Page 2 of Forsaking All Others

“Bullshit,” she says. “I invited you over last Sunday, but you were‘too busy’,” she continues, walking the tray over to the table. She sets it down and fiddles with the silverware, eyeing me from across the room. “What was it this time? A blonde or a brunette?”

I cross my arms against my chest and lean against the counter.

“You got jokes, yeah?”

“Ah, so it was a ginger,” she continues to taunt, fighting back a grin.

“Woman,” I warn, shaking my head. My gaze slides to the diamond ring on her finger and my jaw goes tight.

Last Sunday, when I dropped the kids off, Hollydidinvite me to stay for dinner and Ididdecline—that much is true. I told her I had to run, that I was busy—that’s the lie. Sure, I had shit to do, my motorcycle club was on the verge of expanding a gun deal we had with a club up north, but I turned down the invite because I didn’t feel up to sitting across the table from her and the man who took my place.

Six years ago, the knife of regret cut real deep when Holly remarried and it fucking severed an artery four years later when she gave birth to his son.

At first, I hated Colt Armstrong. Hell, I had my club tail him for a good six months after they started dating. The plan was to make him disappear, to fucking bury him so deep in the ground that it would take two lifetimes for them to find his bones.

But then I saw how happy he made her.

How could I hate the man who brought back Holly’s smile?

They say a man’s greatest mistake is giving another man an opportunity to love his woman and it’s fucking true. I gave up my woman and a damn good man came and claimed her for himself. He didn’t ignore her. He didn’t make her cry. He didn’t reach for something else because he knew he already had the best in his arms. He appreciated everything I took for granted.

So, yeah, I didn’t hate Colt, but I sure as fuck hated myself.

Over the years, I’ve learned how to hide it, though. We celebrate holidays and birthdays together and we don’t skip a beat when it comes to our kids. Holly may not be mine anymore, but she gave me two beautiful kids and they deserve the best we got to give and if that’s this co-parenting gig, then I’m all in. I’ll shake Colt’s hand and make small talk with him. I’ll ignore the pang of jealousy I feel every time he reaches for Holly and I’ll turn my head when he goes to kiss her.

There ain’t a thing I won’t do for my kids.

I lost their mom, but I’ll never lose them.

That’s why I didn’t turn down thisweek’s invitation. It ain’t about Holly taking pity on me and offering me a home-cooked meal, this is about our baby girl breaking the news that she’s got herself a boyfriend and us putting aside our shit to size up the little fucker and make sure he’s worthy.

Newsflash—he’snot.

Men don’t become worthy of perfection until they stop thinking with their dicks and that usually don’t happen until they reach the age of forty. Take it from me, I’m forty-one and I’m just starting to think with the head attached to my fucking neck.

“Mav!”

At the sound of my name, I pull myself away from my thoughts and stare at Holly. She shakes her head, silently telling me it wasn’t her who called my name and points to my leg. My brows pinch together as something tugs at my Wranglers. I lower my gaze, spotting the diaper clad toddler staring up at me with a big ol’ grin on his pudgy face.

“Hey, buddy,” I say, crouching down to pull a Nerf dart from his blond hair—a physical trait he inherited from his dad. “Rough day, huh?” He looks at the dart, his grin widening as he pretends his fingers are a gun.

“Pew, pew, mother fudger!”

Fighting a smirk, I raise an eyebrow and shoot Holly a look, knowing very well our son had a hand in his little brother’s vocabulary.

Simultaneously we both shout for Shepard.

“You rang?” Shepard croons as he saunters into the kitchen carrying a Nerf gun.

At ten, our boy is almost as tall as his mama. Holly crosses her arms against her chest and fixes him with a look.

“You want to explain why Theo is running around with a dart stuck in his hair, using words like mother fudger?”

Shep shrugs his shoulders.

“You told me to play with him and I decided to kill two birds with one stone,” he says, bringing his eyes to me. “I was practicing my aim.”

“Things you don’t want to hear your ten-year-old son say unless he’s in the bathroom,” Holly mutters. Sighing, she looks from him to me. “You take the tween, I’ll take the toddler?”

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