One Baby Daddy (Dating by Numbers #3)(29)

Racer cocks his head back. “Things to do? What could you possibly be doing at”—he checks his watch—“eight at night? Don’t you go to bed early? Am I not your only friend here?”

Shit, I don’t want to tell Racer about Adalyn, because I know he’ll flip out. In his mind, he’s my only friend here.

“Early morning stuff,” I mumble.

“Early morning stuff, huh?” Racer pounds a few nails and then says, “Sounds to me like you have a late-night booty call you’re not telling me about. Am I right?”

I can feel all color drain from my face so I quickly look away, hiding my panic. “Nah,” I clear my throat, “just some training I have to do tomorrow morning. You know, basic training shit.”

Racer is silent. I can feel his stare. His studying gaze waiting for me to falter, waiting for me to show my true colors.

“Who are you training with?”

“Huh?”

Racer lifts another board and hands it to me. I put it in place just as he leans forward, getting in my space. “Who are you training with tomorrow?” He enunciates every word.

“Uh, you know . . . Franklin.”

There is no Franklin.

Where Franklin came from, I have no clue.

He doesn’t even sound like a real person.

Who names their kid Franklin anymore?

I would have been better off with saying something like Blaze. Blaze is more believable, not . . . Franklin.

“Franklin?” Racer deadpans.

“Yup.” I chuckle. “Good old Franklin. Killer on the ice, that guy. Has some of the best cuts I’ve ever seen.”

“And what’s Franklin’s last name?”

“Dolittle.” I nod, hating myself but trying to convince Racer that this Franklin Dolittle fella is real.

“Dolittle. You’re going to go train with a guy tomorrow by the name of Franklin Dolittle.”

“Yup, funny right?”

Suspiciously glaring at me, he pulls his phone from his back pocket and starts typing. Leaning forward to catch what he’s doing, I ask, “What are you typing there?”

“Looking up this expert on the ice, Franklin Dolittle.”

Without even thinking, I swat the phone out of his hand, sending it careening into a pile of wood on the floor.

“What the fuck, man?”

“Uh . . . sorry. Spasm.” I shake out my arm and then give it a couple stretches across my body. “No need to look him up, ’cause he’s aloof. Stays off the Internet, keeps to himself. He’s only known in the underground hockey world. It’s kind of like a black market of sorts but for hockey.”

Jesus, I’m really digging myself a hole here.

Note to self: you’re not good at lying.

At least you’re not good at creating believable lies.

“Dude, you did not have a spasm.”

“You don’t know that.” I whip my arm around in a windmill like motion. “This old thing spasms all the time.”

Hands on his hips, looking me dead in the eyes, Racer says, “Stop fucking with me. What are you doing tonight?”

Shit.

Think . . . think . . . fuck, I got it.

Shrugging, trying to act embarrassed, I say, “Ugh, fine, you got me. I’m, uh, I’m taking a water aerobics class tonight. It’s to help with my muscles. It’s with a bunch of older ladies, and it’s at eight forty-five. It’s a, uh, black-light party class. We bring glow sticks and everything.”

This is a real thing. My mom spent a good ten minutes on the phone with me the other day telling me about it. She was so damn excited it was hard not to get caught up in her enthusiasm.

Racer studies me and shakes his head. “You’re not fucking going to some glow-stick swim party. I’m not buying it.”

“You don’t know. I actually really like black lights and glow sticks. There’s nothing more exciting than a neon parade of sticks while dancing in the water. Don’t make me feel bad about my extracurricular activities, dude.”

“Okay.” Racer sets down his hammer, goes to the woodpile and pockets his phone. “Come on, I don’t want you to be late.”

Ehhh . . .

I don’t make a move.

I barely bat an eyelash.

I can see he’s brewing something in his head, because he’s acting way too cool right now.

“Are we finished?” I gesture toward the pile of wood we still have to frame out.

Racer picks up his car keys and jingles them in his hand. “Yeah, I’m good for the night, thanks for the help. Let’s get out of here.”

“Racer, man, you’re freaking me out a bit.”

“Why? You have a class to get to. I don’t want to hold you back from your glow stick fun. Come on”—he nods toward the door—“let’s get out of here.”

Cautiously, I follow him out and wait for him to lock up the bridal shop he’s been remodeling for some extra cash.

We walk to our vehicles, and I can’t help but wonder what his game is. “Are you sure? I don’t mind staying a little later. I can skip the class tonight.”

“Hell no, there is no way I’m letting you skip your class, especially when I’m going with you.”

Fuck, I knew it. I knew he was hiding something.