Bad Bridesmaid (Billionaire's Club Book 11) Elise Faber (most read books of all time txt) 📖

scientist.” That was when she’d announced she wanted to be a physicist, like her dad, in kindergarten. “Girls aren’t good at math. You should take Home Economics, learn some real skills.” That had been in high school, when she’d been testing into calculus and applying to colleges. “You should stop going to school before no man ever wants to marry you.” That had been just before she’d received her PhD. “You work too much. You’ll never have a family if you keep going like this. Men want their women to be home.”

That had been last week.

Good times.

The worst part of it was that she did want to have a family of her own. She wanted to get married and have babies, to bemoan dirty diapers, to get a pet—though definitely not one as unruly as the Fuzz—and to have her washing machine break down and have to go to Lowe’s to buy a new one. She wanted to have all of those things.

She just also wanted to have her career.

Why was that so difficult?

These were modern times, with modern women and men. Jason Momoa could wear a pink scrunchie, for God’s sake. Harry Styles could pose on the cover of a magazine in a skirt. Transgender and gay rights were expanding—she wasn’t so naïve as to consider those rights were already equal to hers as a white, cis person, but strides were being made. People of all genders and color and sexual orientations were living their lives and standing up for equality.

So, why couldn’t she just work at a job she loved and have a family she loved?

Why did her mom seem to think she had to sacrifice one for the other?

She didn’t mind having a man in her life, one who gave her input on her choices, so long as her partner was open to her having the same input on his. She certainly didn’t mind Brad’s strength, the way he’d swooped down the hill, how he’d clearly been worried for her, but he had to also not mind her swooping in to save the day just as often.

If she cooked, he could do the dishes.

If she worked late, he should figure out dinner.

If she wanted to go somewhere, she didn’t need his permission, though she had no problem offering a check-in.

Because wasn’t that what partners in life and love were supposed to do?

Support one another. Be there for each other. Love despite flaws and shoulder the burdens of his life on occasion because she knew that he’d shoulder them for her just as often.

That was the kind of man she wanted.

But maybe he didn’t exist.

Maybe it was a fantasy. Maybe that was why she was single. Maybe that was why she would never have a family, like her mother threatened.

She wanted a unicorn.

And, as much as she hated to admit, unicorns did not fucking exist. Well, they definitely didn’t exist outside of her glorious unicorn of a job. She supposed that was existing, at least in one form, so maybe she should qualify her thought. Men as unicorns didn’t exist.

Brad walked back in, the T-shirt she’d given him fitting snugly on a chest she’d been nose-close to not long before, one she’d spent plenty of time kissing months before. He was definitely yummy, but again . . . she didn’t trust him.

Didn’t trust that he could be what she wanted.

It would be easy, so fucking easy to just invite him to join her in bed and to have her merry way with him—when she wasn’t feeling lightheaded or like her groin was a rubber band that had been stretched too far. But wouldn’t that discount all of those things she wanted, push aside that unicorn she was searching to find, even if she could somehow compartmentalize that this was a fling and nothing more, and that she could never expect to find a note or receive a goodbye.

Except . . . he’d left a note.

Except . . . she’d told him how his disappearing had made her feel, and last night, when she’d passed out on him during the movie, he’d—sort of sweetly, she might add—tucked her into bed, fully clothed, and then had left her a note.

A man who changed.

Perhaps she’d found her unicorn, after all.

He handed her the ice pack then started to sit on the bed, before hesitating and straightening. “Let me go finish changing first,” he said and turned, disappearing into the closet.

She couldn’t deny that she watched his yummy ass bounce as he made his way.

Perv.

Yes, she supposed she was.

Well, she’d just chalk it up as another of her unenviable qualities—career-driven, bossy, outspoken, workaholic, and a total perv.

And that was just the short list.

A minute later, Brad reappeared, his arms full of clothes and towels. “I saw your washer’s in the hall,” he said. “I’ll just start a load.”

Heidi’s mouth dropped open.

But he was already gone, and when he stuck his head in a little later, telling her to make herself comfortable and he was going to call for pizza, her mouth fell open a second time.

Make herself comfortable?

With him puttering his way around her place doing laundry?

And apparently also making a salad as an appetizer, which he filled with corn and shredded chicken and beans, all of which she didn’t remember being in her kitchen, but must have been, otherwise the man had mysterious pantry stocking abilities—either that or Instacart, she realized after she’d dopily stared for several minutes at the salad that was more filling than most meals she ate on a regular basis.

He’d set the TV remote on the nightstand, retrieved the book she’d left propped open on her coffee table—much to her chagrin, since she never seemed to be able to organize her books all that well.

She was always pulling down an old favorite and rereading part of it, jumping to her favorite scenes before forgetting to put it back.

Once a week, she forced herself to do a focused walkthrough of her place, gathering those half-read books and stashing