Molly laughs again and shakes her head, and I’m a little surprised she isn’t more torn up about this. I cried when I lost my favorite star frosting tip. I mean, allegedly. Like I’d really cry over a little piece of stainless steel I found by chance at a garage sale three years ago that made the perfect fleur-de-lis I haven’t been able to recreate with another tip since it disappeared months ago.

“I didn’t lose the baby, Marco. I was never pregnant to begin with.”

Her words make my mouth drop open and save me from the embarrassment of telling her the tears in my eyes are from allergies and not a frosting tip whose loss I can neither confirm nor deny still haunts me to this day.

“I’m sorry. I should have told you the truth as soon as you offered to help me. I’m not pregnant, and I understand if you hate me for lying to you,” she tells me sadly.

All thoughts of the perfect fleur-de-lis fly from my brain and it’s all I can do not to pinch myself to see if I’m dreaming.

“Come again?” I whisper.

No, really. I’m pretty sure I just came in my pants when you said you weren’t pregnant and I’d like to do that again, please.

“I’m not pregnant and I never was. I was lying for Charlotte,” she explains. “She’s getting married in a month and just found out she’s pregnant and it’s this whole big mess I got roped into because she doesn’t want her fiancé…never mind. It’s not important. It’s my mess to deal with and I’m sorry you got pulled into it.”

I can hear sadness in her voice and I feel bad she thinks I’d hate her over something that just made me the happiest man on the earth. I can still fantasize about having sex with her without feeling gross. I can still have sex with her without worrying another man’s fetus is giving my penis the side-eye.

Finally pulling my eyes away from her crotch where a baby didn’t somehow escape between courses, past her flat stomach I no longer have to worry about alien limbs trying to claw out of, taking a moment to pause on her tits and only feeling a little ashamed that the one thing I might have enjoyed about this entire shit show is seeing them get huge from the douchebag fetus (because that was something I definitely paid attention to in health class), my eyes finally land on her face.

“So, what you’re telling me is I can ask you out on a date now and not feel weird about you carrying another man’s child?” I ask happily.

She raises her eyebrow and glares at me. “Seriously? That’s all you got out of my confession?”

I quickly backpedal, realizing I still need a way for her to see I’m a good guy and only pretend to be a dick online to sell more cookbooks. I can’t tell her I’m Alfanso D. until she knows the D. stands for something much better than dickhead. Like decent, dependable, desirable, daring, and hopefully delicious (pineapple dump cake jizz, here I come!).

“What I meant to say is, I could never hate you for doing something so selfless for your sister,” I explain, doing my best to let the whole decent and dependable part shine. “How long are you supposed to help her out with this?”

Molly rolls her eyes and turns away from me, flopping her body against the seat back. “Just until the wedding. So roughly four weeks. It’s not that long I guess, but it’s an entire month of my family being disappointed and ashamed of me instead of her. I mean, my family is cool and understanding and they wouldn’t come right out and tell me any of this, but I know they’ll feel it deep down inside whenever they look at me. This is supposed to be the best time of my life. I just graduated and I have my whole life ahead of me, and instead of celebrating, I’m going home to lie to my family. I keep trying to tell myself it’s for a good cause. I’m helping my sister, as selfish as she is, get her shit together and figure out a way to break the news to her fiancé so they can live a long, happy life together. Right now, it doesn’t feel like a good idea thinking about what will happen when I walk in that door.”

Now that I know there’s no chance of her pregnant-puking on me, and I don’t have to fight the delectable smell of her skin and how it makes me want to lick every inch of it, I slide across the bench until our thighs are touching. A month is perfect. It’s plenty of time for me to charm the pants off of her and hopefully take the pants off of her, blinding her with passion and bedroom skills until she has no other choice but to fall for me AND Alfanso D.

“I’m still in, if you are,” I tell her softly, leaning in until her long, dark hair tickles my nose and I can take a big, completely innocent inhale of her scent.

“Did you just sniff my hair?” she asks softly, her face turning towards me and our noses are almost touching since I moved even closer while I got a whiff.

“Yes, yes I did smell your hair, and I’m not ashamed to admit it,” I inform her, hoping she’ll see this as daring that I didn’t cover up my obsession with her sweet fragrance. “I’ve noticed you always smell like cinnamon and apples and I like it.”

She runs her hand nervously through her hair and I watch as the cutest blush highlights her cheeks.

“It’s an essential oil I use for stress. Apple cinnamon oil. You’re supposed to put it on the inside of your wrists and the back of your neck to relieve stress and anxiety,” she rambles. “I took to bathing in it the last two years of school just so I wouldn’t lose my mind.”

I stare into her eyes and smile when I see the color on her cheeks deepen and she laughs uncomfortably, pulling her face back from mine and scooting away from me this time. She shakes her head and huffs in annoyance.

“Stop distracting me with your stupid dimples and tell me if I heard you correctly a minute ago, or if you’ve been sneaking hits of crack under the table,” she speaks, a little snark mixed in with her words.

I’ve caught a few glimpses of her fiery attitude over the past couple of years when she didn’t know I was watching, and it’s something I looked forward to seeing and hearing whenever I was around her. I like a woman who speaks her mind and doesn’t get all giggly and shy with a guy. I like a little ball-busting from a woman, as long as it doesn’t result in the actual busting of balls because I kind of need those things to live.

“Did you really tell me you’re still in if I am?” she continues, looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.

I probably have. I’m sure I lost it somewhere after the meatloaf and before I found out she didn’t really lose a baby in between the seat cushions and realized she was no longer chock full of infested, smelly-ass sperm from some no-name douchebag I’d no longer have to hire someone else to beat up.

“I did, and I am,” I reiterate. “I have two sisters myself that drive me insane, but I’d still do anything for them. If you want a baby daddy to take some of the heat off of you, I’m am ready, willing, and able to be your baby daddy.”

She shakes her head rapidly back and forth. “I can’t let you do that, Marco. I know I said my family is cool and understanding, but they’re straight up insane. You have no idea what you’d be walking into with them. Hell, I’ve known them my entire life and I don’t even have a clue.”

Unable to help myself, I reach up and brush her hair off of her shoulders, mentally sending words of warning to my dick that now is NOT the time to jump around with his hands in the air when I find out her hair is as silky and soft as I thought it would be.

“Molly, I want to do this. Believe me, my family is certifiable,” I tell her with a laugh. “There is nothing I haven’t seen or heard before when it comes to family. I can handle whatever they dish out.”

For a second there she looked like she might bite off my hand when I touched her, and I’m not gonna lie, that it turned me on. My mind starts churning out ideas of adding a little BDSM to the next cookbook, maybe some light whipping while your partner whisks egg whites into cream…

“You don’t have to do something like this just because you feel sorry for me,” she says in irritation, pulling my head out of the gutter where Molly was wearing a black leather apron and nothing else while I held a riding crop in my hand.

“Did you miss the part where I told you I like you?” I ask her, realizing she thinks I’m still offering to help her out of some sort of guilt. “I really like you, Molly, and I’d like to spend more time with you. If that means I have to be the fake sperm donor to your fake baby, then so be it.”