bounce up and down on the couch, and I tell her to sit down and be good if she wants her gift. A pout is thrown my way, but she does as she’s told as I read the note out loud for her.

Grace Wilson,

This one's for you. If you’re anything like your mom, you’ll be obsessed with Disney. Hope you like it.

-LJ

Mylove forDisney? I’m pretty sure he was always way more excited for aDisneymarathon than I was. Don’t get me wrong,he’s guessed right. Grace does loveDisney, and it’s probably only partly because I played it for her any chance I got. But Lincoln was the closet crazy fan. It was one of the things I used to love about him.

How goofy he was. Complete golden retriever energy mixed with a really sexy amount of confidence in himself. Unashamed of what people thought about a thirty-year old man who lovedDisneyand dancing. Who drank wine instead of beer on a weeknight and would tipsily reenact every scene fromShrek. Voices included.

In my reminiscent daze, I opened the small box for Grace and was pulled back to the present by a high-pitched shriek. The little shithead grabs the box out of my hands, hops off the couch, and starts jumping around, waving the box so I can’t see what it is.

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