The Good Mistake (Hemsworth Brothers #3)

by Haleigh Lovell

  “So BMX bikers, skateboarders, and snowboarders were your type?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “And what about you?” he asked.

  “What about me?”

  “Were you into that scene?”

  “Nah.” I shook my head. “I was always too busy riding horses.”

  “Is ‘riding horses’ code for ‘boning dudes’?” There was amusement in his voice.

  “No!” I reined in a laugh. “Anyway, what was I saying before I got sidetracked?”

  “The women in NA books.”

  “Right. Not all of us women are klutzes and I hate that klutziness is written as a quirky trait that’s somehow adorable to all men. I mean how is it cute to be clumsy, smash into things and break shit all the time, and fall over your feet on flat surfaces?”

  “Not cute.”

  “Exactly. And you know what else isn’t cute?”

  “What?”

  “Dominant alpha-male heroes. Seriously, the last time a guy called himself an alpha male, I threw up in my mouth a little.”

  He snorted. “But hey, alphas are great if you like being a kept woman.”

  “Ugh, I know. The whole ‘you’re mine’ and ‘you belong to me’ shtick gets old after a while. I mean, we’re not possessions. We’re partners! Honestly, give me a strong beta over an alpha any day.”

  “That sounds vaguely familiar.”

  “You Belong To Me?” I sent him a questioning look and he nodded. “Taylor Swift song from five billion years ago.”

  “Who knew Tay-Tay was an alpha male? And now that we’re on the subject of airing our grievances, you want to know what annoys me most?”

  “What?” I asked.

  “When conflict between the main characters can be solved with a simple heart-to-heart conversation versus a two-year absence that’s dragged out over ten chapters.”

  “I know!” I cried. “That drives me nuts every single time. It’s frustrating. Infuriating. Why can’t they just communicate their feelings? Why? Why?”

  Laughing softly, he thumbed the next page. “That’s why I don’t read NA anymore.”

  “I don’t care.” I tapped the surface of my Kindle screen to flip the page. “I still love ’em.”

  “It’s the steamy sex scenes, huh?”

  “Pfft! It is not.”

  “If you say so,” he said distractedly, now fully absorbed with his thrilling spy novel.

  For a while, I tried to focus on my own book, but my eyes kept on straying to his chest.

  Damn him for being shirtless! And he was in grey sweatpants, as per usual.

  Humph. He must fancy himself the Patron Saint of Grey Sweatpants.

  Inadvertently, my eyes lingered on the sizeable bulge that was so wonderfully outlined by those thin, grey sweatpants.

  I swallowed hard. The dick imprint—it was thick.

  I swallowed again. So thiiiiicccckkk.

  Abruptly, he looked up and caught me staring. A slow grin began to spread across his face. “What are you looking at?”

  “Nothing,” I said briskly. “Just checking out your thi-thick, err...” I heard myself stammer. “Thick book!”

  With that, I dragged my gaze away from his dick and turned my attention to my e-book. Soon, I lost track of time as we sat on the couch side-by-side, reading into the wee hours of the morning... just two friends rocking our Ariana Grande-inspired ponytails.

  Chapter Nine

  Edric

  LUCY SWEPT THROUGH the kitchen like Hurricane Hugo. Turning on the faucet, she filled up a tall glass and drank the water in one continuous gulp.

  “Gotta go,” she said breathlessly. It seemed as if she were doing a hundred things at once: popping the glass in the dishwasher, grabbing her bag, dashing back and forth at a manic pace as she gathered up all her work essentials.

  I looked up from the cutting board. “Aren’t you gonna eat breakfast?”

  “I had breakfast.”

  “What?” I sliced into the bread, cutting it diagonally so the sandwich halves were two triangles.

  “Tap water.”

  “Tragic.” I wrapped the sandwich in cling film and stuck it in a lunch bag. “That ain’t breakfast.”

  “No time,” she said hastily, swiping her keys off the counter. “Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go.”

  “Here.” I thrust the brown paper bag at her.

  “What’s this?”

  “Your breakfast. There’s an egg sandwich inside. You can eat it in the car.”

  “Thanks, Edric! You’re a good egg.” Then she flew out the door and I was left standing there, staring after her disappearing back.

  I’m a good egg? I shrugged. Okay, then.

  Humming a merry tune, I flicked on the burner underneath the small frying pan and made another omelet sandwich for myself.

  AN IDLE MIND IS THE devil’s playground.

  Which was why I always kept myself busy. My mornings and afternoons were spent at home, getting work done on my laptop, keeping abreast on my many business ventures. The evenings were reserved for play, be it a game of tennis or lacrosse with some old college mates. And my nights, they were filled with Lucy.

  I found myself looking forward to seeing her every evening. The best part about my day was coming home after a game of lacrosse, barging through the front door and bellowing, “Looooooosseeeeeeyyyy, I’m home.”

  Today was no exception.

  I can’t wait to see my girl, my home slice. I found myself smiling just thinking of her as I fished my keys out of my gym bag. I pressed the unlock button on the key fob and the alarm chirped just as I slowed to a halt in front of my car.

  I was grabbing the handle and giving it a swift yank when I heard my phone ding with an incoming text. I slid behind the wheel before glancing at the display.

  It was a text from my long-term Airbnb guest.

  Lucy: How’s it going?

  Me: A’ight. I could be better, though.

  Lucy: Why?

  Me: I miss my honey.

  Lucy: So I’m your honey now?

  Me: Yep. You’re also my sugar, my 2 cups of all-purpose flour, my egg, my stick of butter, my vanilla extract, my batter in a pan and bake at 350 degrees.

  Lucy: Is that the recipe for baby cakes?

  Me: You know it!

  Lucy: Yeet.

  Me: Yeet. Potato skeet. How are you doing?

  Lucy: I’m tired.

  Me: Hi, Tired, I’m Edric. Ha ha, Dad Joke 101

  Lucy: Ok...

  Me: Why are you tired?

  Lucy: Got a lot on my mind. Where are you now?

  Me: Just got done with my game. I’ll be home soon, baby cakes.

  Lucy: Were there any hot lacrosse players on the field?

  Me: I was on the field, so... yes?

  Lucy: Lol. What position do you play?

  Me: I play defense.

  Lucy: Now what exactly is lacrosse? Please explain.

  Me: We’ve been dating how long? And now you ask?

  Lucy: I didn’t care before.

  Me: So you care about me now?

  Lucy: Just answer the damn question.

  Me: Have you ever watched hockey?

  Lucy: Yes.

  Me: Lacrosse is a lot like hockey except you put the ball in a little basket thing that’s attached to a long stick.

  Lucy: Sounds fun.

  Me: Yeah, it’s way fun. My stick is like 6ft long.

  Lucy: What? That’s freakishly long. You have a fuckin’ fire hose!

  Me: I know, right? And sometimes I beat people with my stick.

  Lucy: Edric, that’s very dirty. I had no idea you beat guys with your stick.

  Me: It’s okay. They like it.

  Lucy: Your buddies enjoy it when you beat them? With your stick?

  Me: Ya.

  Lucy: And let me guess, you enjoy it, too?

  Me: Oh, for sure.

  Lucy: ...

  Me: I’m talking about my lacrosse stick. You know th
at, right?

  Lucy: You don’t say?

  Me: Are you... flirting with me?

  Lucy: I’ve been told my flirt game is passive-aggressive, so maybe?

  Me: Laughing emoji.

  Lucy: Um, why did you just type the words ‘laughing emoji’?

  Me: I’m using the voice text dictation feature. I just talk and it converts my words to text so when I say ‘laughing emoji’ it texts the actual words to you instead of sending an emoji.

  Lucy: Lol, that’s so dumb. Laughing emoji.

  Me: Why did you type ‘laughing emoji’ when you could’ve just used the emoji? Hello? It’s right there at your fingertips.

  Lucy: Laughing emoji. To annoy you and show you how ridiculous your texts look.

  Me: Laughing emoji

  Lucy: Laughing emoji, laughing emoji, laughing emoji.

  Chuckling to myself, I slid the key into the ignition and muttered, “What a dork.” I was about to toss my phone into my gym bag when it dinged with another text.

  Lucy: You’re the dork. Laughing emoji, laughing emoji, laughing emoji.

  THE DOOR SWUNG OPEN with a loud crash and I stood in the doorway with my arms outstretched. “Looooooooosseeeeeeyyyy,” I hollered. “I’m home.”

  Nothing. No answer.

  Strange. Usually I’d have her lackluster responses to look forward to. “Don’t care,” she’d call lethargically from the couch, though a smile would be playing around her lips.

  Slightly bewildered, I went in search of Lucy and found her in my bedroom, curled up on the leather settee with a glass of wine in her hand, staring out through the open window as if she would miss something important if she looked away.

  “Hey,” I said quietly.

  “Hey,” she replied without looking at me.

  “Are you on your first or second drink?”

  “Sixth.”

  “So you’re mainlining red wine,” I said dryly. “Nice. Don’t mind if I join you?”

  She said nothing. I noted the subtle tension in her shoulders. Something was weighing heavily on her mind—what, I had no clue.

  I waited a moment, then sat beside her and put my feet up on the long ottoman bench.

  Seconds passed. I studied her profile. The soft light caught her in all her austere beauty; the proud features, the faint wryness to her beautiful mouth. And her eyes... they were so full of secrets. I wanted in.

  “Are you still tired?” I asked.

  “Beyond.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Everything.” Her gaze was fixed on the horizon. “I still can’t decide...”

  “Decide what?”

  She took a few breaths before slanting her gaze away from the window. Our gazes met and she gave a hesitant smile. “What are your thoughts on boobs?”

  I shrugged. “Boobs are boobs are boobs are boobs.”

  She stared at me, speechless.

  “What?” I said a touch defensively. “I don’t discriminate. If a woman is letting me touch her boobs, all I’m feeling is grateful.”

  She continued staring at me without batting an eyelid, without saying a word.

  “Erm...” I scratched the back of my neck. “I’ve only really dated women with perky breasts. However, I see nothing wrong with your long boobs. Long, pendulous breasts are awesome. Natural. And I love natural boobs. I mean, they’re perfectly fine as long as they don’t go down to your knees. And yours do not,” I hastily added, “err... go to your knees and such.”

  She said nothing for a while, then, “Kids at my school used to call me Lucy Long Boobs.”

  “How rude!” I felt outrage on her behalf. “Next time some dweeb makes fun of your boobs, make fun of his saggy balls. And if some mean girls are all like, ‘Ugh, I’ll never have saggy boobs!’ well, then you tell them, ‘Yeah, bitch, if you die at the age of thirty! Gravity is real!’ Yeah! You tell them bitches that.”

  Her chest moved in a silent chuckle. “They used to tease me with this song Do Your Boobs Hang Low? Do you know it?”

  “Is it similar to Do Your Ears Hang Low?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then, yeah, I know it.”

  “Sing it with me.”

  And so together we sang, “‘Do your boobs hang low? Can you swing them to and fro? Can you tie them in a knot? Can you tie them in a bow? Can you toss them over your shoulder like a continental soldier? Do your boobs. Hang. Low.””

  We exchanged a look and tried not to burst out laughing. “Thank you for that,” she managed at last. “I can always count on you to cheer me up. Be honest with me, Edric. Do you think my boobs are long?”

  “Well...” My eyes zeroed in on her chest. “Based on your cleavage, I’d say they’re long.” Her face fell and I quickly added, “But hey, on the bright side, they’re not as long as my ass crack.”

  THWOP! She swatted me in the face with a pillow. “Now I have this image of your ass crack burned onto my retina. Oh, my eyes,” she cried forlornly. “My virgin eyes. Thanks for that visual, Edric.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Always so eloquent, are you?”

  “Indeed.” I gave a scholarly nod. “I do have a way with words. Indeed I do. I find I have this tendency to use flowery, ornate language to describe the world around me.”

  “Riggghht.” I didn’t miss the sarcasm in her voice. “Comparing your ass crack to my cleavage is real flowery.” Her hand shook and she was gripping the glass of wine like it was the only thing connecting her to the rest of the world.

  “All joking aside, what’s going on, Lucy? Why the sudden obsession with boobs?”

  A sharp inhale. Then she set her wineglass on the windowsill, walked over to my bed and flopped down, flinging an arm over her eyes. “This relationship is doomed. Everything is in shambles.”

  So dramatic, this one.

  “Are you starring in your own Hallmark Christmas movie special?”

  “It’s over, Edric.”

  “What do you mean it’s over?”

  “This.” She exhaled a clipped sigh. “Us.”

  “What?” I was shook to the core. I felt as if she’d just landed a kick in my gut. “Why? It’s only been six weeks. We’ve pulled off our crazy stunt and we need to keep this train going.”

  “I can’t.” She sighed again. “I need to move out.”

  “But Gouda has settled in and he’s happy here. Have you considered that uprooting him right now might be a bad idea? Relocating him so soon can be disruptive and unsettling to his emotional well-being.”

  “Hey,” she warned. “Don’t you bring my horse into this.”

  “Then tell me why you’re making such a rash decision. I thought you enjoyed my company. We get along great.”

  “I do and we do.”

  “Are you interested in someone else? Is he an actual farmer? Does he have a bigger ranch?”

  “No!” She waved my words aside. “That’s not it at all.”

  “Then what is it?”

  Exhaling hard, she sat up in a lotus pose and hugged a pillow to her chest. “I’m not sure if I want to talk about it.”

  “No.” I breached the distance between us. “You’re not doing that ‘thing’ they do in those New Adult novels you read. You’re not going to leave me high and dry with no explanation whatsoever. We are going to have an honest and open heart-to-heart conversation like two grown-ass adults. Got it?”

  “Got it.” She pulled in a shaky breath and took a moment to compose herself. “My mom... she was diagnosed with breast cancer two years ago.” There was a small break in her voice. “Her sisters—my aunts—they were diagnosed, too.”

  Fuck, man. I wasn’t expecting that. “I’m sorry.”

  “All of three of them underwent treatment and my mom is now cancer-free and doing well.” She drew in a hard, controlled breath. “But my aunts... they passed away last year.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said again.

  “You don’t have to keep saying you’re sorry.” />
  “I know,” I said earnestly. “I’m sorry about that. Fuck!” I scrubbed a hand over my scalp. “Sorry, that just came out. Didn’t mean for it to, of course—” I decided to just shut up and let her speak.

  She was staring off into the ether, into nothing. “My aunts... they died so unexpectedly. They were responding well to treatment and then they weren’t. And after that they went downhill quickly and in six months, we were burying them.”

  I didn’t know how to act, what to say, though I soon realized she wasn’t expecting me to say anything.

  “I recently got tested for BRCA gene mutation.”

  “You mean the genetic testing for breast cancer?”

  “Right.” Her hands shook and she began pleating the fabric of the pillowcase between her fingers. “And I got the results back today.”

  I saw the answer in her eyes and I felt ill.

  “I, err...” She swallowed hard. “I tested positive for the BRCA2 gene mutation, which means I have up to an eighty-seven percent chance of developing breast cancer.”

  For a moment, I was too stunned to speak. When I spoke again, I forced calmness into my voice. “What are your options now?”

  “The less invasive option would be to undergo more frequent screenings to catch cancer early, should it ever develop. But that doesn’t necessarily guarantee early detection of cancer. The more invasive option would be preventive surgery. Prophylactic bilateral mastectomy is what my doctor called it.”

  “The removal of both your breasts?”

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “Supposedly, it’s been found to reduce the risk of breast cancer in high-risk women by about ninety percent.”

  My head swam as I listened to her, struggling to put all the details in place in my mind. “And you can’t decide what to do?”

  “Right now, I’m leaning toward preventive surgery. And I know what you’re going to say.” Her words came out in a rush. “You’re going to tell me that’s extreme.”

  “I wasn’t. I’m not.”

  She gave a tired sigh. “Half the time, that’s the first reaction I get. But here’s the way I look at it: My house is rigged with C4 explosives. It’s on a timer and some bomb disposal technician tells me that there’s a thirteen percent chance it won’t go off at all.” A pause. “Do I leave it alone? Or do I get that shit out of my house?”