Текст книги "Baking and Babies"
Автор книги: Tara Sivec
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 15 страниц)
Chapter 4
– Toxic Spooge –
Marco
I stare at Molly across the table as she picks at her food, wondering if she’s going to puke. Do pregnant chicks puke at night too or just in the morning? Should I go sit next to her and hold her hair back just in case? What if she doesn’t have pregnancy sickness but Marco sickness? Maybe I disgust her. I kind of disgust myself right now that I opened my mouth without really thinking about what I was doing.
The girl I’ve been fantasizing about for two years is having some other guy’s baby, and instead of doing what any normal guy would do, I offered to pretend to be the father. I’ve lost my goddamn mind. I can’t be a fake dad to someone else’s kid, even if I AM hot for the woman carrying said kid. My dreams of Molly included seeing her naked and asking her to help me test out a few new ideas for my next cookbook, not watching her hot body turn into an alien WITH SOMEONE ELSE’S KID.
She didn’t say much on the drive over to the diner aside from letting me know the girl with the long, dark brown hair who has a strange aversion to soup was her older sister, Charlotte. She pretty much gave me one-word answers to every question I asked, or flat out refused to answer them. Dinner isn’t going much better, no matter how hard I try to get her to talk. As much as I don’t want to know about the other guy she was seeing, I still think she’ll feel better if she talks about it, and it will give me a way to ease into telling her I made a big mistake.
“I can’t do this,” Molly suddenly mutters, dropping her fork onto her plate.
Oh, thank God. Thank the good sweet lord I don’t have to go back on my word and tell her I changed my mind.
“You’re the sweetest guy in the world for doing this, but…I can’t,” she whispers with a shake of her head.
Good, because I still want to put my penis in her, but I don’t think I can stomach it knowing some other dude’s baby would be looking at it, judging it and saying something like, “My dad’s was bigger than yours, asshole.” She still looks like she might throw up. I need to say something nice and comforting.
“Okay. Want to order dessert?”
Yeah, real smooth, buddy.
Molly sighs and I wonder if she’s mad I gave in so easily or because the diner’s dessert selection sucks. What self-respecting diner doesn’t serve apple pie?
“Stupid, selfish, irritating moron…” she mumbles, resting her elbows on the table and dropping her head into her hands.
So, I guess it’s me, then.
“Look, I’m sorry, Molly. I really like you. Like, really like you. You’re smart, beautiful, and the most amazing pastry chef I’ve seen come through that school. I like you too much to be able to just sit back and be okay with you….you know.”
I wave my hand and move my eyes down in the general direction of her stomach.
“I think my services would be better served if I…I don’t know, beat the shit out of the guy who did this to you,” I continue, talking faster so she doesn’t hate me too much for going back on my word to help her. “Give me his name, and I’ll make sure he steps up to the plate for you. I can roundhouse punch his face and give him a nice left hook kick to the kneecaps.”
She slowly lifts her head from her hands and stares at me.
“Have you ever been in a fight?” she asks skeptically.
“Uh, hello? Have you seen these guns?” I ask, flexing my bicep and giving it a nice little pat for emphasis. “I’m a fighting machine.”
She doesn’t need to know the one and only fight I participated in happened in the fourth grade with Tommy Knittle when he called me a sissy for bringing in a plate of cookies I’d made to share with the class. I showed him, though. He said he’d give me two black eyes if I didn’t eat all three dozen cookies myself in front of everyone on the playground. It only took one black eye, thank you very much.
“That’s sweet, but it’s roundhouse kick and a left hook punch,” she informs me, trying to hide a smile.
“I’m Italian. We do things a little more hardcore where I come from.”
“Aren’t you from Ohio?” she asks skeptically.
“I meant my mother’s house. If you can dodge a wooden spoon, you can dodge a fist,” I inform her, trying to maintain as much coolness as I can. “Enough talk about me, let’s talk about the scum bag who put you in this situation.”
So what if I haven’t been in a fight since elementary school? I can beat the shit out of bread dough and I’m sure it’s the same thing as some guy’s face.
“Did you mean it when you said you liked me?” she whispers.
I can’t believe that hasn’t been obvious over the last few years, especially from the number of times I leaned over her shoulder to compliment whatever she was making just so I could smell her hair. She always smells like cinnamon and apples and it drives me crazy. Now she’s going to smell like cinnamon, apples and someone else’s sperm. I don’t know who this loser is, but I’m sure his spunk smells like toxic waste. I shouldn’t have waited so long to make my move. She stuck with toxic waste spooge when she could have had pineapple spooge. (Page 35, Section 2 of Seduction and Sugar: Pineapple Dump Cake and Making Your Jizz Taste like a Tropical Island Getaway)
“Yes, of course I meant it,” I tell her, saying good-bye to my fantasy of Molly telling me I taste like a Piña Colada while I take a big sip of ice-cold water to cool my libido.
“Why do you have to be such a nice guy? Why can’t you be a jerk like that cookbook author, Alfanso D., who hates kids?” she complains. “I bet the D. stands for dickhead.”
The water immediately goes down the wrong pipe, and I start choking and coughing, slamming the glass onto the table to smack my fist against my chest. Molly jumps up from her seat and races around to me, sliding into my side of the booth to pat me on the back through my coughing fit.
Even hacking up a lung of ice water, I can’t avoid the scent of cinnamon apples as she leans in close to me and asks if I’m okay. Dammit, why couldn’t she smell like ass and toxic jism instead of a delicious dessert?
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I tell her between coughs, subtly scooting a little bit away from her on the bench.
Her hand drops from my back and she smiles. “It’s good to know I’m not the only one who almost chokes to death at just the mention of that guy’s name. If you aren’t following him on Facebook, you should, just to see what asshole thing he’ll say next.”
She laughs and if I wasn’t the dickhead in question, I’d probably laugh right along with her. Molly turns to face me on the bench, tucking one leg up underneath her. My eyes glance down to her flat stomach and I try picturing it all ginormous and gross with arms and legs kicking through the skin trying to claw their way out, instead of how her laugh makes my dick tingle and how if I told her I’m the one saying asshole things on Facebook she’d give me one of those left hook kicks to the nut sack instead of another smile.
“Sorry, I know I’m being weird. Evading your questions, changing the subject, and talking about some idiot on Facebook that pissed me off,” she explains. “I can’t lie to you when you’re being so honest and nice.”
Honesty is my middle name. Right after Lying Dickhead Asshole.
She looks away for a minute, blows out a huge breath, and then turns her head back to me, nervously chewing on her bottom lip.
“Marco, I’m not pregnant.”
Now my eyes move to the general region of her crotch area, and I wonder if I should have paid better attention in health class since I’m guessing she must have lost the baby somewhere between Third Street and the second refill of our drinks, and I had no idea it could happen so fast and without my knowledge.
“Um, do you need to go to the hospital or something?” I ask lamely. “Boiling water or clean towels…I could flag down the waitress.”
I don’t know much about losing a baby, but I’m guessing it’s not as simple as losing your car keys and she probably needs medical assistance at the very least. And why do they call it losing a baby? You didn’t misplace it. I’m pretty sure you know where that thing is at all times.
Molly laughs again and shakes her head, and I’m a little surprised she isn’t more torn up about this. I cried when I lost my favorite star frosting tip. I mean, allegedly. Like I’d really cry over a little piece of stainless steel I found by chance at a garage sale three years ago that made the perfect fleur-de-lis I haven’t been able to recreate with another tip since it disappeared months ago.
“I didn’t lose the baby, Marco. I was never pregnant to begin with.”
Her words make my mouth drop open and save me from the embarrassment of telling her the tears in my eyes are from allergies and not a frosting tip whose loss I can neither confirm nor deny still haunts me to this day.
“I’m sorry. I should have told you the truth as soon as you offered to help me. I’m not pregnant, and I understand if you hate me for lying to you,” she tells me sadly.
All thoughts of the perfect fleur-de-lis fly from my brain and it’s all I can do not to pinch myself to see if I’m dreaming.
“Come again?” I whisper.
No, really. I’m pretty sure I just came in my pants when you said you weren’t pregnant and I’d like to do that again, please.
“I’m not pregnant and I never was. I was lying for Charlotte,” she explains. “She’s getting married in a month and just found out she’s pregnant and it’s this whole big mess I got roped into because she doesn’t want her fiancé…never mind. It’s not important. It’s my mess to deal with and I’m sorry you got pulled into it.”
I can hear sadness in her voice and I feel bad she thinks I’d hate her over something that just made me the happiest man on the earth. I can still fantasize about having sex with her without feeling gross. I can still have sex with her without worrying another man’s fetus is giving my penis the side-eye.
Finally pulling my eyes away from her crotch where a baby didn’t somehow escape between courses, past her flat stomach I no longer have to worry about alien limbs trying to claw out of, taking a moment to pause on her tits and only feeling a little ashamed that the one thing I might have enjoyed about this entire shit show is seeing them get huge from the douchebag fetus (because that was something I definitely paid attention to in health class), my eyes finally land on her face.
“So, what you’re telling me is I can ask you out on a date now and not feel weird about you carrying another man’s child?” I ask happily.
She raises her eyebrow and glares at me. “Seriously? That’s all you got out of my confession?”
I quickly backpedal, realizing I still need a way for her to see I’m a good guy and only pretend to be a dick online to sell more cookbooks. I can’t tell her I’m Alfanso D. until she knows the D. stands for something much better than dickhead. Like decent, dependable, desirable, daring, and hopefully delicious (pineapple dump cake jizz, here I come!).
“What I meant to say is, I could never hate you for doing something so selfless for your sister,” I explain, doing my best to let the whole decent and dependable part shine. “How long are you supposed to help her out with this?”
Molly rolls her eyes and turns away from me, flopping her body against the seat back. “Just until the wedding. So roughly four weeks. It’s not that long I guess, but it’s an entire month of my family being disappointed and ashamed of me instead of her. I mean, my family is cool and understanding and they wouldn’t come right out and tell me any of this, but I know they’ll feel it deep down inside whenever they look at me. This is supposed to be the best time of my life. I just graduated and I have my whole life ahead of me, and instead of celebrating, I’m going home to lie to my family. I keep trying to tell myself it’s for a good cause. I’m helping my sister, as selfish as she is, get her shit together and figure out a way to break the news to her fiancé so they can live a long, happy life together. Right now, it doesn’t feel like a good idea thinking about what will happen when I walk in that door.”
Now that I know there’s no chance of her pregnant-puking on me, and I don’t have to fight the delectable smell of her skin and how it makes me want to lick every inch of it, I slide across the bench until our thighs are touching. A month is perfect. It’s plenty of time for me to charm the pants off of her and hopefully take the pants off of her, blinding her with passion and bedroom skills until she has no other choice but to fall for me AND Alfanso D.
“I’m still in, if you are,” I tell her softly, leaning in until her long, dark hair tickles my nose and I can take a big, completely innocent inhale of her scent.
“Did you just sniff my hair?” she asks softly, her face turning towards me and our noses are almost touching since I moved even closer while I got a whiff.
“Yes, yes I did smell your hair, and I’m not ashamed to admit it,” I inform her, hoping she’ll see this as daring that I didn’t cover up my obsession with her sweet fragrance. “I’ve noticed you always smell like cinnamon and apples and I like it.”
She runs her hand nervously through her hair and I watch as the cutest blush highlights her cheeks.
“It’s an essential oil I use for stress. Apple cinnamon oil. You’re supposed to put it on the inside of your wrists and the back of your neck to relieve stress and anxiety,” she rambles. “I took to bathing in it the last two years of school just so I wouldn’t lose my mind.”
I stare into her eyes and smile when I see the color on her cheeks deepen and she laughs uncomfortably, pulling her face back from mine and scooting away from me this time. She shakes her head and huffs in annoyance.
“Stop distracting me with your stupid dimples and tell me if I heard you correctly a minute ago, or if you’ve been sneaking hits of crack under the table,” she speaks, a little snark mixed in with her words.
I’ve caught a few glimpses of her fiery attitude over the past couple of years when she didn’t know I was watching, and it’s something I looked forward to seeing and hearing whenever I was around her. I like a woman who speaks her mind and doesn’t get all giggly and shy with a guy. I like a little ball-busting from a woman, as long as it doesn’t result in the actual busting of balls because I kind of need those things to live.
“Did you really tell me you’re still in if I am?” she continues, looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.
I probably have. I’m sure I lost it somewhere after the meatloaf and before I found out she didn’t really lose a baby in between the seat cushions and realized she was no longer chock full of infested, smelly-ass sperm from some no-name douchebag I’d no longer have to hire someone else to beat up.
“I did, and I am,” I reiterate. “I have two sisters myself that drive me insane, but I’d still do anything for them. If you want a baby daddy to take some of the heat off of you, I’m am ready, willing, and able to be your baby daddy.”
She shakes her head rapidly back and forth. “I can’t let you do that, Marco. I know I said my family is cool and understanding, but they’re straight up insane. You have no idea what you’d be walking into with them. Hell, I’ve known them my entire life and I don’t even have a clue.”
Unable to help myself, I reach up and brush her hair off of her shoulders, mentally sending words of warning to my dick that now is NOT the time to jump around with his hands in the air when I find out her hair is as silky and soft as I thought it would be.
“Molly, I want to do this. Believe me, my family is certifiable,” I tell her with a laugh. “There is nothing I haven’t seen or heard before when it comes to family. I can handle whatever they dish out.”
For a second there she looked like she might bite off my hand when I touched her, and I’m not gonna lie, that it turned me on. My mind starts churning out ideas of adding a little BDSM to the next cookbook, maybe some light whipping while your partner whisks egg whites into cream…
“You don’t have to do something like this just because you feel sorry for me,” she says in irritation, pulling my head out of the gutter where Molly was wearing a black leather apron and nothing else while I held a riding crop in my hand.
“Did you miss the part where I told you I like you?” I ask her, realizing she thinks I’m still offering to help her out of some sort of guilt. “I really like you, Molly, and I’d like to spend more time with you. If that means I have to be the fake sperm donor to your fake baby, then so be it.”
I wisely leave out the part where my dick is now handing out “It’s not a boy OR a girl” cigars to my balls in celebration that they still have a chance with this girl.
“You have no idea what you’re agreeing to….” she tells me, trailing off as she scrunches up her face while she thinks it over.
The waitress drops off our check and I leave Molly to her thoughts as I pull out my wallet and count enough for the bill and a hefty tip, even if I’m still pissed about them not having apple pie. Smelling Molly’s hair cured me of my need for it anyway.
Pushing against Molly’s hip with my own to get her to move out of the booth, she slides out and stands next to the table to wait for me to follow. Returning my wallet to my back pocket, I grab her hand and slide my fingers through hers, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze.
“Come on, let’s go tell your family the happy news.” I smile, tugging her towards the door. “I can practice my apologetic looks and fake happiness over this pretend blessing on the ride over and you can tell me more about your family.”
When we get out to the parking lot, I add a little more decency to the D. in my name by holding the passenger door open for her, quickly realizing I might have pushed it a little too far when I made a grand, sweeping gesture with my arm and called her m’lady, going by the annoyed snort and eye roll she gave me.
Making a mental note that she doesn’t seem to like being treated like a princess, I round the hood of the car and get in behind the wheel, looking over at her as I pull my car keys out of my front pocket.
“So, what’s the first thing I should know about your family?” I ask, sticking the keys in the ignition.
“Don’t do all that mushy, girly stuff like hold my hand or open doors,” she begins. “My family will know you’re lying right away because I’m not into all that PDA shit,” she begins. “When my dad starts cracking his knuckles and talking about how he trained as a kickboxer for twenty years, don’t show any signs of weakness. But if he gets his gun out of the hall closet, run.”
Silence fills the car for a few moments until a high-pitch, screeching noise hits my ears and I realize my fingers are still clutched tightly to the key in the ignition and I’ve continued to turn it in a daze even though it started twenty seconds ago.
“Heh, heh,” I laugh uncomfortably, yanking my hand away from the key to clutch the steering wheel. “That’s hilarious, Molly. Good work trying to scare me out of doing this.”
She laughs as I put the car in gear and pull out of the parking lot, her laughter letting me know she really was kidding and her father isn’t going to try and kill me.
“You can’t blame me for trying,” she says with a shrug as I pull out into traffic and head in the direction she points. “My dad’s never taken a kickboxing class in his life, so you don’t have to worry about that.”
Well, that’s good to know. If I couldn’t fight that little shit, Tommy Knittle, there’s no way I could take on a pissed off father who thinks I knocked up his little girl. I’m a baker, not a fighter.
We both share a laugh until she suddenly stops and looks over at me. “But seriously, you can run, right? Because he really does have a gun.”
I can still bake with a gunshot wound, right?
Chapter 5
– Thug Mug –
Molly
As Marco follows my directions home, I throw out a few random facts about my family on the way, doing my best not to freak him out too much. I mean, aside from the whole gun thing, but I feel like I would have done him a disservice by leaving that part out. It’s bad enough I let him think I was pregnant, even if was only for thirty minutes tops before my conscience got the best of me. I don’t want him to be completely blindsided by my family when he’s doing something so amazing for me, but maybe I said too much. He stopped talking and started looking like he might throw up about ten miles ago. Maybe telling him about how my Uncle Drew and Aunt Jenny never shut up about their sex life is where I lost him. Or it could have been when I tried to explain what a Brony is and promised him I’d never let Ava and her boyfriend Tyler force him to wear a horse tail. It was probably when I said that stupid shit about not liking PDA. Normally, I cringe if a guy tries to kiss me or hold my hand in public, but when Marco does it I want to rip his clothes off. Which is why it’s probably for the best that he stop doing it altogether. My family doesn’t need another reason to be freaked out.
“Turn left at the next stop sign,” I tell him, twisting my neck to stare at his profile as he flips on the blinker and slows to a stop.
He’s so good looking it’s almost sickening. With his Italian genes that give him a gorgeous olive complexion, thick dark brown hair he keeps short on the sides with a messy spike on top, and so many muscles it’s a wonder he doesn’t bust out of every shirt he puts on, it’s very hard not to drool in his presence. The fact that he told me he likes me should make me feel better that my crush isn’t one-sided, but it just makes everything worse. It makes me act like a girl around him – a stupid, giggly, shy girl who forgets how to speak when he smiles at her. I might be known as the quiet one in the family, but I’ve never been shy until I met Marco Desoto. Now, not only do I have to worry about what’s going to happen with my family in the next couple of weeks and if I’ll be able to pull this whole thing off, I have to worry about Marco witnessing all of it and hoping he still likes me when it’s over.
My phone vibrates in my hand and I stop gawking at Marco long enough to look down and see I have a Facebook notification. Opening the app, I laugh out loud when I see what the notification says and who it’s from.
“What’s so funny?” Marco asks, taking his eyes off the road long enough to see that I’m looking at my phone.
Since he’s finally talking again, and no longer looks like he’s going to yak all over the dashboard, I figure I might as well share this with him and give him a good laugh to ease the tension of what’s about to happen.
“So, remember that douchebag I mentioned at the diner? Alfanso D., the supposed cookbook author? I called him out in front of all of his adoring fans, and he just replied to my comment.”
“HE WHAT?!” Marco shouts, the car swerving off the berm and onto the gravel before he hastily rights the wheel and gets us back onto the road.
He gives me a quick look of apology and mutters something about a cat in the road before continuing. “There’s no way he replied. Are you sure? Maybe you’re confused.”
I laugh, wondering why the hell he looks so freaked out when we’re not even talking about my family, but some idiot on Facebook.
“I’m definitely not confused, and yes, I’m sure he replied. Here, listen to this,” I tell him, clearing my throat and reading the pathetic comment. “‘Dearest Molly, I am deeply sorry if anything I said angered you. Please accept my apology and know I will do my best not to make such offensive comments going forward.’”
It’s even funnier reading it out loud so I do it one more time, but make my voice high-pitch and very feminine this time.
“There’s no way this guy wrote that thing himself. I bet the comment I made about cutting the cord from his mommy made him go running right to the poor woman and he made her type this,” I chuckle.
“His mother tries to text people using the TV remote. I doubt she’d know her way around Facebook,” Marco mutters.
I look at him questioningly and he laughs. “I mean, I’m assuming that’s how his mother is. You know, because he’s a douchebag and all that…”
Figuring he’s probably right and that the mother of Alfanso Douchebag has got to be as dumb as he is, I point out the next street Marco needs to turn down and which house is mine before looking back at my phone.
“He even put a heart and smiley face emoji at the end of his reply. How sad is that?” I ask. “This guy definitely has a small penis. Or no penis at all.”
Marco pulls the car to the curb, mumbling under his breath so quietly I can barely hear what he says. The only words I catch are anaconda penis and something about sisters wishing they’d never been born, but before I can ask him to repeat himself, I look up and realize we’re in front of my house. My hands start to sweat and my stomach flip-flops all over the place as he turns off the ignition and we sit in silence.
“Deep breaths, it’s going to be fine,” Marco reassures me as he pockets his keys. “I’m going to be right here the whole time. You’re going to do great, they’re going to believe every word you say, and they’re going to surprise you by being happy and supportive and making this a hell of a lot easier on you.”
I do what he says and take a few deep, calming breaths. I just need to keep my eye on the prize. A whole new set of baking utensils, a KitchenAid mixer, and ten percent of Charlotte and Gavin’s wedding money. That will be more than enough for a deposit on my own apartment so I can move out of my parent’s home and finally have some privacy. Privacy that will hopefully include a lot of naked time with the man next to me, as long as he hasn’t changed his name and fled the country after dealing with my insane family for the next few weeks.
“And if things start to heat up, I’ll just tell them about my incredibly huge penis, and how I’m without a doubt decent, dependable, desirable, daring and delicious,” he says with a smile, leaning across the console to give me a quick peck on the cheek.
He’s out of the car and around to my side, holding my door open for me before I can do something stupid like cradle my cheek in my hand and vow to never wash it again after he kissed it.
“Didn’t I tell you to stop doing stuff like that?” I growl, pretending like I’m annoyed instead of two seconds away from asking him to take his pants off on the front lawn.
“Well, stop having such a kissable cheek then,” he replies easily.
Marco continues to tell me how everything will be fine as we make our way up the sidewalk and onto the porch. I start to feel a bit more confident until I open the front door. The quiet peacefulness of the neighborhood outside is immediately ruined as we step into the foyer and the sounds of screaming, arguing, and cursing coming from the living room explode through the house.
“What in the hell?” I murmur as I start to move down the hall to the direction of the noise, the sound of Marco’s shoes on the hardwood echoing behind me as he quietly follows.
When we’re a few feet from the living room and the noise has reached ear-piercing level, Charlotte suddenly flies out of the room and around the corner, sliding across the floor in her stocking feet and quickly latching onto my arms to stop herself from slamming into me.
“What is going on in there?” I ask her when I can finally make out one of the shouting voices and it’s my mother’s, who just told someone to “Shut the fuck up before I fucking make you shut the fucking fuck up, you fucking fuck!”
Not her cleverest of curses, but certainly not one I haven’t heard before.
“What are you doing here?” Charlotte whispers frantically. “I sent you a text! Didn’t you get my text?!”
The shouting in the other room goes back to blending all together into one big noise as I pull my phone out of my back pocket and see I did indeed miss a text from Charlotte.
“Sorry, we were talking on the ride over and I missed it. Oh my gosh, wait until I tell you about the douchebag who—” I stop mid sentence when I open up the missed text and see what has Charlotte in such a panic and World War III happening in our living room.
THEY KNOW! OMG THEY KNOW! TXT ME ASAP!
I look up at Charlotte in sympathy and awkwardly pat her shoulder. “I’m sorry. Obviously the adults aren’t taking it very well, but what did Gavin say? Are you guys okay?”
She winces and shakes her head back and forth. “No! They know about YOU, not about me!”
“Would you guys just shut the hell up so I can think? Drew, go get my gun. And the brass knuckles. Oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t look at me like that. A coffee cup with brass knuckles as the handle does too count as actual brass knuckles, so you can fuck right off.”
My dad’s voice is loud and clear over everyone else’s this time, and I hear Marco whimper softly behind me. I wish I had time to remind him again that my dad’s bark is usually worse than his bite, but I have more pressing concerns right now.
“What do you mean they know? How in the hell did they find out?” I whisper-shout as Charlotte suddenly realizes Marco is standing behind me.
Her eyes widen and she not-so-subtly jerks her head in his direction before moving her face closer to mine.
“Oes-day e-hay now-kay?” she mumbles, still shooting worried glances over my shoulder.
“Does he know?” Marco asks in confusion. “Does who know what?”
Charlotte gasps. “He knew what I said!”
“You spoke in Pig Latin, Charlotte,” I say with a roll of my eyes. “That’s not exactly a foreign language no one understands. And yes, he knows everything.”
She clutches my upper arms tightly, jerking my body with each of her words. “Why would you tell him?! Before you know it, the whole world will know!”
“I am not afraid to smack a pregnant chick, so let go of my arms,” I threaten through my gritted teeth, shrugging out of her tight hold on me. “In case you’re forgetting, this is my life too, and I will tell whomever I want, especially the guy agreeing to be your baby’s fake baby daddy that I’m now pretending to carry.”
Can this get anymore confusing???
“Can we get back to a more pressing matter right now?” I continue once Charlotte has the decency to look sorry for being an asshole to someone going through a hell of a lot of trouble to help save her marriage. “How did mom and dad find out already?”
