Page 15 of My Favorite Lost Cause (The Favorites #2)

MAREN

I stand on the porch, my morning routine, watching Charlie do his post-run push-ups and burpees in the grass.

He’s ripped. Tan. That trail of hair beneath his belly button drags my gaze like a car crash. I wish I hadn’t noticed and also wish I’d brought binoculars.

I turn to go inside for another call with Harvey that’s certain to be as tense as the last. He’s furious that he couldn’t bully me into returning to Manhattan.

It wasn’t always like this. When we first dated, Harvey was a prince.

He was smitten. It was only after he proposed that I started to see that other side of him, the way he can shift on a dime from wooing you to slamming the door in your face.

It’s gotten worse from there, but I want children more than I want a husband I can trust and adore, and I’m so close to getting them.

A friend of Harvey’s is this amazing fertility doctor.

He moved us off the wait list, ahead of hundreds of other families.

A year from now I could be holding a baby of my own, the one thing I’ve ever truly wanted .

I hate that I have to relinquish my backbone to get it, however.

“I need you back,” he says immediately. “There’s a client thing next Saturday.”

Not my problem . Isn’t that what he said to me when I told him we needed to leave Aspen for Kit’s engagement party? Of course, if I bring this up now, he’ll remind me that Kit didn’t even show up for that party and ran off with my ex-boyfriend instead.

“I’ll let you know,” I reply.

“You’ll let me know ?” he repeats, enraged. “You seem to have forgotten which one of us actually cares about you, so allow me to remind you: it’s not your fucking stepbrother.”

I step back on the porch. Charlie’s still doing push-ups. His back gleams with sweat.

“I haven’t forgotten,” I reply, more to myself than him.

In the middle of the day I go to the cottage to use the bathroom because the entire crew now uses the first-floor powder room, so it’s caked in mud. To my surprise, Charlie’s on my deck, his shirt damp with sweat, looking oddly at home in his jeans and tool belt.

“What are you doing to my deck?” I cry.

He raises a brow. “You mean the deck I told you not to walk on? I’m fixing it so that you survive the week.”

The words are grumbled and cranky, but I smile anyway. Charlie never wants to admit that he cares, but that’s…pretty freaking sweet.

“I never dreamed you’d look so natural with a hammer in your hands.”

“I’m more accustomed than you might think,” he says with a smirk, “to handling a big hammer . ”

“Yes, I’m sure you’re handling that big hammer all the time these days.”

“You have no idea,” he says with a laugh, and suddenly I’m picturing… Stop picturing that, Maren.

“I wish you could see how red you just turned,” he says as I turn away.

My phone buzzes in my pocket as I head to the bathroom—it’s Harvey’s ringtone.

I’ll call him later because I don’t care what he says.

I’m staying.

I stretch out atop my bed to phone Lori for my daily video time with the puppies just before dinner. Her brow is furrowed when she answers. “Hey…I didn’t expect to hear from you. What’s up?”

I sit up. I’ve called her every day since we arrived. Why wouldn’t she expect it? “I was just checking on the puppies. How did today go?”

Her eyes widen. “Harvey sent someone over to pick them up. He didn’t tell you?”

My stomach sinks. Harvey is mostly irritated by the dogs and has never lifted a finger to help me with them. He wouldn’t voluntarily take on the work of watching them while I’m gone. And even if he did like the dogs…he’s supposed to leave town again, so what will happen then?

I tell her there must have been a miscommunication . It’s a word I don’t think I ever used once prior to marrying Harvey, and now find myself using frequently. It’s the polite way adults cover their rough edges, and Harvey and I have a lot of rough edges.

Hey. I just talked to Lori, and she said you had someone pick up the dogs?

Harvey

At least I know how to get your attention now. Why didn’t you call me back?

I was going to call you tonight. I didn’t want to bother you at work.

But once the dogs come into the picture, you don’t mind bothering me, apparently.

I just wanted to make sure there wasn’t some kind of mistake. Because I know that you don’t want to take care of them.

No, I really don’t want to take care of them, but it seems pretty fucking cruel to leave them with a stranger, don’t you think? You’re not planning to do this with our future children, are you?

Lori isn’t a stranger. And they like playing with the other dogs.

Part of being a responsible parent—to dogs or to humans—is making some sacrifices so that you are there for them.

My jaw grinds. Harvey isn’t concerned about the dogs—this is his way of punishing me for staying here and kudos to him, because it worked. I’d rather they stay with Lori than him. He won’t even remember to feed them.

I thought you were planning to leave town again?

If I have to go, I’ll just leave them with Elodie.

I like that even less. Maybe it’s simply that I don’t know much about little boys, but watching his sister’s kid stab a wounded bird with a stick when we were all in St. Barth’s last winter sent a chill up my spine.

What kind of kid wants to inflict damage like that? Probably the kind of kid who’d feed a puppy chocolate to make it sick or kick it if no one was looking.

And what kind of parent doesn’t stop him? Because Elodie saw it and shrugged.

So I tell Charlie I have to go home on Thursday after all, and when he asks why, I tell him that Harvey has a client thing. Because otherwise I’d have to admit that I’m planning to have children with someone I can’t trust with a pet.

And it would sound pretty fucked up if I said that aloud.