It looked like one of Ambrose’s old medical documents.
Annoyed, I yanked it out of my drawer.
There was a sort of commotion outside, but I ignored it to look at what I had found.
I thought I had gotten rid of every evidence of Ambrose in this house, or as much as you can get rid of an ex who lives right next door to you, but apparently he was sticking around like a noxious type of fly.
He was going to get this paper in his mailbox with a cold note that said, “I don’t want your shit around.”
There was something sticky on the document, a few brown speckles all over it and I rolled my eyes.
Mr. Multitasking had apparently been drinking coffee while opening the mail and spilled it over his doctor’s letter.
I pulled it closer.
Wait, this was Ambrose’sspermcount results.
I scratched at one of the coffee spots with a pink-nailed finger and gasped in shock.
The coffee spot had covered up his results.
My eyeballs bugged out at the number on the paper.
For years, we had assumed the problem was me, but it wasn’t. Not at all.
As I got up to check on the racket outside, I realized one thing.
There were very few sperm floating around in Ambrose’s arrogant, bastard balls
CHAPTER 10
Indi
My fists clenched in determination, I stared down the bulldozers as they moved slowly toward me.
The rest of my Save Applewood Nature Park group had skittered out of the way when the development team brought in the trucks and bulldozers to scare us off.
But I wasn’t budging. Even though there was a huge lump of fear in my throat, I was determinednotto leave until they backed down.
A huge crowd had begun to gather: nosy neighbors, picnickers, bikers, and TV reporters, all of them flicking eyes between the development guys in ill-fitting suits and me.
If I left right now, they’d start work on the new golf course and the oldest park in town would be nothing but a giant gaping hole in the ground. Community groups had begged for an environmental survey, hoping that the presence of the endangered Shy Coral-Hued Worm would delay it until we could organize opposition to destroying the park.
Then I saw a very tall man striding over to me.
Oh, shit.
Here must be the stuffed shirt expert, ready to assure the TV reporters and the rest of the crowd that there was absolutely no danger to the Shy Coral-Hued Worm with this new golf course.
I gritted my teeth as he strode up to the reporters, imperiously gesturing to them for a microphone, which he tapped with tanned fingers.
He was very tall and lean, with short dark hair beginning to go gray at the temples, dressed in a light blue collared shirt and suit pants, with a striped blue and white tie. Holy goddess, it must be 102 degrees out here and he was dressed like he was going to the Kentucky Derby, complete with classic pointy asshole shoes and some fucking cologne that smelled like gold doubloons.
I was only wearing a long gray skirt and tank top, but I was not about to let him intimidate me.
He flicked his eyes over to me. They were a chilled light ice-blue, and for a moment I felt an unusual squirmy sensation deep in my gut.
“I suppose you must be the hippie here trying to chain herself to a tree,” he said sharply as he set his briefcase on a nearby rock and took out a huge stack of papers.
