18. Fia
Fia
Idraw the curtains shut, because the last thing I can handle is being in this fishbowl of a guesthouse while ravaging through the bags of clothes I brought with me.
“Why didn’t I pack anything decent?” I hiss out to Daisy, who has crawled inside the tipped-over laundry hamper.
And why am I trying to wear something decent anyway?
“It’s just dinner. We all have to eat,” I pointedly tell her as she plays with a stack of my gold bracelets. I have no idea where she even found those.
Sure, salmon sounds a lot better than the box of mac ’n’ cheese I was going to make.
And not having to cook or clean up sounds heavenly .
. . Plus I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious what Caden was like on a Saturday night in his own home.
We’ve had little moments together—I’ve driven with him in his car more often than I ever thought I would, but dinner is different.
It’s intimate.
Just then the phone rings. It’s my sister.
“Damn it,” I mumble, and send her to voicemail. Now is not the time.
In a hurry, I grab the only item of clothing that’s not wrinkly—a mini sundress—and slip it on.
This will probably be the first and last time he invites me and my daughter over for dinner. I’m not sure if he knows that eating with a toddler is anything but peaceful. I mean, for heaven’s sake, he held a child for the first time today.
I kiss the top of Daisy’s head, setting her on the bed, then change her into soft floral pajamas and toss her pacifier and snack cup into my purse. Luckily, I already fed her.
“Let’s get this over with.”
But before I leave the guesthouse, I apply a little pink lip gloss, spritz some perfume on my neck, and ignore the fact that my heart is beating so fast I can’t see straight.