Chapter 6
SIX
I can’t believe I’m fucking pregnant.
I forwent my usual morning crying session since finding out four days ago and opted to face the music instead.
I spent most of my day researching my options, and none of them make me one hundred percent comfortable.
According to my calculations, abortion is still possible at this point, but the idea makes me shudder every time I think of it.
Still, if I’m going to decide our fates, I’m going to do it with as much knowledge as I can.
I make great money, and I can afford my lifestyle. Could I afford a child on my own? Yes. Would that mean changing my current spending habits? Abso-fucking-lutely.
Because, while my savings are in great shape, having a child alone means all of the financial responsibility is on me, and that’s a heavy burden to carry on my own.
With a sigh, I toss myself back on my bed and run my fingers through my mess of waves. I didn’t go to work today, calling out for the first time in a long time. Remi didn’t bother to hide the surprise in her voice, but I can’t be bothered to give a shit right now.
“What the fuck am I gonna do?” I ask aloud, even though no one else can hear me.
Although…can the little thing inside me hear me?
I’m about to reach for my laptop and find out when I shake my head and shut it. Until I make a decision, I can’t risk getting attached to the idea of it, to the idea of a little person with my face and tiny little fingers and toes…
And while the thought of not keeping it makes me sick, I have to approach this decision as logically as I can.
Before I fall back in the undertow that is quickly becoming my life, I stand and decide I deserve gourmet donuts.
I don’t waste more than a moment getting dressed and tossing my hair into a messy bun.
I’m double wrapping a thick cream scarf around my neck as I lock my front door when I hear my name.
“Daniela?”
And just like that, my heart is in my ass.
I blink before pivoting to look at him, completely aware of the fact that I look as exhausted outwardly as I am internally.
It’s unfair, how beautiful his lips are, how bright his eyes seem, how genuine his smile appears at the sight of me.
He probably smiles like that at every woman. Maybe that’s why he’s so popular. Although, he did only bring one woman home, and she seemed to know about me…
Focus.
“Quintin,” is all I can muster, and why the fuck do I sound so breathless?
“How are you?” he asks, those gorgeous eyes roving over my light-pink puffer jacket and jeans, pausing at my tennis shoes before making their way to my bare face again.
I can feel a tendril of hair tickling the side of my cheek, and when he lifts a hand, I quickly tuck the hair behind my ear to avoid the chaos I’m sure his touch would cause.
Even if it’s exactly what I crave, rivaling my now-forgotten desire for gourmet donuts. I’ll take his dick inst?—
“Good—great,” I answer, the pitch of my voice making my smile falter. Its squeakiness makes me want to zip my lips, lock them shut, and throw away the key.
For a moment, all I get in return is his raised brows, and when he tilts his head toward me just a fraction, I’m not sure what else he’s waiting for.
“Is everything okay?” He finally breaks the silence, coaxing me toward the good manners my mother raised me with. “You ran out the other night.”
“Oh.” That. “Yeah, I just forgot I had…” I’m such a shitty liar. “I had some work stuff that was time sensitive.”
He nods as if he understands what it’s like to remember you haven’t gotten your period and then find out you’re pregnant.
Far from it, I’m sure. Even if by some miracle, he did understand, he also hasn’t heard from me since.
I can’t help but appear rude and bitchy to him.
And the worst neighbor ever award goes to me.
Not only that, but I still haven’t managed to secure him for Paula’s event. Shit.
“Well, Cinderella, let me know when we can reschedule,” he says, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jacket. I try not to notice the slight rosiness of his cheeks, as if he just got in from the cold. Ugh, so adorable. My vagina weeps.
“Cinderella?” I ask, trying to focus on how he can’t help but say cheesy things.
“You ran out like the clock was striking midnight,” he explains, gesturing with one of his hands he pulls from his pocket. “The only thing missing is the glass slipper.”
“And the giant pumpkin,” I remind him, wondering where his penchant for child-like terminologies comes from. Maybe he’s good with kids?
Bitch, who cares? It isn’t like he’s going to be good with yours , I think to myself.
“That, too.” He stands there a moment before clasping his hands together, making me jump. “I’ve got to get back to the restaurant, but feel free to knock whenever.”
He doesn’t spare a second to scoot past me and rush down the stairs. I’m left standing there, wondering why the fuck he’d ever want to see me again.
But as I watch the empty stairway, my craving for donuts long gone, I realize that while I have to bank on his desire to see me so I can book him, a small part of me loves that he wants to see me too.
Simmer down with your pregnant ass.
I unlock my front door, rolling my eyes as I yank my scarf from my body. It isn’t like I can indulge in anything with him.
Still, it’s nice to feel like maybe he’s interested, like maybe in another life, I’d get to experience just how soft his lips are.
As I get comfortable on my couch, determined to do all I can to avoid the constant reminder that there’s an alien growing inside me, I decide to order dinner—and dessert, for extra measure.
There’s an odd sense of rejection that sits inside me, and I don’t want to poke it because it doesn’t make sense. I try to remind myself I don’t want to date him. I don’t even want to see him.
But I do want to see him. I like the excitement of his attraction. I like how he makes me feel: warm and…syrupy. Like I could be sweet and pliant with him, a version of myself I’ve never been before.
I’m scrolling through options when I see Menagerie. My thumb hovers over the screen as I debate if I want to do this. Do I want to see if the chicken soup was a fluke?
Fuck it. Let’s see what the fuss is all about.
I choose the halibut from the list of popular entrees, and when I see flan on the menu, I gasp, immediately adding it to my cart. If his flan is any good, I may be knocking on his door tonight .
I pause before putting the order in, wondering if he’ll know I ordered from his restaurant. I highly doubt it, but if he does, will he think I’m fucking weird? Uh, no I can’t have a meal with you, but I’ll order your food to eat alone in my apartment.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I place the order. I need to stop being a chicken shit; it didn’t stop me from getting pregnant from a one-night stand like a fucking irresponsible teenager.
My phone pings with an incoming message just as I close the delivery app before I’m able to fall into the familiar depression of this situation. Saved by the bell.
Waddup, preggers?
This bitch.
How do I even respond?
Why are you like this?
In all our years of friendship, I’ve admired Santana’s rowdiness, her unchecked passion, her barbed sense of humor. As aggravating as facing the truth via her loud mouth is, she is often the voice in my head, telling me to pull it out of my ass.
My mother, a little trauma, and a whole lot of alcohol.
I grin as I toss my phone to the side and pick up my remote, deciding to watch a movie to keep from overthinking.
I’m nearly a half hour into a comfort romance I’ve seen a million times, my laptop out as I work on details to go over with Paula tomorrow, when there’s a knock at my door.
I frown as I stand and make my way to the door, unsure who it could be.
No one needed to be let in, no delivery person called, and I didn’t get a notification from the app that my food is here.
I peer through the peephole, and I swear, my breath hitches at the sight of him.
“Most restaurant owners don’t deliver their own food,” I say as I unlock and swing the door open, facing Quintin, who holds up a paper bag. His eyes have that cute crinkle at the ends as he smiles at the sight of me.
“If you wanted me to cook for you, you only had to ask,” he tells me, grinning as he gestures toward his place. I eye the brown paper bag, wondering how the hell he ended up here. Could it be that we’re both creeps?
We stare at each other, and I’m not sure what the fastest way is to get the decadent smelling food into my apartment and then my stomach.
“Are you always this hands-on?” I finally ask, leaning my head against my doorframe. I don’t bother to hide my smile from him, don’t bother trying to fight it from taking over my face. He’s here, it feels good, and I’m desperate to cling to anything other than what I’ve been feeling.
My word choice has me closing my eyes for a moment as his deep chuckle does something to my stomach.
Let him flirt with you. Flirt back. You need this.
“I try to be.” Those four words are full of innuendo, like we have some secret language where our attraction is allowed to run free.
You’re just horny , I think as I remember I haven’t gotten laid since… Well, the thought of my current predicament is certainly a fucking reality check.
“I saw a familiar address, and I decided to make a special delivery,” he says, holding up the bag again, as if it’s his entrance fee. “Mind if I come in?”
Not willing to risk burning any potential professional bridge, I turn, giving him plenty of room to enter my apartment. I roll my lips as I shut the door, taking a deep breath before I turn to face him.
He’s all smiles, even toeing off his shoes when he notices the few pairs next to the door. That’s so fucking attractive.
Using his context clues, hand-delivering my food, and making me chicken noodle soup? Hello, acts of service.
Makes me want to service him?—