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With every variation, it only gets more dramatic, as is proven when the bartender appears. “Stripping,” Atlas tells my date. “And solicitation.”
“Hey,shecame ontome.” And the one dollar bill she tried to tuck between my ass cheeks could hardly be considered worthy payment. “Stop believing everything your wife tells you. She wasn’t there.”
“That was Nick, actually.”
Of course it was.
Winking at Sunday, Atlas slides a couple menus our way before turning to serve someone else. Plucking one up, I hold it open in front of both of us. “Is Cass Junior averse to anything on here?”
“No, but they’re definitely averse to being called Cass Junior.”
“You’re right. Cassie is cuter.”
I catch the elbow coming for my ribcage before it can connect. “Fine. We’ll table it for now.”
When Sunday laughs, triumphant relief rushes through me. I’m not fucking it up anymore. This isn’t a real date, sure, but I still want her to have a good time. If it has to be fake, it might as well be fun.
One hand landing on her waist, I tap my fingers against her belly, briefly caught on the thought of, one day soon, something tapping back. “What does little Mason like?”
“Mason?”
“My middle name.”
That earns me another laugh. “Faith loves everything but mushrooms and red meat right now.”
Faith. “Huh. Sunday Monday Lane was my bet.”
A veritable cackle escapes her, and I’m internally punching the air.
* * *
Turns out, all it takes for Sunday to relax is enough greasy food to completely cover the table it rests on.
A burger takes some of the tension out of her shoulders. Deep fried pickles make her abandon her too-straight posture with a happy sigh. Non-alcoholic sangria works wonders on her inhibitions; not only does she shed her nervous paranoia that I’m judging everything she does, but she also sheds the shoes she admits are killing her. Off they come and up goes her bare feet, coaxed onto my lap so they don’t have to touch the floor. And finally, sticky wings make her moan in a way that has me adjusting her feet so she doesn’t feel how much I like, remember, and replay those fucking noises.
She does it again when I glide a thumb along her arch, fingers digging into her instep. “You always rub your dates’ feet?”
“Only the ones carrying my child.”
Sunday hums around her straw as she sucks up more sangria. “I feel special.”
“You should.”
The honest words make her blush and duck her head. Half-smiling at the discarded pile of wings on her plate, she huffs a breathy laugh. “I can’t believe I’m about to admit this but I haven’t been on a date since before August was born.”
My thumb pauses circling her ankle bone. “Seriously?”
The freckles on her nose blend together as her face scrunches, hair falling in her face as she nods.
“You haven’t been on a date since you were sixteen?”
“Fifteen,” she corrects, peeking up at me as if to gauge my reaction. “I found out on my sixteenth birthday but technically, I was fifteen when I got pregnant.”
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m aware I’m gawking, aware Sunday is steadily morphing from adorably embarrassed to uncomfortably mortified but… fuck.What?“How is that possible?”
“I’ve been a little busy,” is her dry, mumbled reply.
“So you haven’t…”
