Home > Messy Strokes (Wrecked Roommates #3)

Messy Strokes (Wrecked Roommates #3)
Author: Kelsie Rae

Messy Strokes


A Wrecked Roommates Novel

 

 

Kelsie Rae

 

 

Copyright © 2021 by Kelsie Rae

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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Contents

 


1. Maddie

 

2. Maddie

 

3. Maddie

 

4. Maddie

 

5. Maddie

 

6. Milo

 

7. Maddie

 

8. Maddie

 

9. Maddie

 

10. Maddie

 

11. Maddie

 

12. Maddie

 

13. Maddie

 

14. Maddie

 

15. Maddie

 

16. Milo

 

17. Maddie

 

18. Maddie

 

19. Maddie

 

20. Maddie

 

21. Maddie

 

22. Maddie

 

23. Maddie

 

24. Maddie

 

25. Maddie

 

26. Maddie

 

27. Maddie

 

28. Maddie

 

29. Maddie

 

30. Maddie

 

31. Maddie

 

32. Maddie

 

33. Maddie

 

34. Maddie

 

35. Maddie

 

36. Maddie

 

37. Maddie

 

38. Milo

 

39. Maddie

 

40. Maddie

 

41. Maddie

 

Epilogue

 

Epilogue

 

 

Also by Kelsie Rae

 

Dear Reader

 

About the Author

 

 

1

 

 

Maddie

 

 

“Excuse me, Ms. Walker?” the nurse interrupts. “There’s a gentleman in the waiting room who would like to speak with you.”

Confused, I look down at the new baby girl in my arms, then back at the nurse, convinced I’ve heard her wrong.

Who the hell would be here to see me?

I have no one.

“Excuse me?” I ask.

“A man. He’s out front. Said he’d like to see you.”

I cock my head to the side. “Who?”

“He says he’s the father.” She drops her attention to Peanut. “Tall. Light hair. Lots of tattoos.”

Shit.

The blood drains from my face. “Oh. Um…”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Would you like me to have him removed from the hospital, Miss Walker?” she suggests, reading me like a damn book. “Wouldn’t be the first time––”

“No. Um…” My mind races, desperate to avoid the impending crash when I know it isn’t possible. “I’ll, uh, I’ll meet him in the waiting room.”

“You sure, honey? He looked a little…rough.”

I bite my tongue to keep from defending Milo––he definitely doesn’t deserve it––before I answer, “Yeah, I’m sure. Thank you, though.”

She steps closer and motions to my little Peanut. “Here. Let me take her for you. When you’re finished in the waiting room, we can see how she does with latching on for her next feeding, all right?”

Barely registering anything she’s said, a low hum assaulting my ears, I nod numbly and offer Peanut to her. My arms feel empty as soon as she’s out of reach, but I keep my head held high as I walk down the short hall to the heavy security doors leading to the main waiting area in the maternity ward.

A panic attack bubbles just beneath the surface. I can feel it. The impending crash rushing to catch up to me no matter how hard I try to run and hide from it.

Breathe.

But I can’t. I’m freaking out. Like total-mental-breakdown freaking out. And I can’t decide if it’s because Milo finally knows about my baby or if it’s because I delivered her almost two months early and was told she’ll be staying in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU) for at least a few more weeks. Needless to say, I’ve been a mess ever since. I’m sore. I’m exhausted. And I feel more alone than ever.

The experts always talk about hormones during pregnancy. But for some reason, I feel like I missed the part where they mentioned them being a hundred times worse as soon as you actually deliver the baby.

Then again, some of those pregnant women aren’t planning on raising a baby all by themselves, let alone having the father show up to the hospital when he definitely didn’t know I was pregnant in the first place. So what do I know? Maybe this is normal. My racing heart. My sweaty palms. The tiny voice inside my head telling me I’m going to screw my daughter up, I’m going to fail her as a mother, and I was wrong to keep her from Milo.

I let out a shaky breath and close my eyes for a moment.

But maybe this is normal, too, you know? The mental breakdown.

It’s funny. I almost let myself believe if my baby has to stay at the hospital for a little while longer, maybe my secret could too.

The scent of cleaning supplies used to burn my nostrils, but as I stare at the heavy closed doors separating me from the man who broke my heart, I realize it’s almost familiar now. Hell, it’s almost comforting. Because I know my baby girl is watched over by someone who knows what they’re doing instead of the trainwreck mother she’ll have to deal with as soon as she gets the okay to come home.

And I am a trainwreck.

I don’t deserve to be a mother. Especially not to someone so innocent––so tiny and perfect––as my little Peanut.

I shake off the thought, attempting to focus on the current screwed up situation sitting in the waiting room instead of the one I’ll be facing in a few weeks.

Lucky me.

But the real question to my current predicament is…

Who told him?

How did he find me?

My hands tremble as I wash them at the small row of sinks on the right-hand side of the heavy doors. Once they’re dried, the door buzzes and opens to reveal a very frustrated, very sexy Milo pacing the waiting area like a pissed-off bull.

I haven’t seen him since everything fell apart, and the sight is like a sucker punch to the gut.

I can’t do this.

“Where is she?” he growls as soon as he sees me.

I step over the threshold and raise my hands, praying it’ll placate him. “Milo––”

“I wanna see her.”

“Milo, she’s…” I look over my shoulder at the automatic doors of the NICU already locking behind me. “She was early. I can’t take her home yet.”

“I wanna see her,” he repeats, his tone brooking no argument. But there’s a desperation in his request peeking through the anger and frustration directed at me. A need to see her. His baby girl. His blood. My heart cracks as I rein in my hope for any kind of positive future we could’ve had in another life. But after everything we’ve been through, everything we’ve said and can’t take back, everything I haven’t said but should’ve…there’s no coming back from it all. I can’t let myself daydream about what could’ve been anymore. It’ll only lead to more heartbreak. More pain. And I refuse to wallow in self-pity any longer. I have a baby who needs me.

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