Read Online Bachelor (Rixton Falls #2) by Winter Renshaw - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Winter Renshaw
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white-washed kitchen in some boring little suburban neighborhood two hours away. I bet she has the grandest kitchen on her block, and the ironic thing is, Kyla doesn’t cook. Can’t even boil water.
“And your point?” She fires back with a jagged tone that cuts worse than a dull butter knife.
“I guess . . . I guess I don’t have one?” I stifle a laugh in my tone. God, how I love fucking with Kyla. Some days, it’s the best thing about having her as an ex-wife. “I guess . . . I guess I just wanted to remind you that you’re married to a guy with wrinkly, old man balls.”
I hear her slam the phone down on the counter from her end. And then it’s silent. But she’s still there. I can hear her rustling around in the background.
“Are we done?” she scolds a moment later. “Please have a little more respect for your daughter’s stepfather.”
“You mean Grandpa Stepdad?” I yank the phone away so she doesn’t hear me laugh. When I come back, she’s chewing me out. “In my defense, Haven came up with that one.”
“Right. I highly doubt Haven came up with that all on her own.”
“Okay, it may have been a joint effort.”
“Grow the fuck up, Derek. Seriously. Grow. Up.”
Most of the time, I’m the epitome of grown up. But sometimes, life can be so fucking brutal that the only way I can cope with it is by having a sense of humor. Who marries the love of their life, has a gorgeous baby girl with them, creates this beautiful fucking life together, and then comes home early the Friday before Valentine’s day to find the sixty-year-old plastic surgeon who did her breast implants nailing her from behind as she’s bent over the back of the sofa?
Fucking hilarious. I can’t make this shit up.
At that point, she’d had her tits done for a year. I remembered because the day she stopped breastfeeding Haven, she’d claimed they were ruined and demanded I pay to get them fixed. For all I knew, their budding attraction started the day he felt up her pancake tits in exam room number four.
Five grand for new DDs. Tens of thousands lost in the divorce settlement. And a third of my monthly income going straight to her pocketbook in the form of child support while she plays hot housewife for Dr. Herbert Hodge IV.
And thanks to the wonderful family court judge we had the pleasure of dealing with—who’s apparently stuck in 1992—Haven gets to see me every other weekend, alternate holidays, and two weeks every summer. No amount of lawyering or dragging out the case would get that old broad to budge.
By the end of the trial, we were all exhausted, and in the end, it was Haven who suffered. My sweet, innocent daughter caught in a tug-of-war between two people who never should’ve been together in the first place.
I’ll never forget the first year of our marriage and the look of disappointment on Kyla’s face when she realized the small-town lawyer she’d married was not going to be raking home a cool half-a-mil a year after all.
Guess she should’ve done her research.
And I’ll also never forget the way it felt to watch Kyla struggle with motherhood, to come home at six o’clock at night and find a half-empty bottle of wine on the counter and the baby sitting in a piss-soaked diaper.
I suppose you could say both our dreams were shattered those first couple of years.
“Are you done?” she asks. “I can hear you laughing.”
“All right, all right. What the hell do you need, Kyla?”
“Herb is taking me on a surprise ski trip, and we’re leaving Thursday and coming back Sunday. You’re going to have to pick up Haven tomorrow.”
“It’s not my weekend. Does that mean I get her two weekends in a row?” I pray she says yes. Weekends with my daughter are what I live for.
“Obviously.”
“Herb skis? What if he breaks a hip?”
“Derek.”
“Okay, I can pick her up, but doesn’t she have preschool Friday?”
“She can miss.”
“Love the priorities, Kyla. Awesome. Mother
“And your point?” She fires back with a jagged tone that cuts worse than a dull butter knife.
“I guess . . . I guess I don’t have one?” I stifle a laugh in my tone. God, how I love fucking with Kyla. Some days, it’s the best thing about having her as an ex-wife. “I guess . . . I guess I just wanted to remind you that you’re married to a guy with wrinkly, old man balls.”
I hear her slam the phone down on the counter from her end. And then it’s silent. But she’s still there. I can hear her rustling around in the background.
“Are we done?” she scolds a moment later. “Please have a little more respect for your daughter’s stepfather.”
“You mean Grandpa Stepdad?” I yank the phone away so she doesn’t hear me laugh. When I come back, she’s chewing me out. “In my defense, Haven came up with that one.”
“Right. I highly doubt Haven came up with that all on her own.”
“Okay, it may have been a joint effort.”
“Grow the fuck up, Derek. Seriously. Grow. Up.”
Most of the time, I’m the epitome of grown up. But sometimes, life can be so fucking brutal that the only way I can cope with it is by having a sense of humor. Who marries the love of their life, has a gorgeous baby girl with them, creates this beautiful fucking life together, and then comes home early the Friday before Valentine’s day to find the sixty-year-old plastic surgeon who did her breast implants nailing her from behind as she’s bent over the back of the sofa?
Fucking hilarious. I can’t make this shit up.
At that point, she’d had her tits done for a year. I remembered because the day she stopped breastfeeding Haven, she’d claimed they were ruined and demanded I pay to get them fixed. For all I knew, their budding attraction started the day he felt up her pancake tits in exam room number four.
Five grand for new DDs. Tens of thousands lost in the divorce settlement. And a third of my monthly income going straight to her pocketbook in the form of child support while she plays hot housewife for Dr. Herbert Hodge IV.
And thanks to the wonderful family court judge we had the pleasure of dealing with—who’s apparently stuck in 1992—Haven gets to see me every other weekend, alternate holidays, and two weeks every summer. No amount of lawyering or dragging out the case would get that old broad to budge.
By the end of the trial, we were all exhausted, and in the end, it was Haven who suffered. My sweet, innocent daughter caught in a tug-of-war between two people who never should’ve been together in the first place.
I’ll never forget the first year of our marriage and the look of disappointment on Kyla’s face when she realized the small-town lawyer she’d married was not going to be raking home a cool half-a-mil a year after all.
Guess she should’ve done her research.
And I’ll also never forget the way it felt to watch Kyla struggle with motherhood, to come home at six o’clock at night and find a half-empty bottle of wine on the counter and the baby sitting in a piss-soaked diaper.
I suppose you could say both our dreams were shattered those first couple of years.
“Are you done?” she asks. “I can hear you laughing.”
“All right, all right. What the hell do you need, Kyla?”
“Herb is taking me on a surprise ski trip, and we’re leaving Thursday and coming back Sunday. You’re going to have to pick up Haven tomorrow.”
“It’s not my weekend. Does that mean I get her two weekends in a row?” I pray she says yes. Weekends with my daughter are what I live for.
“Obviously.”
“Herb skis? What if he breaks a hip?”
“Derek.”
“Okay, I can pick her up, but doesn’t she have preschool Friday?”
“She can miss.”
“Love the priorities, Kyla. Awesome. Mother
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