Lily Thompson
I was trying to remember all the reasons I should hate him. All the pain he caused me. All the nights I stayed up wondering what I did wrong. But the memories felt slippery lately, blurred by his ridiculous smile and the way he made my–our daughter laugh like nothing else mattered.
The toast popped up three minutes ago, but I still hadn’t moved.
I sat at the dining table in my sleep-rumpled tee, staring at the butter knife poised above the plate, willing my pulse to slow down. It refused. Unfortunately, so did my imagination.
Heat crawled through me every time my mind replayed the accidental “good-morning groping” that had happened in Ryan’s bed.
I squeezed my eyes shut and felt the treacherous throb at the back of my throat.
Stop thinking about him.
Stop thinking abo
