Page 4 of Broken Baby Daddy
The bartender refills our drinks.
“So what’s your damage?” I press. “You don’t get eyes like that from a happy childhood.”
“Eyes like what?”
“Like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
He studies me quietly. “Maybe I know exactly how you feel.”
Something inside me stutters.
“What’s your name?” I whisper.
“Do you really want to know?”
I think about that. Names mean connection. Connection means consequences. I want none of that tonight.
“No,” I say softly. “I don’t.”
His pinky brushes mine. “Then we’re strangers.”
“Perfect strangers.”
“Is there any other kind?”
I laugh—real, unexpected. “God, you’re either the most pretentious man I’ve ever met or the most honest.”
“Maybe a bit of both.”
Our knees touch. Neither of us moves away.
“You’re the prettiest person in this room,” he says, quietly certain.
Heat shoots through me.
“That’s quite a line.”
“It’s not a line.”
“It’s not?”
“It’s the truth.”
Something in my belly drops like a stone in water.
I should go home. I should cry into my pillow. I should be responsible.
Instead, I lean in: “Want to know another truth?”
“Always.”
“I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
His pupils flare. “Neither do I.”
“I’m not looking for anything.”
“Good,” he murmurs. “Neither am I.”
