Baking and Babies (Chocoholics #3)(11)

“Yes, of course I meant it,” I tell her, saying good-bye to my fantasy of Molly telling me I taste like a Pi?a Colada while I take a big sip of ice-cold water to cool my libido.

“Why do you have to be such a nice guy? Why can’t you be a jerk like that cookbook author, Alfanso D., who hates kids?” she complains. “I bet the D. stands for dickhead.”

The water immediately goes down the wrong pipe, and I start choking and coughing, slamming the glass onto the table to smack my fist against my chest. Molly jumps up from her seat and races around to me, sliding into my side of the booth to pat me on the back through my coughing fit.

Even hacking up a lung of ice water, I can’t avoid the scent of cinnamon apples as she leans in close to me and asks if I’m okay. Dammit, why couldn’t she smell like ass and toxic jism instead of a delicious dessert?

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I tell her between coughs, subtly scooting a little bit away from her on the bench.

Her hand drops from my back and she smiles. “It’s good to know I’m not the only one who almost chokes to death at just the mention of that guy’s name. If you aren’t following him on Facebook, you should, just to see what * thing he’ll say next.”

She laughs and if I wasn’t the dickhead in question, I’d probably laugh right along with her. Molly turns to face me on the bench, tucking one leg up underneath her. My eyes glance down to her flat stomach and I try picturing it all ginormous and gross with arms and legs kicking through the skin trying to claw their way out, instead of how her laugh makes my dick tingle and how if I told her I’m the one saying * things on Facebook she’d give me one of those left hook kicks to the nut sack instead of another smile.

“Sorry, I know I’m being weird. Evading your questions, changing the subject, and talking about some idiot on Facebook that pissed me off,” she explains. “I can’t lie to you when you’re being so honest and nice.”

Honesty is my middle name. Right after Lying Dickhead Asshole.

She looks away for a minute, blows out a huge breath, and then turns her head back to me, nervously chewing on her bottom lip.

“Marco, I’m not pregnant.”

Now my eyes move to the general region of her crotch area, and I wonder if I should have paid better attention in health class since I’m guessing she must have lost the baby somewhere between Third Street and the second refill of our drinks, and I had no idea it could happen so fast and without my knowledge.

“Um, do you need to go to the hospital or something?” I ask lamely. “Boiling water or clean towels…I could flag down the waitress.”

I don’t know much about losing a baby, but I’m guessing it’s not as simple as losing your car keys and she probably needs medical assistance at the very least. And why do they call it losing a baby? You didn’t misplace it. I’m pretty sure you know where that thing is at all times.

Molly laughs again and shakes her head, and I’m a little surprised she isn’t more torn up about this. I cried when I lost my favorite star frosting tip. I mean, allegedly. Like I’d really cry over a little piece of stainless steel I found by chance at a garage sale three years ago that made the perfect fleur-de-lis I haven’t been able to recreate with another tip since it disappeared months ago.

“I didn’t lose the baby, Marco. I was never pregnant to begin with.”

Her words make my mouth drop open and save me from the embarrassment of telling her the tears in my eyes are from allergies and not a frosting tip whose loss I can neither confirm nor deny still haunts me to this day.

“I’m sorry. I should have told you the truth as soon as you offered to help me. I’m not pregnant, and I understand if you hate me for lying to you,” she tells me sadly.

All thoughts of the perfect fleur-de-lis fly from my brain and it’s all I can do not to pinch myself to see if I’m dreaming.

“Come again?” I whisper.

No, really. I’m pretty sure I just came in my pants when you said you weren’t pregnant and I’d like to do that again, please.

“I’m not pregnant and I never was. I was lying for Charlotte,” she explains. “She’s getting married in a month and just found out she’s pregnant and it’s this whole big mess I got roped into because she doesn’t want her fiancé…never mind. It’s not important. It’s my mess to deal with and I’m sorry you got pulled into it.”

I can hear sadness in her voice and I feel bad she thinks I’d hate her over something that just made me the happiest man on the earth. I can still fantasize about having sex with her without feeling gross. I can still have sex with her without worrying another man’s fetus is giving my penis the side-eye.

Finally pulling my eyes away from her crotch where a baby didn’t somehow escape between courses, past her flat stomach I no longer have to worry about alien limbs trying to claw out of, taking a moment to pause on her tits and only feeling a little ashamed that the one thing I might have enjoyed about this entire shit show is seeing them get huge from the douchebag fetus (because that was something I definitely paid attention to in health class), my eyes finally land on her face.

“So, what you’re telling me is I can ask you out on a date now and not feel weird about you carrying another man’s child?” I ask happily.