I popped back up. “Wow—bringing his daughter around, inviting me to parties . . . look who’s making things official all of a sudden?” I gave him a toss of hair over my shoulders to soften my words slightly, but no matter, the words landed.
“Hell, yes, a housewarming party makes it official,” he said lightly, pretending to toss his own hair over his shoulder. He’d peeped my game, and wasn’t having it. “It’s a party, Rox. I’m just asking you to go to a party; it’s not till death do us part.”
Have you ever been in a room filled with ambient noise, and you know can have a private conversation that no one can possibly overhear, because of all the background chatter? But then suddenly—usually during the juiciest part—all the side noise falls away, and everyone hears what you’re saying?
Now imagine that in a small-town diner, when there’s a break in the jukebox playlist exactly as Leo Maxwell, the town’s most eligible bachelor, says till death do us part to Roxie Callahan, runaway daughter and least eligible bachelorette?
Maxine and her cohorts had a banner day at the condiment station. A banner day.
Chapter 20
That week went from weird to weirder. I stayed super busy at the diner, was baking cakes after we closed for the orders that were pouring in, and was starting to realize that even with the artisanal bakeries, the mom-and-pop joints, and the local locavore diet, people were flat-out clamoring for cakes made the way their grandma used to make them. I was knee deep in red velvet, up to my eyes in bourbon cream, and more often than not, went to bed at night with coconut in my hair.
What I wasn’t going to bed with was a certain farmer whom I’d become used to having at my disposal whenever the need (which was always) arose (which on him was always). But when you add a kid to the mix, especially one as precocious as Polly, it became less summer lovin’ and more summer talkin’. And textin’. And oh my goodness, could Leo sext.
It wasn’t like I’d seen him every night before Polly popped onto the scene. But more often than not, sometime around six I’d get a call asking if I’d eaten (code for “can I come over and will you feed me your delicious food”), or a text around ten asking what I was up to (code for “can I come over and will you feed me your delicious puss”—strike that, I’m keeping that code under wraps). And eventually, after the rocking and the rolling, he’d fall asleep and I’d fall asleep, tucked into his side or enveloped entirely, as he liked to do.
He didn’t spoon. He ladled.
And I liked it. No, what’s more than like? I adored it. And what’s more than adored? That four-letter word that I was loath to use, but it was the only way to truly capture the way I felt about Leo. About sleeping with Leo, I mean. After years and years of insomnia, I was finally sleeping through the night, wrapped up in a cocoon of Almanzonian Awesome.
But now adjustments had to be made.
Because now, the calls and texts were to check in and chat about the day, and always ended with, “As soon as her nanny is back in town, you can bet your sweet ass I’ll be over to fuck you and tuck you in.”
But no actual fucking or tucking was happening. Consequently, no sleeping was happening—I was back to averaging three hours a night. Which I’d done for years and years, but I’d loved having more. And I was missing the ladle.
I saw Leo a few times that week, around town, for his regular delivery, and for what was becoming a daily lunch trip for grilled cheese. But alone time with him? Not so much.
I was adjusting to the idea that Leo had a kid. I mean, kids happen, right? What I was having more trouble with was adjusting to how I was adjusting to the idea. As the night of the Polly reveal . . . revealed, we had moved into some kind of in-between territory with no map.
I’d rallied when he’d brought Polly to the diner the next day, and rallied pretty well, based on her reaction to the sandwich, now proudly her favorite. But still, there was something about it that I couldn’t put my finger on. An uneasiness, almost like the feeling you get five seconds before a lump forms in your throat.