One Baby Daddy (Dating by Numbers #3)(88)

Hayden’s black Porsche Cayenne pulls up to the curb, the sleek car polished and glittering under the streetlights. Popping out of the car, Hayden rounds the hood and opens the door for me as I reach for the handle.

“Can’t let me be a gentleman?”

Smiling, I pat his chest. “Not a date, remember?”

“Doesn’t mean I still can’t open the door for you. Let me be old-fashioned; there are few of us left in the world.”

I settle into my seat, the soft leather sucking me in like quicksand. Forget the restaurant, I can eat here and be the happiest person on earth.

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that. We millennials think old-fashioned is cool.”

“We also think we can find our next love on Tinder.”

I point my finger at him right before he shuts my door. “Hey, there are Tinder love stories out there, and they’re beautiful.”

Chuckling, he shuts the door on me and walks toward his side of the car. I take that moment to peruse his choice of clothing. Dark wash jeans, a light blue button-up shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and his hair styled messily to the side with a mild amount of scruff on his jaw, highlighting his dark features. There is also an air of confidence about him I haven’t seen in a while. It’s sexy.

When he gets in the car, he turns to me and asks, “Are you all buckled up?”

“Yup.” I snap my seatbelt and notice something on Hayden’s face. “Hey, look at me for a second.”

He clicks his seatbelt in place and puts the car in drive. “It’s a faded black eye, nothing to worry about.”

“A black eye? Where did you get a black eye? Did you get in a fight on the ice?”

“Nah, just being stupid and messing around the other day at practice. Didn’t wear a helmet and got an elbow to the face.”

“Why weren’t you wearing a helmet?”

He pulls out onto the street, one hand steering, the other resting on the gearshift, the thick sinew in his forearm flexing with every shift he makes.

“Call it being an idiot.”

“Well, don’t be an idiot,” I say, irritated. “Skating without a helmet is really stupid, Hayden. You could give yourself a really bad head injury.”

“I was being careful . . . enough.”

“Doesn’t seem like it.” I fold my arms over my chest, causing my growing cleavage to make an appearance.

At a stoplight, Hayden eyes me from the side, his eyes traveling down my body, quickly taking in my breasts and then turning away. He clears his throat and says, “You act like you care about me, Adalyn.”

“I do. You’re the father of my baby, so it would be great if you wore a helmet while skating. I don’t think that’s too much to ask. You didn’t wear protection while conceiving this child but from here on out you’ll be wearing protection on your head, your shoulders, your shins, and even your balls.”

That causes him to throw back his head and laugh. “You’re concerned about my balls?”

“Only because I’m sure if you didn’t take care of them properly you would whine more than the baby when they get hurt and there is only so much whining I can take, especially from a grown man who should know better.”

“Brutal.”

We spend the rest of the drive making small talk, talking about things like the weather, the ever-present sun in California, and the lack of rain. Really boring, but it fills the silence. I’ve had easier conversations with Hayden before, but for some reason, with the elephant in the room—ahem, the baby—we seem to be awkward as hell.

Will it always be like this?

I sure as hell hope not because if we’re going to remain friends, I’d like some sort of camaraderie between us. It will probably take time and more nights like this.

Pulling in front of a brick building, Hayden puts the car in park and hands his keys to the valet right before opening my door. Taking my hand in his, he helps me out of the car but doesn’t let go as he guides me into the restaurant. I allow it because I’ve held hands with friends before . . .

When I’m drunk.

On the side of the dark brick, painted in white is a very modern logo with the name Waffle Me in the middle of a circle, established in 2016. That makes me giggle. Usually when a restaurant claims establishment, it’s at least twenty years, but I guess you have to start somewhere, and a waffle joint is exactly where I would want to start.

After my pizza-day extravaganza, I texted Hayden earlier and asked him if we could maybe not have pizza tonight. Waffles seem right up my alley.

When we step into the restaurant the sweet aroma of homemade waffles hits me along with a myriad of smells ranging from sweet maple syrup, to fried chicken, to chili. The seating is modern and sleek, wood-slatted benches, black leather cushions, and clear partitions hanging from the ceiling, giving parties privacy. I like it here. Casual and comfortable, just what I need, especially in my leggings and tunic.

“Hello, I have a reservation for Sergio Valentino.”

The hostess checks her computer and nods, grabbing two menus, she motions to follow her. “Right this way, Mr. Valentino.”

With his hand on my lower back, we follow the waitress to a curved booth in the back. She places the menus on the table and says, “Your waitress will be right with you. Her name is Sandy.”