I held my breath. Was he going to proposition me again? Would I say yes? I would probably?—
“I’ve been wanting all day to thank you,” he said.
For the sex? Was it really that good? I hadn’t had that much practice?—
“For how good you are with Nell,” he clarified.
I let out the breath.
“She’s always been a little shy,” he went on. “I was afraid sending her to kindergarten that she would be way too nervous, but you’ve always made her feel comfortable. I like seeing her with you. Watching you with her.”
His words made me feel things I didn’t necessarily want to feel…warm and cozy and flattered and—other things.
But I blushed anyway and said, “I’ve always loved kids. Always wanted my own, really.”
My eyes darted down to his crotch when I said it.
What the hell is wrong with you?!
He did not miss it.
I watched his expression shift—just slightly, just enough—the almost-smile arriving with devastating timing.
He saw that. He definitely saw that. You looked at his crotch while talking about wanting babies. You have a doctorate level understanding of how to make things worse.
“I mean—children,” I said. “I love children. In a—in the teaching sense. Professionally.”
“Right,” Nash said.
“Kids are great.”
“They are.”
“Nell especially.” I was still holding his wrist. I released it. “She’s exceptional. Academically and socially. Very well adjusted.”
Stop talking.
“You should be proud,” I finished.
Nash looked at me for a long moment with those hazel eyes and that almost-smile, and he looked way too satisfied with himself when he replied.
“I am,” he said simply.
Silence.
“Bathroom,” I said.
“Bathroom,” he agreed.
Then I went in and locked the door and stood in front of the mirror and said to my own reflection, very quietly:what is wrong with you?
I had no idea if I was ready to face Nash when I came out again—kind of hoped he’d left, because all I could think about now was the fact that I’d said I wanted kids and looked directly at his penis, which was…you know, very me, very clever, very subtle. I fluffed my dress, tried to dry it with the hand dryer, with paper towels, walked out, ready to face the world?—
“Youhaveto tell me what’s going on.”
I nearly jumped out of my skin, my hand flying up to cover my pounding heart, my eyes darting toward the voice. Delia was waiting by the water fountain, wearing a pair of mushroom-print overalls that somehow looked chic, her arms crossed. She had her black hair up in a messy half-up, one eyebrow cocked.
“You scared the heck out of me,” I breathed. “What are you?—”
