Page 22 of The Do-Over

I slid into a chair across from them. “How exciting.”

Mike grinned and tapped his phone. He presented a photo of a tiny girl with crooked red pigtails and a gummy smile. “This is Celine, and this one”—he patted his wife’s belly—“is a boy.”

Shelly rolled her eyes. “He has to tell everyone. It’s bragging rights, or something. Like he’s wholly responsible for the baby being a boy.”

He kissed her cheek, a wicked gleam in his eye. “I definitely enjoyed getting him in there.”

His wife gasped and slapped his chest. “Michael!”

A laugh tumbled from me before I could stop it, which covered the stab of pure, unadulterated longing nicely. What would it be like to have someone tease me with devilish charm? To make me feel like I was the only one in the room with a brush of his fingers? I’d never had that with Brent, or anyone.

More than that, what would it be like to be married and have a household of babies? I knew it wasn’t exactly politically correct to admit my secret longing to find a nice guy, settle in a little house in the suburbs, and make lots of babies. I wanted to join the PTA and know all the names of my children’s friends and plant flowers in the front yard and plan vacations to national monuments. At night, I wanted to curl up next to a man who made me feel beautiful and loved.

As strange as it sounded, I wanted to be my mother when I grew up.

We spent forty-five minutes discussing their situation. I took them through a checklist of information I would need and learned more about the state of their financial affairs.

“We have enough money to make a small down payment—a gift from Shelly’s grandma. I have a job lined up too.” Mike passed over a letter of intent from a local engineering firm, his face earnest.

Shelly worried her lip. “Do you think we’ll be approved? We’ve worked really hard to stay out of debt, and both of us grew up in apartments. Owning a home is our dream.”

Some parts of my job required approving people who didn’t deserve to own a doghouse, and yet, I didn’t have a choice. If they looked good on paper, they were approved. Numbers didn’t lie. I gathered documents, wrote a report, gave my informed opinion, but in the end, the final decision came from my boss. And I wasn’t exactly on his list of favorite people, nor was he on mine.

But at that moment, I decided to dig in my heels. Barring me discovering that they ran an illegal alpaca farm or robbed banks to make ends meet, the Grangers were getting that home loan.

Without warning, the door opened, and the interloper coughed. “I apologize for interrupting.”

I pulled in a breath and waved. Like a moron. “Did you need something?”

Like a heart?

“I apologize for interrupting. I have a meeting to get to, but I hoped we could talk over lunch today.”

“Gosh, I’m sorry. I promised I’d eat with Ruby today.” That wasn’t exactly true, but Miss Ruby terrified him, so I knew he wouldn’t argue.

“Then tomorrow?”

My hand curled into a fist. “I need to check my schedule.”

He smoothed the flap of thinning hair atop his head. “Could you squeeze me in for coffee, perhaps?”

“I’m not sure.”

His eyes narrowed.

Mike shuffled a few papers on the table, drawing my attention. For a moment, I’d forgotten they were there. Smiling sweetly, I held out a hand à la Vanna White. “I’m so sorry. Mike, Shelly, this is Brent Tompkins, he’s the vice president of Mayfield Home Mortgage.”

Oh, and my ex-boyfriend.

NINE

“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

If it is broken, make damn sure fixing it’s worth the trouble.”

—MIMI

Two days later, I found myself sitting across from Brent at a café two blocks from work. As I explained to Mathias via text messages, I was here under extreme duress.