“Cold,” he says, pulling the door closed with a soft click.
“Proud of you today.” I tug the burp rag off his shoulder and take the bottle from his hand. “First peek-a-boo, then the Baby Bjorn. Now bedtime. What’s next for you?”
His full lips arch as he readies a response, only he stops. Sniffs. Then glances down at his t-shirt where a very prominent, still moist spit-up stain resides.
“Oh, here—” I’m about to hand him the rag … when he rips off his shirt. My mouth dries and I swallow. “That works too.”
“Where’s your laundry?”
“It’s the door at the end of the hall, between your room and mine,” I say, pointing. “You can throw it on top of the washer. I’ll take care of it. I’ve got a whole system for getting formula stains out. The key is to use OxiClean and vinegar or you’ll never get the smell out.”
Fabian drops the shirt off in the laundry room, only instead of making a pit stop in the guest room for a fresh shirt, he returns shirtless.
My skin flushes hot, and it takes everything I have to keep my eyes from roaming the great muscled plains of his chiseled upper body.
I mean, seriously.
How is he real?
And how is he my child’s father?
Helping himself to the fridge, he grabs a bottle of water and meets me by the sofa.
“Hope you’re not planning on being entertained tonight,” I say. “Because this is a typical Saturday night in the Bianco household. Baby’s in bed by eight. And I usually spend an hour looking for something to watch on Netflix before giving up and passing out on the couch. It’s a glamorous existence we lead. I really hope you’ll be able to keep up these next few weeks.”
He chuffs, uncapping his water.
“Hold on. Someone’s calling.” I pull my buzzing phone from my pocket. “It’s my sister. Two secs.” I press the green button and lift it to my ear. “What’s up?”
“I. Fucking. Hate. Men,” she groans.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Stood up,” she says. “Again.”
“I’m so sorry.” If I haven’t lost count, that’s the fourth time this year. Added to the eight times last year. For whatever reason, Carina is a magnet for these types. “Don’t let him ruin your night. Go meet up with your friends at The Lounge for a drink or something.”
“I’m actually a block away. I thought I could just chill with you tonight?”
“Oh.” My gaze flicks across the room to where a very shirtless, very watchful Fabian waits for me to finish my call. “Um.”
“Oh, shit. I forgot Baby Daddy is there,” she says. “Never mind. I’ll go home.”
“No, no, it’s fine. Stop by.”
“You sure?” she asks, followed by the slamming of a car door—which I hear both via the phone and coming from my driveway. A second later, the garage door whines open and my sister blasts through the entrance. “Oh.” She stops in her tracks when she spots Fabian. “Ohhh.”
“Sorry,” I say to him. “I didn’t realize my sister was fifty feet away when she said she was a block away.”
“I can leave,” Carina says.
“She got stood up,” I tell Fabian.
“Sorry to hear that.” He rises, disappearing into the guest room and returning tragically clothed. Though it’s for the best, because my thoughts were starting to take the road less traveled, and who knows where that would’ve led.
Helping herself to my kitchen, Carina grabs a bottle of green apple vodka, a carton of apple juice from the fridge, and a tall glass.
“I just don’t get it,” she says, mixing up a poor man’s apple martini. “We were texting for months. Had so much in common, more chemistry than I’ve had with anyone in forever. Like he ‘got’ my sense of humor—no easy feat as you know. He was even asking me about travel plans for this summer, telling me there’s this really great lake we should hit up.” She tosses back a mouthful. “So we finally make plans to meet. I show up. Text him to let him know I got us a table in the corner. No response. And then I wait. And I’m waiting, waiting, waiting. And I’m sitting there looking like a loser, you know? So finally after forty minutes, I just left.”
“I’m so sorry.” I hunch over the island and give her my sad, puppy dog eyes. I don’t miss the dating world, and honestly, I’m grateful to be out of it. It’s toxic. Terrifying. Unpredictable. Maybe I’ll stick my toes back in someday, when my dating pool beckons calm, divorced, established businessmen with grown kids. Until then, I’ve got Lucia and our perfect little drama-free life.
“Why do you guys do this?” Carina directs her question toward Fabian, who shoots her a deer-in-headlights look.
“I don’t think we need to lump Fabian into any of this,” I say.
“I’ve never stood anyone up,” he says. “But I know people who have. It always boils down to fear. They’re afraid you won’t like them in person, they’re afraid it’ll be awkward, they’re afraid you’ll see them for who they really are and not for the larger-than-life person they were pretending to be online. It’s almost never personal.”