Pacing a hole in the sidewalk, still in his tuxedo, though now stained crimson, is Warren. He’s red-faced and breathing heavily, as if he’s just finished a marathon. When he sees me, he strides forward, stopping several feet away with his hands fisted at his sides. Tension seeps from him. He goes to open his mouth, but he pauses when he looks over my shoulder.
I turn to find Talia fixing him with a piercing glare, standing guard as if she isn’t five-foot-nothing and in a pair of hotdog pajamas.
I’m not sure what I expect, but it certainly isn’t Warren leaning forward to offer his hand to her. “Warren O’Connor.”
She doesn’t falter. “Talia Evans. Nice to see you actually exist.”
He flinches. “Yeah, um, that’s partly why I’m here.” His attention returns to me. “I don’t deserve another second of your time after what happened earlier, but I’m hoping we can go somewhere to talk?”
“What more is there to say?”
Warren’s shoes scuff the ground. I hope they’re rented, that he ruins the ridiculously polished leather and doesn’t get his security deposit back. There appears to be no end to my pettiness.
“I fully understand. You owe me nothing. The way I acted earlier was inexcusable. Seeing you was, well, the last fucking thing I expected to happen, and I reacted poorly.” He shifts from side to side, jaw clenched. “I’m sorry, Harriet. Truly.”
Oh, fuck him and his dumb consideration, making it impossible to be bitter. The obnoxious gurgle of my stomachinterrupts the awkward silence, the late night munchies making themselves known. Where’s our pizza?
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
“She’s starving,” Talia blurts, and I whip around to glare at her. “See what he has to say,” she murmurs.
Ten minutes ago, she was cursing him with a lifetime of erectile dysfunction. She’s right, though. I owe it to my baby to hear him out. My head spins from the 180-degree turn this has taken. He did react poorly—shitty, actually—and while he’s not flinging around excuses, I’m curious what triggered his initial reaction.
I definitely didn’t bring out the party poppers when I first saw the positive pregnancy test. At my first scan, I froze with fear. Even now, I’m afraid. Warren’s scared, and with my anger simmering at a rolling boil, I’m willing to give him a chance to explain.
“There’s a diner around the corner. I’m in the mood for breakfast.” Inviting him inside isn’t something I’m comfortable with. “Let’s go there.”
He straightens. “Anywhere.”
With a wary glance at Talia, I step out from the doorway and gesture down the street. “Twenty minutes. I’m tired and hungry. We can go from there.”
He nods, blinking in disbelief. “Thank you, Harriet.”
This man is a conundrum, and I’m not sure I want to solve him. Yet. “We’re just talking. That’s all.”
We look like we’ve abandoned prom, him in his stained tuxedo and me in my dress and a pair of worn sneakers. Even my purse is still slung over my shoulder. The sun set hours ago, and without the warm rays, the air is frigid, biting at the tips of my fingers and legs. A strong breeze sends a chill down my spine, making me wish I’d grabbed my coat.
Something touches me, and I jump to find Warren drapinghis suit jacket over my shoulders. He says nothing and shoves his hands in his pockets.
“Thank you,” I whisper, studying his side profile as we walk. “How did you get here?”
He grunts. “A cab, but I couldn’t remember which building you lived in. Turns out, I was two blocks away. Some of your neighbors may report a strange man knocking on doors.”
I gape at him. “How long were you looking?”
The red tinge to his cheeks has nothing to do with the cold. “Fifteen doors, give or take.”
I’m not heartless, and the lengths he’s gone annoyingly work in his favor.
We arrive at the Crispy Biscuit, a small retro diner serving breakfast twenty-four seven, with bright red booths, a jukebox, and milkshakes in glasses the size of my forearm.
It’s not too busy, having just missed the dinner rush, and we’re ushered to a booth tucked in the corner. I’m overly aware of how close our knees are under the table and plaster mine to the sticky leather.
My stomach continues to rumble. Neither of us speaks, both staring at the menus until Betty, our smiling server, comes over.
“Harriet. How are we this evening?” Along with her husband, Reggie, they own the diner. Her gray bun bounces as she looks between me and Warren.
“All the better after seeing you tonight, Betty.”
