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“Oh, that’s right.” He barks out a laugh. “I’m also meeting up with a Dakota later, so it’s hard to keep it all straight. Know what I mean?”
My fingers twitch, overwhelmed with the urge to hit the “/tp” keys to teleport. Clearly, I’ve been playing too much Minecraft. I punch it out on my lap. /-t-p! /-t-p! /-t-p!
I smile and say, “I do. You’re an in-demand fella.”
“I absolutely am. Anyway, Dawson, let’s get right to it.” He taps his fingers together. “I want two kids, one of each, and I’d like the boy to have my name. He’ll be the second since, clearly, I’m the first.” Another bark of laughter. “But you can name the girl.” He flashes a car salesperson smile while pointing at me, the cream still on his nose.
“Generous.” This time, my sarcasm is thinly veiled.
“I try to be. I believe the woman should have a fifty percent say, even on the man’s specialties.” He sits back and stretches.
This is where I do what I’ve practiced a dozen times—say the words:
It’s been really nice meeting you, but it appears we are looking for different things. Best of luck—I’m sure you’ll find everything you’re looking for. Goodbye, Asher-Ashton.
Okay, I’ll leave the name off since I can’t remember it. But I should say the rest.
Like right now. Say it! Do it, Dawson!
My mouth opens, but my mother’s voice appears in my head.Ladies hold their tongues.
Dread skitters up my spine, and my mouth goes bone dry. As an adult, I realize my mother couldn’t have been more arcane. But it’s so hard to undo a lifetime of hardcore etiquette training from the old-school wife of a senator—a senator who’s an unyielding hothead. I’ve been taught to give and receive compliments, eat with proper manners, and say all the right things on a first meeting. Then later, at the appropriate time, I politely decline a second date.
Okay, I’ll do that.
Asher-Aston slides over a packet of papers. “If we’re going to be boyfriend and girlfriend, you’ll need to sign this NDA. Can never be too careful, as I’m sure you understand.”
I blink in shock. Again. An NDA? Is he a celebrity I don’t recognize? Does he think he’s Christian Grey?
I shoot a desperate glance at Roberto, the owner of the Queen Bean and my friend-slash-resident-date-ender, and he approaches the table. “Hello. Are you enjoying your coffee today?” Roberto smiles that charming smile of his—the one that sells him swaths of lattes, mochas, and cappuccinos.
“We are, thank you so much, Roberto.” I give him a quick wide-eyed look, myhelpsignal.
“Actually…” Asher-Ashton scowls. “I ordered mine extra hot, but it’s just regular hot.”
“I’m very sorry.” Roberto extends his hand, his barbed wrist tat flashing in the air. “May I make you another one?”
Asher-Ashton scoots it away. “That would be nice, thank you.”
Roberto nods, giving me a shielded thumbs down before taking away Asher-Ashton’s mug. I’ve worked out a deal with Roberto that he’s to go behind the counter and call my phone. Then, I’ll pretend it’s a partner at my firm, and rush away with a work emergency. However, a crowd enters the shop, and Roberto says, “Excuse me,” before spinning on his heel and rushing to the register.
Crappity crap!Now what? Panic floods me, and suddenly I can’t suck in enough air. Beads of sweat appear on my temple, and the coffee shop seems to be shrinking. I need out of this. STAT.
Asher-Ashton puts his hands to his chest. “So, Dawson. Let me tell you some things you definitely need to know about me before signing the contract.” He proceeds to ramble on… and on. About his work schedule, grooming habits, and no, please no.Please, don’t go there.“And,” he continues, “I prefer coitus in the evenings after a shower. You know, no morning breath.”
Coitus?
“Wow. That’s specific.” I muster a smile and stand, taking my purse with a jittery hand. “I have to go to the restroom, if you’ll excuse me.” I promised myself I wouldn’t do this anymore, but I can’t breathe. This is Armageddon.
I scurry to the bathroom, not locking the door so other customers can still use it. Then I climb on the toilet, unlock the window before nudging it open. It seems more stuck than usual, and I realize ithasbeen a while since I’ve done this.
When it finally gives, I inhale. Ahhh… fresh air! I toss my purse out, hearing it land with a thud before I throw my body into the window well. I swing one leg over before the other, and my jeans catch. I unsnag them before lowering myself to a hang. Then, I drop to the ground.
I land on my feet, barely, and grab my purse. After I spin around and see Roberto standing there, arms folded, a squeal escapes. “You scared the crap out of me! What are you doing out here?”
“Waiting for you. You lasted longer than I thought you would, actually.” His head is cocked, like this is so standard, it’s boring. And since he’s seen me do this a half dozen times before, I guess it is.
“Why?” I brush off my pants and sling my purse over my shoulder. “Look, this time it was bad. Like bad, bad. He wanted me to name our son Asher-Ashton the Second.”
