“I know. And now, I’m going to sleep. Good night, Dexter.”
“Wait. One more thing.”
“Oh, my God.” I slapped my hand over my eyes and sank under the covers, more charmed than I wanted to admit by his soft laughter.
“I’ll make it quick.”
“Promise?”
“Yeah, yeah. Listen, I might have accidentally spread a rumor that you were interested in flag football, and before you yell atme, it was better than everyone thinking I’m dating your friend.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well…in a nutshell, Layla asked how I knew you, and when I said we had a mutual acquaintance, it spiraled, I panicked, and now…if anyone asks you about flag football, you’ll know why,” he blurted in a rush.
“I’m not playing flag football.”
“Got it. Look—” He paused for a beat. “I think I should know more about you…for the baby’s sake. I know you basically suggested this a couple of weeks ago, and I blew you off. To be fair, you were kind of an asshole, but I think it comes from a good place. You obviously care about Freya’s health and well-being and?—”
“And you want to use me as a portal for information.”
“Useis a strong word, but yeah, that’s sort of the gist,” he admitted. “It would be nice to meet for coffee or lunch and just…talk about whatever is going on with Freya and the baby. It’s killing me that you live so close and potentially know pertinent information about my child’s welfare that I don’t.”
“Your child is the size of a blueberry,” I deadpanned. “There’s not much to discuss.”
“Yeah, but it’s a miracle, you know? I can’t wrap my head around it.”
I sighed. “Try to relax…and go to sleep.”
“Sure. Um…so what about flag football?”
“No.”
“I’m hearing maybe,” he singsonged. “It’s a better excuse than always meeting over donuts. Either that, or we pretendwe’redating.”
I rolled my eyes at the ceiling. “Very funny.”
“Hilarious. What do you think?”
I squeezed my eyes shut. I didn’t want to be friends with the donut man. Not really. I wanted to stare at him from afar because he was nice to look at. But I also wanted to know my surrogateniece or nephew was well cared for—and if it were possible to be part of their life in some way, that would be nice. But Dexter…
“You’re very pushy and I’m tired,” I grumbled.
Dexter smiled through the cellular connection. I couldn’t see it, but I could feel it. “All right. Go to sleep. G’night, Viggo.”
“Good night, Dexter.”
CHAPTER 7
DEXTER
Ifelt bad about bugging Viggo and basically offering a front-row seat to my dysfunctional obsessiveness regarding Freya’s pregnancy. He wasn’t my friend, and living in the same town wasn’t anything more than a coincidence—and not one I should exploit for my peace of mind.
At least not right off the bat.
However, Viggo might prove to be a valuable ally over the next few months, and it was in my best interest to maintain a cordial line of communication without unleashing too much of the real me.
So…donuts.
