Page 70 of Baby Daddy Wanted

“You don’t want to know.”

“You mean you don’t want to tell me,” she said.

I sighed and looked over my shoulder. Maeve was standing with her head cocked, my shirt falling over her perky breasts, and as much as I wanted to avoid this conversation, I’d rather she heard the story from me than from Googling me.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine,” she said, gripping the countertop behind her. “But don’t tell me what I do and don’t want to know.”

“Point taken.” I opened the machine when the buzzer sounded, deciding we should start with half a waffle each while the next one cooked.

“Well?”

I set the golden waffle on a plate, cut it in half, and marveled at the impressive uniformity of color I’d achieved. “Breakfast is served.” I lifted my chin towards the table, where I’d already laid out the syrup, butter, and whipped cream.

“That looks great.”

“Could be beginner’s luck,” I said, setting the plates down and going back to load the remaining batter into the iron. “There’s a lot riding on this next attempt.”

She took a seat at the table and pushed her hair behind her shoulders before scooting in.

I poured the batter between the groves, latched the lid, and joined her at the shadow-covered end of the breakfast table.

“So,” she said, directing her attention to the butter dish. “You were saying?”

“I’ll give you the short version.”

“Sure.”

I took a deep breath, determined to choose my words judiciously. “Basically, I dropped out of school to help him pursue his dream, played an instrumental part in helping him achieve it, and then put up with years of bullshit when he failed to handle our success with grace.”

“Was that a pun?” she asked. “Instrumental?”

My lips teased a smile. “I suppose it was.”

“What was his dream?”

“To make it as a musician,” I said. “Except his idea of making it involved a lot more drama than I’d initially signed up for.”

“So you guys were in a band?”

I nodded.

“What does he do now?”

“He’s performed solo ever since I dropped out, and he has his alcoholism to keep him company.”

Her expression drooped. “And you haven't talked since?”

“Only the way you talk to a barista you barely know.”

Sadness softened her features.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

I grabbed the whipped cream and pointed the nozzle at her. “What were you going to say?”

Her eyes widened. “You wouldn’t dare.”

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