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“How about an omelet? I prefer bacon and cheese, but you strike me as more of a mushrooms and spinach kind of woman.”
“You’re going to cook for me?”
He pretends to look around. “Do you see anyone else offering?”
I pretend to scratch my chin with my middle finger. “Fine. Bacon and cheese, since you seem so set on judging me.”
He chuckles under his breath. Meanwhile, I park my ass on one of the high chairs and watch him retrieve supplies from the recessed refrigerator as the pan heats up.
He sets a bowl of fruit and a glass of orange juice in front of me without a word, then turns back to start cracking eggs into a bowl one-handed. I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised that he’s graceful and talented in the kitchen.
What I am surprised about is how my ovaries seem to feel about that.
Just one more mutineer, I guess. Et tu, Brute?
As he cooks, I keep waiting for Bee to show up. But the apartment remains silent except for crackling eggshells and the cozy spitting of oil in the skillet.
“So, about yesterday.” He glances over his shoulder at me. “I probably should have found a better way of telling you about… things.”
I shudder. “You’re saying that wasn’t just a bad dream?”
“I’m afraid not.”
I groan as I drop my face onto the counter. The cool marble feels good against my flushed forehead. “Mob boss. That’s a real thing, then. You’re the real thing.”
“Bratva pahkan. It’s Russian. Much different.”
“And waaay better, obviously,” I quip sarcastically. He smirks and starts cutting out slices of sourdough bread. “Wait!” I gasp as a startling question hits me. “Is that why the two of you wanted to use a surrogate? Because you thought it would be too dangerous for your fiancée to carry a baby?”
He blinks at me for a moment. “Something along those lines.”
I frown. “That wasn’t very convincing.”
“We have our reasons for wanting to use a surrogate. I’m sure you have yours.”
It’s a very subtle and very smooth reminder that if I insist on asking questions, he’s going to come at me with questions of his own. Obviously, I’d prefer to avoid that.
But still, we’re not exactly on equal footing here. I don’t have a partner in the picture; he does.
“Listen, I really don’t want to get in the middle of your relationship.”
“You met Bee last night. She’s happy to have you here.”
“Yeah, which is weird!” I exclaim. “I mean, is she aware that I’m not a surrogate? This baby is mine. I’m not gonna push him out and hand him over, which is what I’m assuming she expects to happen.”
“I wouldn’t make assumptions about Bee,” he says, every bit as calm as he is cryptic. “The woman will surprise you every time.”
He inserts the sliced sourdough into a toaster and pours the omelet mix into the hot skillet. I stare at his broad back, trying to figure out why his life feels like a thousand-piece puzzle that I’m struggling to put together.
The thing is, I’m freaking phenomenal at puzzles. So if I’m struggling, it’s because there are a few pieces missing.
Correction: there are a few pieces he’s hiding.
Then again, I’m hiding a few pieces about my life as well. The difference is that I’m not expecting anything from him or his fiancée. But even though nothing explicit has been mentioned yet, I get the feeling that there’s going to be a lot expected of me.
And I’m not about to agree to anything that puts me smack dab in the middle of another couple’s relationship. I fell into that trap once, based on blind trust and naivete. But I’d have to be a total idiot to enter into an arrangement like this with my eyes wide open.
Fool me once, et cetera. However that stupid saying goes.
