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“Sorry,� I say sheepishly. “Sometimes I open my mouth and the hockey player in me comes out.�
“Text me tomorrow if you want,� he says. “Or call, if you’re feeling old school.�
She’s in my arms. Mia Marceau is in my fucking arms right now. She’s soft and warm and she smells like sunshine and coconut. I can’t even speak.
“Look at you. Pretty, smart as a whip, funny, kind. You’re a shit cook but he’s rich so it don’t matter. Stop telling yourself you’re stupid. That you’re somehow responsible for your asswipe husband’s inexcusable behavior. And that you’re lucky a man like Anton would want you. He’s lucky, you hear?�
