He pulls his hand away and backs up, his expression blank—a mystery.
I click the link on the third ad and find a stranger’s face staring back at me. My face falls. “Oh, poo. I really thought I had you.”
He leans over and takes control of my mouse. “You almost did.” He closes down this profile and opens up the first one, which I rejected for being too sad. The first thing I see after he clicks on the link is Dev’s face.
My heart sinks. “Oh. Shit.” I turn to look at him. “Dev, I’m sorry.” Not only did I call him sad, but I also basically just told him he’s a crap father. Why didn’t I think before I opened my big mouth? Of course he wasn’t including kids in the “favorite person” question. Not on a dating website!
He stands. “No big deal. Don’t feel bad. Unless you’re worried about buying me dinner.”
I look up at him, incredibly relieved that he’s not holding my careless words against me. “Worried? Why would I be worried?”
He smiles and shrugs. “Not everybody’s a good winner. I’ve met a lot more sore losers than good winners in my life.”
Maybe my assessment wasn’t that far off after all. I can see now where the sadness I sensed in that ad is coming from, and I also know how he was able to hide it so well. He’s strong. Not just with those muscles of his but with his heart. He’s one of the good guys.
But I don’t say any of that out loud. Instead, I try to keep the party rolling. “I’m not a sore loser, Dev. I will buy you dinner wherever you want, and go whenever you want to go.”
He claps me on the back of the shoulder. “Great. It’s a date.” He turns around and walks out of the room.
I’m too stunned by his choice of words to respond right away, but then I realize he’s making the sounds of a person leaving. “Where’re you going?” I shout at the door.
“Gotta get back home! My mom is waiting for me. She doesn’t like to stay up too late.”
I stand and smooth down the front of my clothes, sad that he’s leaving, but realizing it would be really silly of me to ask him to stay. What would we do? Play Xbox? He called our future dinner a date, but I can’t just assume he meant it that way. Besides, he’s got baggage. Do I really need more baggage in my life right now? I’ve got a whole entire truckload of my own to deal with.
I wait for him at the front door. He arrives with nothing in hand. “Don’t you want to take your pizzas?”
“What pizzas?”
I lean past him and look into the family room. The three boxes are still there. I point.
He shrugs. “Just empty boxes. I could put them in the recycle bin for you, if you want.”
“No, no, don’t worry about it.” I look from his toes to the top of his head. “I guess it does take a lot of calories to run that machine.”
“You know it.” He smiles. “So, I’ll give you a call about that dinner?”
I nod. “Sure. You can get my number from my sister.”
He winks at me. “I already did.”
I can’t think of what to say that won’t make me look and sound like a blushing, stammering schoolgirl, so I just smile. And then I grab the front door and pull it open for him. “Have a nice night.”
“You too.” He leans down and kisses me on the cheek so fast, I don’t even see it coming until it’s over.
My hand floats up to my cheek as he walks out onto the porch and down the front stairs to his waiting vehicle. It is the dead ugliest car I’ve ever seen in my entire life. So ugly it shocks me out of my happy, floaty cloud.
I laugh. “What is that thing?”
He turns around and walks backward. “What?”
I point at the banged-up beast in my driveway.
“My car? You’re kidding me. You don’t know what this is?”
I’m holding my cheek where he kissed me, smiling and shaking my head.
He pulls open the door, a loud creaking noise echoing all over my front yard and into the neighbors’ yards too.
“This, my young, na?ve woman, is a Pontiac Phoenix. A classic. A real man’s car.”
I lift my brows as high as they’ll go before answering. “If you say so.” I slowly shut the door on his offended expression, and then I collapse in giggles in the front hallway. Damn. My face hurts, I’m smiling so hard. I haven’t felt this good or this young in a really long time.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I’m in the kitchen preparing eggs and bacon for the kids’ Monday morning breakfast when Sammy comes downstairs crying.
“What’s wrong, little man?” I put my spatula down on the counter next to the stovetop and turn to face him, squatting down so I can be at eye level with him.
“My tummy hurtth.” Big fat tears slide down his cheeks.
I rub his belly gently. “Are you sure?” I ask him this because he’s had a lot of these so-called tummy aches lately, but the doctor hasn’t found any medical reason for it. I’m starting to suspect there are issues at the daycare that Sammy’s not sharing with me.