Sweet Tooth: A Second Chance Romance

by Aria Ford

  “God, you’re worse than Cameron. I mean, he’s been nicer since we got back together, but he doesn’t listen. And neither do you. Men, I swear.”

  “Did you just say ‘men’?” I say. “You’re a kid. Don’t go getting cynical already.”

  “I got the flowers you sent, and the iTunes card. Thanks,” she says.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “I missed you,” I say.

  “You’re getting mushy in your old age, bro,” Gina says with a laugh. She’s not wrong.

  I give up and ring my secretary, tell her to book a private dinner with EA to cater. To do it at a different club. To request the same waitstaff as the Simpson dinner. The exact same.

  If she still works for them, I’ll see her.

  In fifteen minutes, I get confirmation that it’s booked at the Rose Crown for Saturday night. I think about seeing her again. I wonder if she looks the same. I wonder what I’ll say to her.

  Let me kiss you.

  Let me do more than kiss you.

  Stay with me.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Caleigh

  I get two weeks’ maternity leave at half pay. After that I can have up to six weeks unpaid. Daycare is a problem. There’s no cheap daycare that I’d actually leave a baby at, or anything living for that matter. I’ve looked at like two dozen places and the only one I’d consider taking the baby to is expensive. It was clean and there’s a good staff to child ratio who read to the kids every day, but unless I want to leave the baby in a nasty living room with the TV on and cat hair all over the place, there’s nothing I can afford long term. I need to work as long as possible before I deliver. I need to save more money.

  I gave up Netflix, and the shampoo that smells good. It’s not enough. I worry all the time. I read this Baby Center stuff and think, if I get gestational diabetes or preeclampsia, I won’t be able to work or pay rent. Amy is nice, but I’m not asking her to cover me on bills. She couldn’t even if she wanted to.

  I have a list of places to look at, some more babysitters and another daycare center, but the idea of leaving my baby someplace while I go wait tables feels awful. I know most of the world does it, works and pays someone to watch the kids, but I dread it. I lay my hand on my stomach now and talk to the baby at night. I tell him about myself and about the life I want us to have, how I’ll always love him, and I want to give him the best life possible. That I’ll work hard and take care of him. But I cry a lot too.

  At the checkup where I first hear the baby’s heartbeat, I wish so powerfully for Griffin to hold my hand and share this with me that I ache. I want him here, but I want to be a good memory for him, not some girl who trapped him and went after his money, who tied him down with an illegitimate child.

  I do the only thing I can. I buy a notebook, and I write in it every night. I keep a pregnancy journal, but it’s addressed to Griffin. He’ll never see it so I can tell the truth.

  Today I heard his heartbeat. It’s so fast you wouldn’t believe it. I know it’s a boy. I mean, I can’t have a gender scan till I’m four months along, but I can tell. I talk to him a lot. I even tried to tell him a story last night. The three little pigs. He probably can’t hear me yet. But I want him to know my voice, to feel safe with me. Just like you made me feel safe and cared for me. That was the best feeling in the world, and it’s what I want for our child.

  I’ll tell him his father was a boyfriend of mine. A good, hardworking man who cared about doing what was right. Who liked French toast and Eggs Benedict and the colors red and black. I’ll tell him you saved me from a bad guy one night. That I want him to grow up and be someone who does that, who uses his strength to protect, not to do harm. When he asks what happened, I’ll tell him. We broke up, and I didn’t know for a long time I was having a baby, and when I found out, I didn’t tell you. That way, when he grows up, if he wants to meet you, he won’t have grown up thinking you were dead or some terrible person. I’ve written down everything I know about you so I can tell him. I won’t have a picture to show him of his daddy, but I’ll have some stuff to let him know who you were as a person. That you were a businessman, and I still have your blue shirt.

  I sleep in it. It’s become a ritual for me. I’m happiest at night wrapped in your shirt, my hand on my belly, saying good night to our baby. It helps me worry less, I think.

  I’m worried all the time about how I’ll manage this. But I’m not the first single mother in the world. I’m going to look at WIC to help with food and stuff. I’m going to do my best for our baby. I want you to know that I’ll love him and take care of him no matter what.

  I’ll make sure he knows it was my choice you weren’t in his life. That you didn’t abandon us. That I chose this struggle because I wanted him. Because I wanted what was best for you—a life of following your dreams without being tied down or feeling like I trapped you. That you would have done the honorable thing if you had the chance, but I didn’t give you that chance. I’ll own that.

  I made some reckless choices that got me here. I’m forever grateful to have known you. I’m forever grateful for our child. I’ll never forget you.

  When the catering manager calls to ask me to work Saturday night, I’m surprised. I had to cancel a job last week, and I missed two last month because I was sick. I’ve put on a few pounds. I’m feeling better. But I don’t know how long I’ll get banquet work, considering I’ll be obviously pregnant soon. I accept the job gladly. I can use the money.

  I no longer look haggard and sick. For the last week, I’ve had this dewy, glowing complexion that I assume is from the vitamins. I’ve managed to put the four pounds I’d lost back on and five more besides. The baby, it seems, is hungry all the time. I tease him that he’s going to be made of Pecan Sandies and strawberry milk, since that’s what I’m craving all the time. So, I’m looking pretty good again and last week, I got boobs. The kind I dreamed of when I was fifteen and flat as a board. I already had small ones, but these make me stare at my reflection when I have a tank top on. These are sexy boobs. I’m pretty sure I have to give them back after the baby’s born. They fill out the black shirt I have to wear for the job. The buttons are pulled tight across them like I’m Dolly Parton in a size too small. I use a safety pin to hold the front of the straining shirt together.

  When I get dressed for the job though, my black pants are too tight. I have to safety pin the waist because it won’t fasten. I borrow a black belt from Amy’s closet and use it to cover the pin after my shirt’s tucked in. I pull back my hair in a ponytail that is now longer and lush. Those vitamins have made my hair grow like crazy. I put on makeup and take the bus to the address I was given. As soon as I see it, I know it’s one of his clubs since it has Rose in the name. I know it will be red and black and sexy as hell inside.

  The kitchen is standard, and I see it’s the same crew I worked with that first night. My stomach flips sickly. I don’t want to relive that night—at least not the work part of it. Heather greets me. We’ve worked together quite a bit, so seeing her makes me feel a little calmer.

  “Feeling okay?” she says, passing me her eyeliner out of habit. I take it and put it with her compact mirror. “You have to unbutton. How many times do I have to—whoa. Those things are gorgeous!” she says as she undoes a button on my shirt.

  “Thanks. They’re a perk.”

  “That makes up for all the puking I bet,” she says admiringly. I shrug.

  I’m blushing. Not because she noticed my new cleavage. I’m blushing because being here this way reminds me of Griffin’s hands on me. The way he dipped his head to capture my nipple in his mouth. A tingle thrills along my skin at the memory. I remind myself to be professional tonight. It’s not like I’ll see him.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Griffin

  I’m already sick of listening to Adam talk about the trouble we got into at the frat back in the day. He and Dawson don’t realize that I invited them to dinn
er so I had an excuse to hire the catering crew. If I really wanted to go over old times, we could’ve gone out to a bar. Or I could have left the past in the past where it belongs. Clearly to Adam, though, those were his glory days.

  Dawson tries to steer the talk to business. He wants my backing on a startup. I didn’t realize this was a hazard of ringing up old friends, but there it is. It may cost me a good deal of money. I’m slightly more interested in his combination auction and dating app than I am in tales of keg stands past. Apparently, the object of the app is to find someone you want to chat with during an auction of nostalgic memorabilia—old Transformers and CDs and crap. So the app appeals to both lonely heterosexuals and hoarders.

  My eyes keep flitting to the kitchen door. I’m looking for the blond. The other waitress brought our water goblets. I wanted to shoo her away with a wave of my hand. When our salads come, it should be Kate bringing them. If she still works for EA two months on. If she agreed to come. If she hasn’t found a better job and a better man. My fists clench at that thought.

  I must have nodded at some point because Dawson seems encouraged and is talking more animatedly, waving his hands. I’m not investing in his stupid idea. He’s just a prop so I look less like a stalker when I close my own club for the night and hire a caterer for a dinner. If it was dinner for one, that would look too creepy, so I invited friends. Friends who seem to think I have some interest in what they have to say when it couldn’t be further from the truth. I want to see her again. I’m fidgeting. I feel feverish, restless. I remember her hands on my rib cage. I remember her smooth thigh in my palm as I pulled her leg higher, going deeper with every thrust. I drain my water glass.

  It’s her.

  The door swings open, and I see her. As soon as I see the back of her head, her buttery golden hair, I scold myself for ever thinking anyone else could be her. I’d know her anywhere just from the swing of her hair. She turns with a tray in her hand and smiles. My mouth is dry and every muscle tenses. My body remembers her.

  She looks amazing. Ripe and pink and even more luscious than the last time I saw her. I want to knock the tray out of her hands, rip her shirt open, jerk her pants down, fall on my knees and fill my mouth with the taste of her. My heart thuds in my chest. I harden instantly, aroused before she is even close enough for me to smell the sweet vanilla of her skin.

  She gives Dawson his salad first and smiles at him. The bastard. I hope his startup fails. Then she serves Adam, says she hopes he enjoys his salad. I hope he chokes on his fucking salad because she smiled at him warmly. She turns to me at last. I see the jolt of recognition, the way she jerks back a few inches like the recoil of a gun. She turns pink to the tips of her ears. The flush extends down her neck. I want to kiss her throat. She doesn’t meet my eyes. She is gone in seconds.

  I stare after her. Then I eat my salad in five swift bites. I want them to finish eating so she can bring the next course. Adam seems determined to examine and savor every leaf of lettuce on his plate, damn him. After a few minutes of watching them chew and Dawson trying to talk about demographics, I summon the wine steward and ask him to send the waitress back out.

  He sends the other girl. She asks what she can do for me. I have to make myself be polite and not answer, you could go the hell away and send Kate out. I watch her flip her hair and push her breasts out and try to flirt with me.

  “Could you send the other server out. There’s a problem.”

  “I’m sure I could help you with whatever you need,” she says, “Caleigh can’t come out. She’s sick.”

  Adam ostentatiously pushes his plate away. “Ugh, I don’t want to catch anything. It’s really irresponsible to employ contagious waitresses.”

  “Don’t worry. She’s not contagious, sir,” the waitress says, “Caleigh’s just pregnant.”

  Pregnant.

  Fire blazes in my vision.

  I’m on my feet, knocking my chair back.

  Mine.

  The word mine pumps through my body.

  It’s primal. A caveman impulse, this possessiveness.

  I have to know.

  I already know.

  Mine.

  I cross the huge room swiftly, the other waitress chattering at my elbow and rushing to keep up with me. I charge into the kitchen where there is only a chef, a manager. No one else. No blond. No one who belongs to me.

  I throw open the alley door, but she’s not out there. When I turn back, I see two purses on a shelf—one for each waitress—so she hasn’t gone far. She hasn’t left the building.

  I’ll find her.

  Then I’ll know.

  Then she’ll know. That she’s mine.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Caleigh

  I was so shocked when I saw him. My whole body responded. My nipples hardened, my skin flushed. My pulse was a frantic flutter in my throat. I wanted to put my mouth on his. Wanted to feel his tongue again, his hands, his skin. I couldn’t get away fast enough. I want to go to him, but I know I’ll just fall into his bed if he’d have me. That he can never find out I’m pregnant. He couldn’t trust me after that. He’d think I was just trying to trap him. I can’t be with a man who doesn’t trust me and doesn’t love me the way I love him.

  I’m hunched over the sink in the ladies’ room, sobbing. I love him. I have been in love with Griffin all along. I just never admitted it to myself until this moment. When I saw him, when I met his eyes for an instant, it flooded through me like a blue electric shock. That I’m his for the taking. That what I feel for him is more than lust, more than a crush. More than anything. It was hard to keep my hands off him. It was hard to keep from curving my hand on the swell of my belly and smiling at him. I have his baby inside me. This makes me joyous and miserable at the same time.

  I love Griffin.

  We can never be together.

  My heart is breaking. I sob and sniff and wipe my eyes. In the mirror, my reflection is all huge dark eyes, trembling lips, flushed cheeks. This is what I look like in love, heartbroken, I think.

  Heather promised to let me know when he’s gone. I’ll just hide out, say I’m ill. It may cost me my job but that’s better than having to face Griffin, knowing what I know now. That I’m carrying his child. That I’m in love with him.

  I wish I had my phone. I could watch the time, see how long I probably had to keep hiding in the bathroom. They’ll need at least two hours to eat. I don’t know how long I’ve been in here when I start wiping my eyes and blowing my nose. I sit down on the fancy red upholstered bench. At least it’s a nice ladies room.

  I get bored with staring at the dizzying swirls of black and gold on the wallpaper so I close my eyes. Maybe I’ll take a nap, is what I’m thinking. I hear the door swing open. Heather’s checking on me probably. She still feels guilty that she didn’t come after me the night I was attacked, so she’s overprotective of me now. I open my eyes, ready to tell her I’m fine.

  It’s not her.

  It’s him.

  Griffin.

  All dark hair and fiery eyes. His gorgeousness feels like a slap to my face. I shrink back against the wall. I’m afraid to come too near him. If I smell him, I’m lost. If he gets closer I’m lost. He’s coming toward me slowly. His face, his handsome face, is a riot of emotion. I see anger and fear there. I see something else I can’t name. He isn’t blocking the door. I could get away now if I want to.

  I don’t want to get away from him. I want to be closer. As close as two people can be. Cravenly, I part my lips, wanting to kiss him, wanting to beg him if necessary. My hand goes to the swell of my stomach protectively on instinct. His gaze follows my hand, focus on my belly. On the soft curve that used to be flat when he kissed his way down it. His mouth is set in a hard line, somewhere between fury and anguish.

  “I know you’re pregnant.”

  He bites out the words. I stare at him, motionless. I can see he’s emotional and angry. I can see the hard sparks in his eyes, the way he’s looking at me.
I feel icy cold under that gaze.

  “Is it mine?”

  I shut my eyes just to keep from having to look at him. Now is my chance to lie. To get him out of my life—our lives—forever. I can tell him that I slept with lots of guys. That I have a boyfriend. That someone else, anyone else, is the father.

  “There was only you,” the words fall from my lips unbidden on a sob. I cover my face with my hands, “I didn’t mean for you to find out.”

  Griffin’s hands are on my arms, lifting me from the bench to stand before him. He tips my chin up so I have to face him.

  “Caleigh,” he says. He knows my name now.

  I blink back tears. This hurts so much to admit to him that I’m pregnant with his child, that I didn’t tell him because I was afraid he’d mistrust me, hate me, reject me. Or worse, stay with me only for the baby’s sake. I can’t tell him any of that. I can’t say anything. I feel the heat of his body just inches from mine. I’m heaving in breaths like a runner, the swell of my breasts straining my blouse.

  He is on me now, his hands on my face, his mouth—that soft, hot mouth—on mine. He’s parting my lips, and I’m opening for him gladly. Yes, his tongue in my mouth after all this time. It feels so right, so complete that I groan and clutch the front of his shirt. I’m wadding up expensive fabric in my fists as I cling to him. I can’t keep my hands off him. I shiver when his fingers trail down my throat. Then he starts unbuttoning my shirt, and I moan from the brush of his fingertips on the skin of my chest. My breasts feel so heavy and ache for his touch. My skin tingles with the knowledge that he’s touching me, he wants me, even if it’s only now, only this once. The chemistry between us is irresistible. I can’t stop touching him.