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He chuckles, taking the last gulp of whatever disgusting green shake he’s drinking.
“Sweet SpaghettiOs?” he questions, far too bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for six in the morning.
“I wanted to say sweet fuck, but one kid at the shelter has a habit of cursing when he gets a fright. The only way I can get him to stop is to tell him to say the silliest thing he can think of. It works for both of us, it would seem.”
“Well damn,” he says, leaning his hip against the counter. His mouth curls up into the warmest smile, and it thaws my icy nerves. “That story is so sweet. I think I’m getting a toothache.”
I want to roll my eyes, but there’s no sarcasm in his tone.
“Call me Mary Poppins.”
“Have you always worked with kids?”
He’s in a chatty mood.
I blow out a breath, my brain still laying cozy in bed. It’s not good to talk to me before I have my morning coffee.
But I said our night wouldn’t change things.
This is normal.
I think.
“My first job out of college was in a women’s shelter, but the jobs led me toward children. I wanted to move when my friends did. Too young and too scared to stay in the city on my own, I packed up and moved to Penrith. I was lucky. I got a job right away as a caseworker with foster children, and I got stuck. Comfortable.”
He runs his fingers through his hair as he hums, shifting his weight from one foot to another, thinking.
His expression softens. That sleepy bed head gives him a rugged appeal. “Do you want kids of your own?”
The question is so out of the blue, I almost choke. I swallow, gawking at him.
“Would you judge me if I said no?”
“I’m not a sexist prick. I don’t think a woman’s worth is defined by her ability to reproduce.”
I wasn’t expecting that answer.
“I don’t know,” I reply honestly. “I love kids. Do I want any of my own? I’m not sure. I’ve seen women happy with and without children.” I finally fill my glass with water, having no idea why I’m nervous.
Maybe talking about reproducing with Jake has me jittery. I don’t want babies with him, but it’s what people do to make those babies that have me flustered.
“I’ve also spent most of my life parenting my mother.” I try a light-hearted tone, but he frowns, and my chest tightens.
He turns serious, casting his eyes over my face. “Any kid would be lucky to have you in their life. Whether they’re yours or not.”
I stare into my glass, my throat suddenly stinging. It’s too early for so much emotion.
“How about you?” I ask, directing his attention away from me.
“Kids?”
“No, aliens. Yes, kids. Do you want more?”
He cocks an eyebrow. “Aliens would be easier.” I laugh, feeling the weight of our previous topic lift. “I think I’m missing something for more kids.”
“What’s that?”
“A wife,” he deadpans.
