Page 42 of Single Mom's Secret Diary
While I’m waiting, a smartly-dressed woman approaches, ordering a lemonade and power posing beside me. She meets my eyes, snaps, and points at me. “You. You’re Avery Caruso, right? Charlie’s mom?”
I nod. “Yeah, I am.”
The woman reaches her hand out to me. “Bobbi DuBois.”
I shake her hand, trying not to be wary, but she doesn’t let me linger in it for long.
“You work for Nguyen Candy Company.”
My shoulders draw back, straightening my spine as I look her over. “I do.”
“I’ve always wanted to work at a candy company, but I imagine I would be eating chocolate until I get sick. I’m sure it gets old after a while.” Bobbi brushes back her straight red hair from her shoulder and gives me a disarming smile.
I smile back. “The trick is to take small bites and not too many a day.”
“But that’s what you do, isn’t it? You taste the chocolate.” She stirs her lemonade with her straw as I take a sip of my soda. The pretzel comes out next, and its warmth is nice in this chilly rink.
“It is. Sorry, I’m going to go back and watch my son. It was nice to meet you.” I take two steps before she’s beside me again, a card extended between two fingers.
“I’d love to take you to lunch and talk about where your skills might be a better fit with a bigger company.” Bobbi shrugs as if the offer is no big deal. “I know a few who’d love to have a powerhouse taster like you on their team.”
I take the card—if just to get past this. I don’t plan on leaving Nguyen Candy Company any time soon. Not with the perks thatcome with spending so much time in the office with Ezra, Ryder, and Wyatt.
“Thanks.” I point up to my seat to reiterate my plans and sit, watching the boys speed skate back and forth across the rink.
My eyes slip out of focus, and a new daydream takes over my brain. One that I won’t write down for fear of the guys finding it. It’s still a sore point, although a small one, given the kind of fantasies they’ve fulfilled from it. They don’t get all the credit, though. It’s much easier to get things right when you have written instructions from your lover.
But this one doesn’t center on sex. Other parts of my life seem to be missing them. How nice would it be to have one or all three of them here for Charlie’s practice, keeping me company, chatting and teasing and cheering my son on?
I can just imagine Wyatt analyzing every move on the ice, talking to the coach to give him pointers based on physics. Ryder would flirt and wink at the other moms, engaging them in a way I can never fully muster the energy for. They’d fawn over him and make me jealous. And Ezra would hold my hand, speak low about any of the various topics that would slip in and out of our conversation.
He’d also have the full pride of a dad watching Charlie.
The moment those two meet, my biggest, scariest secret will be as clear as day. It’s the reason they’re not here. The reason I can’t invite them, even though I know I can shoot off a text right now and they’d be here because I asked them to be.
Coach blows the whistle again. It’s break time, so I descend the bleachers to offer Charlie a snack, which he takes with a smile. Dad packed him a chocolate croissant with raspberry jam. “Want anything else? I can go to the concession stand.”
My son shakes his head. “Nah. Teddy is going to let me have a slice of his pizza for half my croissant. Is it alright if I go eat with him?”
“Of course. Go have fun, baby.”
He frowns. “I’m not a baby.”
“You’ll always be my baby. Go on. Shoo. Be a grown boy.” I wave him on as he tries to hide his smile with a frown, but when I make an exasperated face at him, he can’t hide it anymore. The full grin with all of his bright white teeth makes me happy in ways I can’t properly put to words.
As I climb back up the bleachers, I spot Bobbi texting on her phone before she lifts her head and smiles at me. It seems genuine, so I walk over and sit. “Know a good place around here to grab a quick lunch?”
Bobbi perks immediately. “I do. Come on. My treat.”
She leads me out the other side of the bleachers to exit around the back of the rink. We’re comfortably silent on the two-block walk to a Cuban food truck with a small line. I order Picadillo, fried plantains, and rice pudding, and we sit on a small brick half-wall nearby with our to-go boxes and forks.
After my first bite, the one I close my eyes to taste every little thing added to it, I open to the curious gaze of Bobbi.
“You have to tell me what you taste. I can never get every ingredient in there no matter how hard I try.” Her pale blue eyes are full of wonder, and I’m not sure whether it’s put on for my benefit or not. She’s already mentioned other job opportunities, so I can’t completely trust her intentions.
“Mmm. Chopped beef—chuck roast—they braised it, given its tenderness. Tomatoes, peppers, garlic, and onions…” Honestly, those are a staple in so many cuisines. “This also has cumin and bay leaf—Turkish. Raisins, both gold and red, and capers.”
I take up another spoonful before she comments.
