Page 26 of The Bartender's Baby

“Okay. I’m going. Bye.”

I rushed off to the bathroom, hearing Nate downstairs offering Ming-Yue a cinnamon roll and promising he was not a murderer. I laughed as I brushed my teeth, taking that light, fluttery feeling into the shower with me, where I shaved and exfoliated, making up for the extra scrub by not washing my hair.

I figured I’d take a few of my new maternity purchases for a spin and dressed in super-comfy leggings and a long-sleeved mint-green shirt that displayed the bump proudly. Downstairs, I found Nate in the kitchen, exploring.

“What are you looking for?”

He answered with his back to me, a cabinet open in front of him. “Mouse poop.”

“What?”

“Yeah,” he said conversationally. “I noticed a crawl space on the side of the house.”

“Why were you looking at the side of the house?”

He went right on, ignoring my question, opening and closing each cabinet. “So then I took a walk to the back and found a distressing hole right where the gate meets the corner of the house. I checked it out, and it looked like there was a nest in there.” He circled around. “You got a basement?” He stopped his mouse rant and stepped toward me, smiling. “Good morning.”

“We have mice?”

He slid a small pink cardboard box my way. “I brought cinnamon rolls from the bakery on Aster. It’s right across from where the new place is gonna be, and?—”

I snatched the box from him. “Mice!”

“Hey, hey, hey,” he cooed, shuffling around the small kitchen island to seat me at the table. “It’s okay. You can give the landlord a call and get somebody down here to take care of it.”

My landlord managed a bunch of properties around the college. Didn’t care much for upkeep during the academic calendar since most college kids didn’t care.

Nate swirled his finger at my face. “What’s the face for?”

“Nothing.”

He eyed me dubiously and pulled his cell phone from his pocket, tapping something into it, all the while I imagined micecrawling over me. I shuddered, and Nate held on to my shoulder. “All right?”

“Thinking about the mice…” I gagged.

“Yeah. I’m taking care of it.”

“How?” I opened the bakery box, momentarily forgetting about miniature pests and inhaling the delicious cinnamon and sugar scents of the warm and still gooey buns. I dove right in, peeling one of the rolls off the paper. When the first delicious bite hit my tongue, I closed my eyes, the flavor pure bliss.

Nate made a kind of tortured grunt, and I fluttered my lids back open to find him glowering at me. I licked my fingers, talking around the pastry. “What?”

He merely shook his head, full attention on my mouth.

“What?” I repeated, completely garbled.

“I know a guy,” he said after a moment when he dragged his gaze up to mine. “Stop making those sex sounds while you eat.”

I didn’t often blush, but I was happy he spun around to face the cabinets because I felt myself go beet red.

Nate picked up a glass and thoroughly examined it, as if still searching for traces of mice. But our house was clean. Ming-Yue and I were both neat freaks. He finally opened the refrigerator for the jug of orange juice he’d had delivered a few days ago and poured me some before setting it in front of me.

“Why?”

He sat back down. “Why should you stop making sex sounds? Because it’s distracting, and I keep forgetting what we’re talking about.” He slapped two napkins on my sticky fingers. “Now, please, use a napkin to wipe your mouth before I forget where the hell I am.”

I rolled my eyes, hoping I wasn’t blushing again, and wiped off my mouth and my hands. “I meant why are you doing all of this for me?”

He propped his elbows on the table and fisted his right hand in his left, tipping his head side to side, thinking about his answer more than I assumed he’d need to.

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