My.

Fucking.

God.

18th is a one-way street traveling in the opposite direction that I’m facing, so there’s no need for me to dramatically jump out of the way in case Kyle were to look up long enough to spot me. Not that he would.

So I stand on the street corner and watch the car pull forward and, blinker on, take a left at the corner.

Things are so good between Kyle and me. This doesn’t make any sense. The logical part of my brain knows this, right? Or am I so used to shitty behavior that I’ve become an enabler? Desperate to hear his version of events to clear him? But he deserves that much, doesn’t he?

I pull my phone out and text him.

 

Daisy: Are you free for lunch today?

He responds in seconds, the text bubble appearing immediately.

 

Husband McBaby-Daddy: Can’t. In a meeting. Are you home? Stay there, I’ll head that way as soon as I’m through here. Need to see you.

I blink at the screen. Maybe if I blink at it long enough the pile of lies will make sense. He’s not in a meeting. He’s in the back of a town car with his ex-girlfriend. Who spent the morning texting him about how much she still wants him.

The thing is, I was never really Kyle’s choice. He chose Margo, at one time anyway. They were together until she cheated. Then I came along and he knocked me up and married me out of a sense of propriety. Was he simply making do with the hand fate dealt him, when the person he really wanted to be with was Margo? Or anyone who wasn’t me?

I know I said I wanted a nice guy—that’s what the dick diet was about in the first place. To cleanse the jerks out of my system and find a forever guy. But I didn’t want to win a nice guy by default. I wanted one who chose me. One who couldn’t live without me. Not one who settled for me.

I was looking for a fairy tale, but so what? Isn’t everyone? No one dreams of settling.

Fuck that.

Kyle isn’t a settle for me. I’m in love with him and if he doesn’t feel the same way, well then, it’s not enough for me.

Though my wishes may very well be irrelevant because ‘need to see you’ on top of the texts and the lies and the two of them slipping off to wherever isn’t really adding up to Kyle being in love with me.

They add up to Kyle wanting his ex back. Or something. Maybe I don’t know what they add up to, but it’s not Kyle and me happily-ever-aftering.

I don’t reply to Kyle’s text. Instead I turn and start walking home, at a much slower pace and with a much heavier heart than the walk there. Am I being hormonal? It’s such bullshit, second-guessing myself about something so important. And something that seems so obvious. Sure, maybe we had a semi-rocky start when I crashed back into his life posing as his fiancé, but it’s been pretty smooth sailing since then. More than smooth sailing, he’s made an effort no one has ever made for me before.

He takes me on dates, at least once a week. He ensures my favorite ice creams are in the freezer. He accompanies me to doctor appointments and just the other night, he rubbed my calf when I got the worst charley horse pain in my leg in the middle of the night. He always asks about my day, and never makes me feel like my job is stupid or less important than his. Which, to be real, it is. I employ myself. He employs thousands and thousands of employees. That’s a lot of families depending on him for their paychecks. Which makes it all the more amazing to me that he takes an interest in what I do.

I love the way he is with his sister. And that he makes time for breakfast with his grandma every month and fits in time with his cousin. I love how seriously he takes his job and planning for the future.

But he also just lied to me.

I need a feeling-sorry-for-myself granola bar. Or possibly an entire bag of peanut butter cups. No, all the ice cream Kyle keeps me plied with is bad enough. I’ll get a granola bar with a side of deep-thinking peanut butter cups. I cut over on Chestnut so I can run into the CVS on my way back home. Kyle’s home—it’s not really mine. Ugh. Am I having some kind of pregnancy mood swing or is this really happening? I rub my thumb against the band of my engagement ring as I peruse the granola bar choices. Then I grab a two-pack of peanut butter cups and bring it to the checkout counter. There’s someone ahead of me so I read the magazine covers while I wait. One of the Kardashians has a new product line, a best-dressed issue, and someone is having a baby billionaire.

Wait. My eyes drift back to the cover of MoneyWeek because that’s a picture of Kyle.

With a big headline reading ‘America’s Most Powerful CEO.’

And a smaller headline reading ‘Billion-Dollar Baby.’

I don’t know what I’m looking at, but I don’t like it. A trickle of unease creeps up my spine, adding to the overall ick feeling of the past hour.

I snap the magazine out of the stand and slap it down on the counter with my other items, jittery to pay and get the heck out of there so I can make sense of what I’m looking at.

I manage to make it back to the condo before flipping the magazine open. Mostly because reading and walking is even harder with an actual magazine than it is with a phone.

I make it as far as the kitchen countertop before I’m flipping it open while tearing open a peanut butter cup, but I lose interest in the peanut butter cup before I can even get it to my lips.

America’s richest bachelor has married and—

Okay, wait. Richest? Like, come on. Surely there are many, many bachelors richer than Kyle Kingston.

Right?

I open my phone and Google ‘Kyle Kingston net worth.’ Why have I never done this before? Probably because it’s totally weird. Why on earth would I ever have looked this up? I know he’s rich, his grandfather founded KINGS, for crying out loud. But that’s the company, right? I’m sure all that money is tied up in the company and he’s not even the only heir and his grandfather is still living, so—

Oh, holy shit.

I knew he was rich, I’m not an idiot. Millions and millions of dollars kind of rich.

Except.

It’s more like thirty-four point seven billion dollars. I abandon my peanut butter cup and take the magazine to the couch because I need to sit down.

Thirty-four point seven. I don’t know how to think that big. So a billion dollars. Times thirty-four. Maybe they’re wrong? I mean really, what does Wikipedia know? Forbes has the same information though, and an article. He inherited half of his father’s wealth when he died and it’s grown from there. Something about a trust William Kingston set up that distributed the bulk of his wealth to his two sons prior to his death via shares in the company. But then Kyle’s father passed away, and that early inheritance was in Kyle’s hands before he was thirty.

Which means Kerrigan is worth something similar. And they’re going to inherit more when their grandfather passes away. God, that’s so morbid. And all that talk about Kerrigan having a driver with her at school? I’m pretty sure now that ‘driver’ is code for ‘bodyguard.’ Which would be hot in another time or place. Focus, Daisy.

He’s got an uncle who’s worth even more than he is—William Kingston’s living son, and Wyatt’s father. Wyatt, who is relatively poor because his parents are still living, but the internet estimates him at two billion even now. Poor little rich boys.