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Hard, square jaw. Formidable body. Shrewd brown eyes that I imagine terrify his opponents on the ice when he comes barreling toward them. Jackson Carter. Captain of the Boston Blades. Otherwise known as my ex-husband.
“Sorry, Father, I’ll always be the worst kind of sinner.”
“You know,” he drawls with a subtle edge, “your ex-husband warned us that you wouldn’t agree to our first offer. Seems he still knows you pretty well.” Every thought scatters on my next exhale.
“If it’s not about the money, then what are you lookin’ for?” “Happiness.” I clasp my hand over his and peel his fingers off my arm, one by one, until I’m free. “It’s staring at yourself in the mirror and knowing that you got to where you are on your own merits and not on bargained favors. It’s knowing”—I draw in a deep, grounding breath—“that sometimes what’s in your heart and what’s in your head aren’t the same, but you’re making a life change . . . you’re going to let reason take charge, for once, instead of the damn organ that’s failed you countless times over.”
We aren’t married, not anymore. But I won’t forget what you’re doing for me, Holly. I needed this and I needed you. When you need me next, don’t hesitate to ask. We’re family, even if it’s not the way we always envisioned, and I learned a long time ago to never take family for granted. Jackson.
Truth: letting Holly walk away is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Truth: I may have brought up divorce first but only because Holly had lost her spark, her luster, and I wasn’t enough anymore to rekindle her fire. Lie: I’ve moved on.