Page 18 of Lovetown, USA
Same script, different day.
Desiree was so different before we had Cameron. She’s always been gorgeous and magnetic. All eyes went to her as soon as she walked in a room. Even church. She was impossible to ignore. And she had a glow about her, a happiness that makes a man feel like it’s his God-given duty to keep a smile on her face.
But time marches on, and so did the slow erosion of our relationship. We got married anyway, though, because that’s what you’re supposed to do when you get a girl pregnant. You do the right thing. My father said so.Herfather said so.
And so it was.
We were too damn young, and everybody knew it. But we went down that aisle, and shit went downhill.
The smell hits me just then. Kind of poetic, I suppose.
Browned butter smoke and burnt sugar.
“Fuck,” I mutter, slamming the oven door open. A wave of hot air blasts my face as I take in the sight of my chocolate chipcookies. They’ve passed golden, gooey perfection. Now, they’re charred and tough.
Left them in the oven too long. Just like I stayed in my marriage too long. Now we’re all cooked.
I pull the tray out and drop it on the stovetop with a clang, irritated with myself. Baking is supposed to be my outlet. I do it when I’m stressed. Or bored. Or trying to distract myself from things.
I pull out my phone again and call Cameron. It rings four times, then the robotic voice of the generic voicemail person sounds in my ear.
“Hey, man. It’s me. Just checking in with you. Call me when you can, alright? Love you.”
I hang up and stare at the screen for a beat, thumb hovering.
Then I walk back into my home office, leaving those burnt cookies behind.
My house is small and cozy. And quiet, just the way I like it. It’s clean, but not sterile. Hardwood floors, warm walls, built-in shelves fill of novels, medical journals, and random cookbooks I tell myself I’ll use more often.
I sit at my desk and wake my laptop.
The tab’s still open.
Lane Washington.
I know her as my patient who I watched lose her shoe on the dance floor. My Cinderella. But I see here she’s also a journalist. A pretty damn good one, too.
I found her staff profile atVerve. She hasn’t published anything since she showed up here in Lovetown, but her archives are full of heat.
Her most viral piece was titled, “The Ten Types of Men You Should Ghost Without Regret.”
I clicked it because clickbait is irresistible, but what I read was witty, insightful, and funny as hell.
I lean back in my chair and read a second article, then a third. That one was about Valentine’s Day.
She’s cynical, for sure, but there’s an undercurrent of something else in all of her pieces. Something I can’t quite put my finger on. But now I’m intrigued, especially after she gave me the green light the other day.
No gag reflex.
I smile at the memory, and my blood pressure spikes again, but this time, not out of anger. Mentally, I’m back in exam room 6 with a sexy woman who pulls my attention toward her like a magnet.
She doesn’t seem like the marrying kind, nevermind the fact that she’s only here for an assignment. But she looks fun.
And after everything I’ve been through, I deserve to have a little fun.
6
Lane
