Page 33 of Ugly Duckling
His brows rose and his chin jerked back like I’d just punched him with an invisible hand on the jaw. “What?”
“That’s also why I settled with Jackson,” I blurted. “I just wanted kids so bad. I wanted a life. I wanted marriage and a companion who would live life with me. But that’s probably for the best. Not having kids. I’m not sure what they would’ve looked like.”
He blinked at me. “What do you mean what they would’ve looked like?”
I didn’t know why I was babbling.
I didn’t know why I was also giving him one of my biggest insecurities.
“My kids will be ugly,” I explained. “That’s why I’ve struggled so hard with the idea of having kids. I’d be signing them up for a lifetime of humiliation like I had. What kind of person would I be signing my kids up for that?”
He growled. “First off, you’ve never been ugly. I thought you were cute in high school. I was more about easy, though, than quality pussy. So that’s why I never went for you. Plus, you were this ice queen. You were better than anyone. You were going places, and boys were jerks. They didn’t like when the girl they were dating had something more important than them to do.”
I shook my head in disbelief.
“You’re on something.” I snorted. “It’s nice that you’re sweet and all, but…”
He held up his hand. “Don’t. Don’t talk badly about yourself. I don’t like it.”
I snapped my mouth shut.
“Now, let’s try some cookies.” He opened the first huge box. “Where do you want to start first?”
Thirty minutes later, I was stuffed.
I’d eaten so much cake and cookies that there was no way I’d have room for anything else today.
“What do you want to do?” he asked as we walked out to his bike.
“Take a long, thorough nap.”
“Boring.” He whistled. “But I wouldn’t mind some couch time. I can show you around later when we go for dinner.”
There was no way that dinner would be happening.
But I’d agree to get a little shut-eye.
The bike ride home was a little better than the one on the way there.
It’d warmed up with the sun’s bright rays.
Oddly cold in the middle of October in Texas, I hadn’t packed even remotely well.
I was lucky I’d had the sweatshirt in my car.
When we pulled up in front of his house, he pulled the bike into the garage and shut it off.
“You can have the other space over there.” He jerked his head toward the third garage bay that was set off slightly to itself. “Your car’s small enough that it’ll fit.”
I was driving my mom’s Audi for the time being, mostly because my ex-husband was a complete douchebag and had taken back the car he’d bought me when we’d gotten married.
I’d let him have it without a fight, though.
What was the point?
That was yet another thing on my list—to buy a car.
“Are you sure you want me here?” I asked carefully. “I come with a lot of baggage. There’s no way that my mom won’t want to come visit. And my dad is nosy as hell. He’ll be here every weekend if you let him.”
