Bad Boy (An Indecent Proposal) - J.C. Reed Page 0,66

my credit card. “How much is this going to be?”

“Your husband settled the bill this morning.” She smiled. “He also said to charge his card with your return flight and pay for the driver as long as you need him. And he left you this.” She kept her back turned on me as she retrieved a small box from a drawer, and then pushed it toward me. “He says it’s your birthday gift.”

My heart plunged. “Thank you.”

Once inside the safety of my hotel room, the heavy sadness inside me became unbearable. I suppressed the urge to run my hands over the pillow he had slept on, but I couldn’t quite fight the urge to hold on to that tiny memory of him.

Slowly, I leaned over the pillow and inhaled his scent. I knew I didn’t have to. The whole room still smelled of him. He seemed to be everywhere. Inside my heart. On my skin. In my thoughts.

And yet it wasn’t enough.

I leaned back on the bed.

My throat made a choked sound as another wave of pain rippled through me.

His parting gift—a white box with a turquoise ribbon—lay in my lap. No note was attached to it.

I opened it.

As soon as I lifted the lid, a shaky breath escaped my lips.

The first thing that caught my attention was the necklace—my mom’s necklace arranged on a black velvet pillow. My fingers shook as I lifted it up in the air. The amethyst, crowned by a Sterling silver Celtic design, sparkled in the sun. I realized Chase had kept true to his word. The loose stone had been fixed.

“Thank you,” I whispered, even though he was miles away and couldn’t hear me.

I had almost stashed away the box when I realized it was far too big and heavy. With a frown, I removed the lid and let out another shaky breath as my eyes fell on the letters and the familiar handwriting.

For Laurie.

It was my mother’s handwriting, without a doubt.

My breath made a whizzing sound as tears started flowing down my cheeks.

Oh, my God.

Chase got the letters. I had no idea how he did it, but it was amazing. When Clint called, I had been afraid he’d never give them to me. That he’d break his promise. I smiled as I realized all my fears had been unwarranted. Chase had picked them up for me. Gratitude and happiness settled within my heart, and for a moment I considered calling him to tell him just how grateful I was.

But that thought was quickly lost when I realized the magnitude of the situation.

My mom’s letters were mine. Finally.

A shaky breath escaped my lips as I stacked them together and lifted them to my face, inhaling their scent. They felt so old, fragile, but I could smell the lavender and her. A tear rolled down my cheek as my feelings erupted, leaving me a sobbing mess of joy and sadness.

At last, I scanned through them. There were only four of them—each of them had a few inscribed words at the back.

They said:

For Laurie when she has her first child.

For Laurie when she feels sad.

For him.

I frowned at the third letter, surprised that my mother had left a letter for Clint, but then of course she would. She had married him. There had to be a lot she never got to say.

My eyes fell on the last letter. The fourth one was much thicker than the other letters. It said:

Laurie, open me first after your twenty-third birthday.

It was directed at me, and so much thicker and larger than any other letter. A short shake, and I knew there was something inside. Pictures? A postcard?

My heart sped up as I let my finger trail over the familiar handwriting. I took my time opening it. When I finally did, I reread it a few times, and then I cried myself to sleep, feeling that my world had gone the darkest shade of black.

“Oh, my God,” I whispered, my voice choked, ready to die in my chest.

It made so much sense.

Everything I thought I knew had been crushed by her words.

Chapter 23

Eleanor’s Letter

This is for you, my daughter—the only thing I’ve really truly loved, like every mother should her child.

The day I’m writing this letter, you’re nine years old. In a few weeks, you’ll turn ten. I want you to get this letter when you’re twenty-three, maybe even older. By that time, at least thirteen years will have passed, and you’ll be a beautiful, intelligent woman.

You most certainly have