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To answer your questions: yes, I’ll be moving to Green Bay at the end of May. Team already set me up with a real estate agent and everything, which is cool. No, I’m not buying a jet. Not yet. Yes, my brothers are jealous as shit. And, most importantly, YES I do have a big head from being drafted in the first round by a Super Bowl contender. I’m already insufferable. Sorry not sorry.
How’s that hot Spaniard lover of yours? Y’all still sneaking around your señora’s house when she’s asleep? I’m happy for you, even if I hate him.
I miss hearing your voice. COME HOME ALREADY.
B
PS Thanks also for brushing me up on my Spanish-speaking poets. Neruda is my favorite so far.
Chapter Thirteen
Annabel
I’m two bites into the most delicious vegetable plate of my life—field peas with ham, dressed wild greens served with cornbread croutons, a slice of quiche made with ramps and white cheddar—when Maisie wakes up.
She starts to cry.
My stomach dips, then tightens. Over the past half hour, people have started to drift into the restaurant. There’s a stylish couple to my right, older, and a few younger couples sprinkled across the space. I’ve watched them order pricey entrees and even pricier bottles of wine.
They’re here for a nice, expensive night out, which means they definitely don’t want to be interrupted by a cranky baby.
“Hey, sugar bear,” I try, giving Maisie her paci. “Shh.”
That calms her for all of twenty-seven seconds, and I try moving the stroller back and forth.
She starts to cry in earnest, and in the quiet of the restaurant, it sounds like a bad Motley Crüe concert blaring over the speakers.
The edge of my scalp prickles with heat.
People are starting to stare. Gripped by panic, I’m starting to sweat.
The overwhelm rises inside my chest, making my throat swell.
I’m the asshole who brought a baby to a restaurant. What is wrong with me? How did I think this would end?
But I needed to get out. You’re a new parent. You’re asking too much. But I wanted to talk to Samuel, and I knew I’d find him here. You should be at home with your baby. But I needed a breather from the house. I came early. What am I supposed to do as a single parent? Never go anywhere? Be at home and fucking stay there. It’s what your baby needs.
Maisie is screaming now. Big, gulping sobs that are so ear piercing it’s hard not to screw up your eye every time she lets one loose. She shouldn’t be hungry. I fed her right before we left. So what the hell is going on?
“Fifteen hundred bucks a night for this place,” someone nearby mutters. A man, of course. “And there’s a screaming kid at the restaurant.”
My face burns all the way to the tips of my ears as I hold back more tears. I can’t breathe around the hardness in my throat. I need the bill, and I need to get the hell out of here.
Standing, I grab the stroller. I feel the heat of everyone’s derision—their judgment—follow my every movement.
I’m shaking with embarrassment. Hurt. Frustration. All of it.
I’ll just tell the hostess on my way out to put the meal on my room.
“I’m so sorry,” I say to the elder couple—to everyone—as I start to push Maisie toward the door.
Maisie howls. A sound I’ve never heard her make before. I look down to see that she’s bright red.
Guilt, an arrow straight through the heart, wars with anger inside my chest.
“Why won’t she just feed the poor thing?”
I can’t. Fucking. Breathe.
That’s when I see him.
Beau.
Looking determined and outrageously handsome in his dark jeans and plaid sport jacket, he stalks across the restaurant like Moses parting the Red Sea. Only Beau is parting asshole patrons, giving them the death stare as he makes his way toward me. They go quiet, suddenly interested in their meals.
The relief I feel at seeing him—the gratitude—washes over me in a wave. Coming up for air, I take a deep breath, my body going limp, exhaustion rising where panic had been two heartbeats ago.
“Sit.” He gestures to my chair. “Finish your dinner. I got this.” Nudging me out of the way with a hand to the small of my back, he takes Maisie’s stroller.
“Beau—how did you—”
“Telepathy. Finish your dinner, Annabel. That’s not a request.”
I swallow. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure. I finally get some quality alone time with Miss Maisie. Don’t rush, you hear?”
I have no words. So I just repeat “thank you” and continue to stare at him. My best friend. World’s best kisser.
Savior and inadvertent seducer of single mothers.
Maisie’s still howling. Quickly he kisses my cheek—whispers “hey” in my ear—then turns and wheels Maisie out the door.
All eyes in the restaurant are on me again. For a different reason.
Pressing my palm to my cheek, I sit. I’m shaking again. For a different reason also.
