Play Dates

by Maggie Wells

  “Daddy, I’m soooooooo hungry,” Aiden whispered, holding his belly for emphasis.

  Swooping his boy up, he settled Aiden squarely on his shoulders. “Call if yes. Text if you’re rejecting me,” he said, backing away. “I’m sure you don’t wanna hear a grown man cry.”

  “Would you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you an ugly crier? I bet he is,” she confided to the little girl at her side. “I bet he gets all snotty and gross. Boys are, you know.”

  He grinned, barely minding when Aiden sank his fingers into his hair and yanked. Hard. “Call me, and you won’t have to worry about things getting ugly.”

  Chapter 2

  “Seriously? So you didn’t tell him? You let him believe Emma was your kid?”

  Monica thought she’d prepared herself for confession and interrogation, but Mel was in rare form. She was also incandescent. Monica chose not to dwell on what caused her sister to glow as if lit by a candle. If only she could bleach the memory of her brother-in-law Jeremy’s too-wide smile from her brain.

  “I tried, but we kept getting interrupted, and the next thing I knew, he was gone,” Monica explained, trying to control the exasperation in her tone.

  “Like, poof! Presto! A big puff of smoke and nothing left but a scorch mark on the grass?”

  Raking her hand through her hair, Monica dropped onto the sofa. “Not quite, but close.” She hefted her overstuffed Marc Jacobs tote to the coffee table and started extracting all evidence of her day with her niece. “Well, you know…His friends were there, and the kids were whining, I wasn’t going to stand there and scream, ‘Hey, hot guy! I’m not this kid’s mom!’ in the middle of the park.” She turned to glance at her niece, who was kneeling at the side of the table inspecting every juice box, hair band, and baggie Monica dropped to its surface. “No offense, kiddo.”

  Unperturbed, Emma held up a bag of cheese crackers shaped like bunny rabbits. “Can I have these?”

  Monica blinked, visions of the overpriced sandwiches and petit fours the little girl had left uneaten thirty minutes ago dancing in her head. “I thought you said you weren’t hungry.”

  Emma shrugged and hopped to her feet. “I am now.”

  Luckily, Mel’s husband was adept at avoiding sisterly conversations. He scooped up Emma, his I-got-some smile stretching into a grin as the little girl squealed and squirmed with delight. “C’mon. We’ll rustle up a PB&J to go with those.”

  The kitchen door barely swung closed. Mel was on her again, her flyaway blond hair even more flighty than usual. “So are you going to call him?”

  Shifting her tablet a little to the left to make room for her paper planner, she tucked the tiny spiral notebook she kept on hand at all times into the side pocket of the tote. Sparing her sister a glance from under the curtain of her hair, she mumbled, “I want to.”

  “You’re going to have to tell him,” Melody said, fixing her with a disconcerting stare.

  Somehow, Monica always managed to underestimate the amount of steel in her free-spirited sister’s spine. Mel seldom showed the tougher side of her personality. She preferred to go through life as if the whole world were populated with rainbow-colored unicorns. Even in the weekly yoga class they took together, Melody soaked up the plinky new-age music and threw herself into the deep breathing exercises and Oms. Monica usually spent most of the relaxation portion of the class figuring out subtle ways to throw a few Pilates moves in to save herself the time of taking another class. Hard to believe a woman clad in faded yoga pants, a tie-dyed Peace Frogs T-shirt, and a pair of fuzzy socks she claimed were infused with shea butter or aloe or some such nonsense kept a stare so potent stashed in her arsenal.

  “I’ll tell him.” Monica returned the stare with what felt like an adequate amount of gravitas but had a hard time fighting the urge to smile. “But can I wait until after?”

  Mel blinked. “After? After what? The date?”

  Monica waggled her eyebrows but held her sister’s gaze as she gave her head a slow shake. “No…after.” Without breaking eye contact, she woke her phone from its electronic slumber and tapped the button to open the camera app. She held the phone out but kept her focus locked on her sister even after Melody’s gaze dropped to the screen and she gasped.

  “Holy cra...crêpes,” she corrected at the last second.

  “Crêpes?”

  “Last week, I heard Emma tell some poor kid at tumbling her somersaults looked like crap, so I have to watch my language.” Mel darted a glance at the kitchen door, then lunged for the phone. Cradling the cell in both hands, she openly gaped at the picture of Colm. “This is him? For real?”

  “For real.” Sinking into the couch cushions, Monica let loose with a gusty sigh. “You see why I want to delay the inevitable a bit?”

  Mel stared at the phone for a moment longer. Tapping the button to close the app, she handed the cell over. “What makes you think the inevitable is bad? Most guys would be happy to find out the woman he’s interested in isn’t saddled with a kid.”

  Wrinkling her nose, Monica gave the possibility a moment’s consideration. “I don’t think so,” she said slowly. “For some reason, I get the feeling the kid thing is part of the appeal for him.”

  “Like he has a mommy fetish?”

  Monica laughed, tickled by the leaps her sister’s mind made. “Maybe he’s looking for a new mommy for Aiden.”

  Melody’s eyes widened as she barked a laugh. “You?”

  Her sister’s ready dismissal of her potential stung a little, but Monica couldn’t truly disagree with the assessment. “No, not me. Definitely not me.”

  Motherhood had never been a part of her life plan. Marriage was a possibility, but she always saw herself more as a half of a power couple than a cozy nester couple like her sister and Jeremy. Either way, their lifestyles were a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turnaround from the chaos they grew up in.

  Jeremy was a dentist with a thriving practice and a well-respected reputation. His success allowed Mel the freedom to be a full-time mommy and artist when she felt like it. The arrangement suited them both to perfection. But Monica always saw herself as a mover and a shaker. While she might be moved to dally a bit with a smoking-hot single-dad, she wasn’t the type to take on personal commitments. Sadly, she had the distinct impression Colm was the commitment sort. But she might be wrong. And what better way to get a feel for someone’s preferences than a friendly little dinner date?

  “You’re going to do it, aren’t you?”

  She jerked her head up to find Melody giving her the slitty-eyed stare. “What?”

  “You’re going to go out with him and you’re going to let the poor man go on believing my baby is yours.”

  The sheer dramatics had Monica rolling her eyes. “How have you never added theater to your artsy-fartsy repertoire?”

  “Stage fright,” Mel answered without missing a beat.

  “Listen, I’m only going to have dinner with him. How often does a girl like me have a shot at a hunk like that?”

  “You always sell yourself short,” Mel interjected. “Some guys like the put-together-so-tight-I-squeak thing you have going on.”

  “You flatter me so,” Monica replied with a smirk. “I promise I’ll do my best to avoid the topic of kids if at all possible. I just want to see if…”

  She trailed off, making a slow circle with her hand and inviting Melody to fill in the blank however she saw fit. As always, her big sis didn’t let her down. “If he can make you squeak?”

  “Exactly.”

  Melody ran her hand over her bed-rumpled hair and fell into the oversized armchair with a huff. “Well, I’d be a first-class hypocrite to begrudge you hot sex. But I’m fairly sure I’m not supposed to let you use my kid to score. There has to be a section in the mommy handbook about not using your kid as a beard.”


  Grinning, Monica caressed the smooth screen of her sleeping phone with the pad of her thumb. “She won’t be helping me score. She’ll be my convenient excuse for why this can’t go on after I’m done lapping him up like a saucer of milk.”

  “Saucer of milk?”

  “He has the most gorgeous skin.”

  “Either way, I’m not sure I should let you use Emma as an excuse, either. There has to be at least a subsection.”

  “I won’t be using her, per se,” Monica argued. “She’ll be a teensy part. Barely any…I’m busy. He’s busy. We both have jobs and…other responsibilities. Better we keep things casual, uncomplicated. Right?”

  “God, you’re a horrible tramp, and I’m so jealous.” With the speed and agility Monica always forgot Mellow Mel possessed, her sister launched herself from the chair and landed on the couch beside her, bouncing them both. “Call him. I want to hear what he sounds like.”

  Monica smirked, but a flush of pleasure warmed her cheeks as the backlit screen sprung to life. “Okay, but you have to swear you won’t say anything. Let me have my way with him this once, and I promise I will never let your daughter pimp me out again.”

  “Oh, hush. Don’t say such things about my baby.” She shuddered delicately. “Dial.”

  Monica opened her contacts list and swiped his number. As they waited for the call to go through, she turned to her sister. “I’m buying Em a fur coat and a pimp hat for her Halloween costume.”

  “Over my dead body.”

  “She’ll love the hat. A great big feather and—” Oh crêpes indeed, she thought as a low, melodious baritone cut her off at the knees.

  “Hello?” Colm repeated.

  “Oh, uh, hi,” she managed at last.

  “Please tell me this is Monica.”

  “Yeah. Hi.” Beside her, Melody vibrated with barely contained mirth. Monica swatted her sister, scooted away on the sofa, and tried to recover her cool. “Yes, this is Monica.”

  Melody was plastered right up against her side. Luckily, Colm was quick on the uptake.

  “So, this is a yes,” he said briskly. “I’m taking this as a yes, because you aren’t texting.”

  “It’s a yes.”

  Mel grabbed her arm and gave a jiggle-squeeze of excitement. When Monica tried to reclaim the rapidly numbing limb, her sister whispered, “He even sounds hot.”

  Thankfully, there was a clatter and commotion on the other end of the line. After a bit of fumbling, Colm asked, “I’m sorry, did you say something?”

  “No, nothing.” She shot Mel a warning glance. “Uh, and yes.”

  “Great.”

  Funny how a guy could convey a kazillion things in one little word. In her head she heard relief, anticipation, a touch of cockiness, and what she hoped was lust all wrapped up in a single syllable.

  “So, listen. I think we established I’m not good at this flirting thing, and I really don’t want to give you a chance to rethink your yes, so I’m going to ask you a few questions, you give me your gut instinct answers. We can save up the rest of our awkward conversation for the actual date. Okay?”

  Her sister, no competition for Meryl Streep’s acting awards, clutched her chest with both hands and feigned an exaggerated faint, sprawling across the sofa cushions and sporting a rapturous smile. Monica didn’t need a mirror to know she wore a matching one. She wished she’d beat Melody to the full-body flop.

  Settling for a semi-swoon against the arm of the sofa, she closed her eyes and envisioned him propped up against the tree trunk. “Okay.”

  “Do you like spicy food? Like Mexican-type stuff?”

  Picturing the swanky restaurant specializing in Korean-Mexican fusion she’d read about last week, she sighed. This date was definitely meant to be. “Is there anyone who doesn’t?”

  “Do you want me to pick you up, or would you be more comfortable meeting me someplace?”

  The thoughtfulness of the question jolted her from her fantasies about Dakgalbi tacos. No pick up meant no drop off, and maybe less opportunity for post-drop off activities. “Uh, well, it doesn’t really matter.”

  “I didn’t know what your babysitting situation would be,” he explained.

  “Oh, well, Emma will be at my sister’s.” She bit off a yelp of pain when said sister’s heel connected with her ribs. “I can meet you.”

  “Great. I know I’m used to eating earlier these days, and I’m sure you are, too. How about we meet outside the Starbucks at Clark and Belmont at about six?”

  Monica stifled a snort. Six? She was usually at work at six. And she couldn’t remember exactly where the fusion place was, but she was thinking more Near North or West Town. Of course, where they ate hardly mattered. What mattered was she had a date with the hottest Saturdaddy ever to hit the Armitage Park playground. “Sounds perfect.”

  “I’ll see you then.”

  The smile in his voice rang through loud and clear, spawning one of her own. “See you.”

  The moment she ended the call, Melody pounced. Her sister snatched the phone from her hand. “Oh my God, he sounded so hot. I need to see his picture again.” She scrambled up onto her knees and sat on her heels, a dreamy sigh escaping her as the squishy couch cushion forced her to topple sideways. “I didn’t know guys like this roamed around out there.”

  “Like unicorns?”

  “The kind of unicorns that only live on Calvin Klein’s estate.”

  “Stop ogling my date.” Monica plucked the phone from her sister’s grasp. “You’re a married lady.”

  “Married, not dead. You’re right about his skin. Was it really pretty up close and personal?”

  “Like the man should be in a Dove commercial.”

  “Irish,” Melody said with a sigh. “Has to be, with a name like Colm Cleary.”

  “A green-eyed Irishman. Imagine,” Monica said with a smug smirk.

  “He sure fills the Henley out well.” Mel held the phone close to her face, a pensive frown bisecting her brow. “Maybe I should get Jer a couple.”

  Feeling generous, Monica refrained from pointing out that her beloved brother-in-law was a good four inches shorter and forty pounds lighter than Colm. Not that she was trying to sell him…well, short. Jeremy was a handsome man in his own lean and studious way. In truth, he was more the type Monica usually went for, but it wasn’t every day a woman stumbled across a beast of a hottie while on a play date with her niece.

  “I posted him to my friend Sarah’s blog.”

  “What? Already?” Melody scowled at the phone. “You haven’t even figured out what to wear.” She gasped. “What are you going to wear?”

  Monica opened her mouth to answer, but her sister stopped her with the hand.

  “No. Nothing black, gray, or whatever boring shade of neutral Armani has declared the new white. You need color. Real color. Vibrant color.”

  Monica scowled, annoyed by her sister’s assessment of her wardrobe options. “I don’t wear vibrant color. Bright flashy things spook the traders.”

  “What happened to the wrap blouse I bought you for Christmas?”

  Avoiding her sister’s gaze, she pretended to give the question due diligence. “It’s in my closet.” Not a lie. The sapphire-blue length of rayon blend was somewhere in the bag of castoffs at the rear of her closet. The one she’d planned to donate to a local women’s shelter. She bit the inside of her cheek as she considered the garment in question. The blouse was a pretty color, even if a bit too bright. And with the right bra, the wrap style might give the illusion of cleavage. Warming to the idea, she turned to Melody. “With a pair of black pipe-stem pants?”

  Mel blinked as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Pants? I thought you wanted to get laid?”

  “Oops. Too soon,” they heard Jeremy say a tad too loud.

  Their heads swivele
d in the direction of the kitchen in time to see the door swing shut again.

  “And the awkwardness begins,” Monica said with a giggle.

  “You need to wear a skirt. A short one,” Melody pronounced.

  “I don’t own any short skirts.”

  Her sister rolled her eyes. “Of course you don’t, Business Barbie.” Shaking her head pityingly, she unfolded herself from the couch, snagging Monica’s hand as she rose. “Come on. I’m sure I have something from the pre-pregnancy collection that’ll work.”

  Monica stutter-stepped to match her sister’s pace as she allowed herself to be dragged toward the apartment’s spare bedroom. “Pre-pregnancy? But that was seven years ago.”

  Bypassing a weaving loom she hadn’t so much as dusted in months, Mel made a beeline for the closet. With a flourish, she threw open the door to reveal an Ali Baba’s cave of clothing. “You’re lucky skimpy never goes out of style.”

  * * * *

  He had to stop looking down her blouse. Well, not really down her blouse, at her blouse. The spot where the two sides crisscrossed. Right there. And if he didn’t stop gawking, she was going to notice. And here he’d been so proud of himself for walking the block and a half to La Casita without falling at her feet. If he had, he probably would have taken the opportunity to peek up her skirt.

  God, he was a dog. Had he always been this desperate? Maybe not always, he reasoned. But definitely lately. He was going to have to get a handle on himself.

  When he’d turned the corner and saw her standing by the coffee shop doorway, he’d almost chocked on his own tongue. Her legs were long. Supermodel fantasy long. And she was wearing a very short skirt. For one crazy second, all he could think about was her skirt. The hemline would never have escaped the nuns at his grammar school. He sent up a quick prayer of heartfelt thanksgiving for that singularly inadequate piece of fabric. For a man who’d spent the last few years jacking off to the lingerie catalogs that kept coming to his house long after his wife had died, those legs and a short skirt were a dream come true.

  He’d caught a flash of disappointment in her eyes when they stepped into the restaurant’s garishly festive vestibule, but she recovered with a smile tinged with a hint of sheepishness. As if she knew she’d been caught out being a little snobby. She had the good grace to be sorry, too. The tiny restaurant was packed, but he knew the owners, so they’d been seated right away. And while the table spared him the sight of those mile-long legs, the vee neck put the shallow valley of her cleavage right at eye level.