Just My Type(39)

Yes, I realize a hedgehog might sound like the most ridiculous pet for an eight-year-old boy, but I am kind of ridiculous, so it seemed fitting. Baker was right; it’s unique and awesome, and according to the manager at the pet shop, super easy to take care of. He weighs a little under two pounds, and he’s around the same size as a guinea pig. And he hates me.

As soon as we walked in the door, that little fucker started hissing at me. Baker can love on that thing, and give it Eskimo kisses, and it falls asleep on his chest. I so much as look at it and it curls up into a ball, quills puffed out into attack mode, and it fucking hisses at me until Baker starts baby-talking it again.

“Brandon is going to lose his shit when he drops Lincoln off after school and sees one, a hot man in your house with his shoes off all relaxed and comfortable, cuddling a tiny hell beast, and two, an actual hell beast that he now has to take care of fifty-percent of the time,” Brooklyn reminds me with a laugh.

That second part she mentions causes me to smile, even as I continue staring at my new, traitorous pet. Imagining the look on Brandon’s face when I show him what I got Lincoln will be worth the annoyance of owning an animal who is constantly plotting my death.

“The hot man in my house is my boss, and Brandon definitely won’t care about that,” I remind her.

Brandon was never the jealous type. Which, in theory, sounds great, and easy, and stress free. In practice, it can kind of suck. Sometimes, you need the man you’re with to maybe get a little worked up when another man is showing you attention. I’m not talking full-out, drag-down fist fight, and I’m not talking every single day. Every once in a while would be nice. A little possessiveness with an arm around your waist. Maybe a touch of a glare in the other man’s direction, letting him know you’re taken. Something that proves to you that he knows what he has, he’s thankful for it, and he will in theory fight anyone who tries to take it away. It’s hot. And it’s something Brandon gave zero fucks about.

“I’m not going to urinate all around you and mark my territory. It’s childish and a waste of time. I know you won’t be going home with anyone else, and you know you won’t be going home with anyone else, so why does it matter?”

Brandon already knows about the interviews I’ve been doing with Baker. He doesn’t know Baker’s name or anything about him, but he knows the basics. He definitely doesn’t know how goddamn good-looking Baker is, or that I’m having a seriously hard time remembering why I wanted to keep things professional between us until our work is finished. It’s not like that matters anyway. Even if Brandon walked in and found me and Baker humping, he wouldn’t care.

Stop thinking about humping Baker.

“Sadly, we will not be witnessing Brandon lose any kind of shit, because he has a meeting that ran late can’t pick Lincoln up. One of his co-worker friends has a son that goes to the same school, and he offered to drop Lincoln off on his way back home.”

“Isn’t this the third time in a week Brandon has flaked out on you with Lincoln?” Brooklyn asks.

“Fourth. But who’s counting?” I sigh.

Regardless of how shitty of a husband Brandon was, he was always a decent father. He’s always been the straight-laced, proper disciplinarian, while I was always the one who crawled around on the floor, made animal noises, built forts in the living room out of every chair, blanket and pillow we owned, and snuck Lincoln out of the time-out Brandon put him in as soon as Brandon would leave the room. Even though Brandon wasn’t the type to roll around on the floor with his son and always sat on the sidelines to watch us goof off, he was still always there. He was always present, always engaging our son in conversation and teaching him new things, because that’s just how he operates. He thinks with his brain and not his heart. Until we moved here and his work moved to the top of the totem pole.

“Well, I’m sure if you let your boss stuff his sausage in your omelet, you’ll forget all your troubles,” Brooklyn tells me.

“There will be no sausage stuffing! Stop trying to make sex happen.”

Before Brooklyn can respond, my doorbell rings.

With a quick goodbye, I end the call and shove my phone in my back pocket. Taking a deep breath, I emerge from the hallway with a cool, calm smile on my face that in no way tells Baker I’ve been ogling him from the hallway while I secretly called my best friend to ogle him some more, and even sent her a picture I took of him from around the corner.

“Should I hide or something? Maybe go in the closet, and then jump out and yell, ‘Surprise!’” Baker speaks nervously, quickly getting up from the couch.

Before I escaped to call Brooklyn, Baker looked at the time and we both realized Lincoln would be home any minute. I hadn’t even realized four hours had gone by since we’d gotten here. It took a while to build the cage and set it up, and then we did a bunch more research on my laptop about owning a hedgehog, and then Baker spent hours shopping for little hedgehog outfits on Amazon. Aside from that last, ridiculously weird part where he insisted the damn thing needed a mini tuxedo, it was fun. And easy. And like we’d hung out like this a hundred times before.

When we realized there wasn’t enough time for him to leave before my son got here, Baker was the one who freaked out, not me. Until I realized I wasn’t freaking out, and it freaked me out, so I called Brooklyn. But his freak-out was so damn adorable. He didn’t get all jittery and nervous because it really hit him that I was someone’s mom, even though I’d tried to warn him away with that line a few times. He got all jittery and nervous, because he was afraid Lincoln wouldn’t like him. Or that he’d say something stupid and Lincoln would think he was a loser and, “Not at all cool and awesome, like his mom thinks I am.”