Page 36 of Baby Daddy Wanted

F O U R T E E N

- Finn -

I didn't realize how much I was watching the door until Maeve came through it, her pretty cheekbones floating above the popped collar of her structured coat.

Her eyes met mine a second later, and I kept singing Joni Mitchell as she made her way to the same seat she'd been in the night we met. My seat. I was happy for her to have it, though. Liked it better with her in it. Frankly, I felt the same way about the bar. Which was odd. I didn't even know her, and she'd given me no reason to believe we had anything in common. Apart from the belief that her pretty scarf didn’t really suit me.

That much was obvious from the disapproving look she gave me when she noticed I was wearing it. But there was an amusement in her eyes, too, and I felt encouraged by the fact that I’d surprised her. That’s not why I put it on, of course. I put it on so she wouldn’t grab it from behind the bar and take off before I could say hello. After all, I’d been looking forward to meeting her all week. And if the attention I lavished on my nether regions in the shower earlier was any indication, part of me hoped it would turn into a date.

She ordered a drink from Brian and took her coat off as I started singing the chorus. I could tell by her outfit she'd come from work. Her hair was up, and she was wearing a red shirt that screamed dry clean only along with a pencil skirt that sent me straight back to second grade. That was the first time I ever saw a woman in a skirt like that and realized they were shaped differently from men. But my second grade teacher's body was no match for Maeve's.

The high skirt showed off her delicate waist before flowing out over her hips and ass, which were surprisingly shapely despite her thin limbs. I imagined she had no trouble buying clothes that flattered her. I remember hearing my mom complain about how clothes weren't designed for real women, and I finally understood what she meant. Maeve looked unreal in clothes. So unreal I couldn't help but wonder what she'd look like out of them.

My mouth kept singing thanks to muscle memory, but my mind was miles away, trying to guess what kind of underwear a woman like Maeve would wear. Probably something structured. She didn't strike me as the kind of woman who'd risk her nipples showing in a board meeting. And expensive. Silk, maybe. Or lace.

I felt an inappropriate surge of jealousy as she chatted with Brian at the bar, and I hoped he wouldn't say anything stupid that would make it harder for me to win her over. Not that I'd thought much about how I intended to do that or what I would do if it happened.

I guess I just wanted the option. Guess I liked the idea that a woman like Maeve might like me for me, instead of for who I used to be. It was dumb. I knew that. I didn't know her well enough to attach such meaning to her approval.

Still, she was hot, and as Brian had accurately surmised, she was a grown-up. I didn't meet many of those, since I avoided them as much as possible, but I was willing to be open-minded in her case. And suddenly, I wondered if I’d made the wrong decision by wearing her scarf. Not that I could do much about it now. Besides, if she couldn't take a joke, our flirtation was dead in the water anyway.

Brian brought her a glass of white wine and let her pay for it, which was disappointing. Then again, he was more interested in staying in business than getting in her pants, so I suppose it was the right call.

The important thing was that she'd stayed for a drink that wasn't Scotch, which was promising. The last thing I needed was another alcoholic in my life.

She swiveled towards me, and the stakes felt higher all of a sudden. Like she was really listening. To me and only me. And for a moment, I was thirteen again, practicing the guitar till my fingers ached in the hope that someday a gorgeous woman would cross her legs in my direction and watch me play.

So I gave it everything. Sure, my casual exterior stayed the same, and the regulars who'd heard all my songs a million times didn't exactly stop what they were doing. But as far as I was concerned, it was just us. Just me and Maeve and my guitar, which I let do all the talking.

I played the songs I thought she'd like best. “Jack and Diane.” “Brown Eyed Girl.” “Cecilia.” “Hallelujah.” An original song I wrote about a time I was brokenhearted, during which I avoided catching her eye so she wouldn't think it was personal. But it was. The whole set was. It was the most personal gig I'd played in years. And I could feel it in my fingers and in my throat, which rasped a little harder for every note.

It felt good, actually. Playing for someone besides myself again. And the way her eyes drifted over me made me feel charged. Electric. Plugged in like I hadn't felt in a long time. Part of me never wanted the set to end.

But the music was an illusion. I knew that. Knew I could only hide behind it for so long. Eventually I'd have to go up to her, return her scarf, and not blow it.

It made me uncomfortable that I cared so much. I think that's part of the reason I kept playing. It was easy to hit on women when you didn't care what happened one way or the other. But I liked Maeve. From the moment I saw her, I knew she was extra. Extra what, I didn't know yet. Neurotic. Driven. Guarded. But there was more to her than that. I could tell.

I could tell by the way she watched me and by the way she kept her eyes on everyone else. She wasn't a hen, as Brian had called her. She was a hawk. An owl. An endangered species. And I wanted to sing to her all night.

Whether or not she'd let me, I didn't know. But when it came time to put my guitar down, I graciously accepted the applause of the crowd who'd been half listening. Then I took a deep breath and made my way over to the bar, hoping against all odds that it wouldn't be the last time I got to play for her.

---