Maybe Later(42)

“Sorry about lunch,” she says, sounding bummed. “The hamburgers were good. I’d never tried bacon and Swiss with sautéed mushrooms on a burger before. It was tasty.”

“You weren’t happy about the ‘variety?’” I observe as we walk to where she parked her car.

We’re driving in separate cars to her apartment so she can feed her cats and drop off her car.

She glances at me suspiciously. “I’ll be honest with you,” she says with a serious tone.

The fun, gorgeous smile disappears along with that sparkling personality of hers.

“I’m not sure if this dating thing is working for me,” she continues.

I swallow hard, waiting for her to push me away.

“Who in his right mind eats guacamole on their hamburger?” She gives me a judgmental glare. “Guacamole is for tacos and chips.”

“Says the woman who drowned her fries in ketchup and honey mustard,” I manage to say without laughing.

She cocks an eyebrow and says, “If you invite me for tacos, I might forget the whole incident.”

“As long as you don’t dump me over guacamole,” I counteract as we arrive at her car.

She extends her hand, I meet it, but instead of shaking it, I pull her to me. I brush the hair off her face and kiss her cheek. Then, feather a few soft kisses along her jaw before I take her bottom lip in between my teeth and tug it. These lips are made to be kissed only by me. I can’t get enough of her and the whimpers she makes when I devour her mouth.

“Well, I’ve never closed a deal this way,” she says when we finally break our kiss.

“That’s good to hear,” I say, opening the driver’s door of her car after she clicks the automatic lock.

“Where are we going after we drop your car?”

She grabs her phone, tapping it fast. This woman is a pro on the phone. Once she finishes, she looks at me and says, “There’s the Denver Art Museum. They have a new exhibit. We can always go to the Museum of Natural History. I wouldn’t want to go to the zoo. I love animals, but there might be lots of children running around because it’s Sunday.”

The pit of my stomach tightens. “You don’t like children?”

It’s not like I plan on marrying her and having an entire baseball team, but that’s precisely one of the reasons why Vivian and I split. She wasn’t planning on having children and never had the intention of telling me about it.

“How are we having these children?” she asks without cracking a smile. “Sautéed, oven roasted, or just raw.”

She presses her lips together and rolls her eyes. “Sorry, talk of children always brings bad jokes into the table. See, my best friend had a baby a few months ago, and I spill snark like this at the mention of kids.”

“You hate children?” I ask because now she’s smiling.

“Not at all, I’m just not used to them,” she explains. “Laura thinks I hate her baby, when actually I adore Simone.”

She glances at me. “That’s her baby.”

“Why would she think you hate Simone?”

“I like to give her a hard time since she swears I haven’t gone and met her because I don’t like children. But, she’s my niece. They’re like family.”

“Then, go and visit them,” I conclude.

“One day I’m going to fly to Boston to kidnap her. Well not really. I do like babies though. They’re adorable. One day I want to have one. Well maybe two, I’ll have to find a way to keep them alive though.”

“You sound scared,” I point out.

She nods a couple of times. “I’ve never been close to a small child,” she confesses.

“When I see them, I want to hold them, but how do you ask a stranger if you can hold their child without sounding like a kidnapper. I’d have to wait and have my own, and now, I have to shut up because you’re thinking, ‘run, she wants to get married and have children.’” She finally stops and looks around the parking lot.

This can’t be the same woman who put my brother in his place. She’s flustered, and she won’t look me in the eyes.

“Wait, so you do want to get married and have children someday—but just not now?”

She squeezes her eyes shut for a second and takes a few deep breaths.

“Well, I mean, I don’t know,” she shrugs. “I don’t even know if I’m brave enough to get married.”

Her hands fly to her head when she shakes it. “Shut up, Emmeline you’re making it worse. Get in the car, drive away and change your phone number,” she mumbles.

“You aren’t making anything worse,” I assure her.

“Did I say that out loud?” she grunts.

She dusts her pants, straightens her shoulders, tilts her head and gives me a slight nod.

“Let’s forget this conversation happened,” she proposes.

“What conversation?” I ask trying to muffle the laugh.

“The one where you already think I’m a crazy woman and then I dig the hole deeper trying to convince you that I’m cool—which I am.”

She raises her hands and says. “Fine, I’m actually terrified of commitment.”

We both laugh.