Baby Blue_A Father's Day Secret Baby Romance Page 4

  Each point he makes about my actions in the past is like a perfectly aimed dart hitting the bulls-eye painted onto my heart. There’s no doubt that he feels there have been many times when I’ve come into his life only to ask him for something I needed and not because I cared about how he was doing.

  But I did care. I knew he was upset with me. And I figured that he wouldn’t want to talk to me unless I had a damn good reason to see him. In my rush to stay close to him, it never occurred to me that my efforts would look so selfish. Poor Zach.

  I mentally take stock. At this point, there’s no reason for tears to continue seeping out of my eyes. Zach agreed to help me and wants me to succeed. This is exactly what I wanted from this dinner.

  Half of what I wanted.

  “Zach,” I say trying to sound fresh and mature at the same time, “can we talk about the anniversary party?”

  His body jerks backwards as if my question was a fist headed for his face. “The anniversary? Why? That was… so long ago.”

  “I know. But there’s something I’ve been holding inside that I need to get off my chest.”

  “It’s fine,” he says absently, while looking away and leaning back, creating as much distance between us as can be made while I still sit on his legs. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

  “I liked it.”

  Immediately after my confession, I rise from Zach’s lap and scoot back on my own chair. Sitting alongside, I continue to face him as he stares straight ahead. His profile is a vision, that strong jaw and perfect mouth.

  He doesn’t reply, so I continue. “I just… I knew it was weird and didn’t want anybody to walk in and catch us so… I stopped it. But I really liked it, Zach. I wanted more, but…”

  I lean forward. I want him to know how much I mean this. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry for laughing. I shouldn’t have, but I didn’t know how else to react. I think about that day a lot and just wish I had done anything but laugh.”

  Zach’s normally golden skin looks paler than I’ve ever seen. His eyes are bugging out of his head and he’s so stiff you’d think some invisible man was holding a gun to his head. Just say something. Anything. Tell me you want me. Bend me over this damn table and fuck me. Please. Do something.

  He blinks, eyes flickering in my direction. “That’s… alright. Thank you for telling me that. Water under the bridge, really,” he says clearing his throat repeatedly. Zach regains his composure for the most part, but still looks distracted, maybe even shaken by my confession.

  “I really appreciate the apology. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t upset me that you laughed in my face.” Eyes still refusing to look at me, he reaches for a sip of water.

  “Did that make you hate me?” I have to know.

  He shakes his head, returning the glass to table. “No, no, no, Kayla. I swear, I’ve never hated you. I don’t think I can hate you.” Finally, he looks at me straight, blue irises darkened.

  I nod my head and the two of us sit in an uncomfortable but tolerable silence. I don’t have much of an appetite after sitting through all of that emotional turmoil, so I take this chance to try to excuse myself from the table.

  “Thank you, Zach.”

  “No problem.”

  I stand up but before I can bid him farewell, one of his hands reaches for my arm. “So before applying, we should probably train.” He looks up at me. I detect color returning to his face.

  “Train?”

  “Absolutely. I can’t be too sure that you’d pass any of the physical trials in the shape you’re in right now. You’re like a toothpick with big boob—uh... You’re thin, I mean. I promised I’d help you and I intend to. Let’s go for a run tomorrow morning. At 6 o’clock.” Zach’s gaze is intent.

  This is really happening.

  I nod my head triumphantly, excited to have plans to see him again and so soon.

  “You don’t want to stay and eat?” he asks as I push in my chair.

  “No, that’s alright. I know you invited me for a dinner, but I was actually expecting to just talk. I’m not really in the mood for food.”

  “My treat…” he offers.

  I turn away from him. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Six a.m.”

  The walk from the table back to the car feels eternal. What am I doing? I could feel Zach’s eyes burning a hole in the back of my head. Or ass.

  None of this feels real. This feels like some sort of dream. Nightmare, maybe, if I’ve just passed up my chance to wrap legs around Zach. I get in my car and take some deep breaths to compensate for the lack of proper breathing during my entire walk through the parking lot.

  Could I consider this dinner an accomplishment?

  On one hand, I have Zach’s blessing and hands-on help in achieving my goal. On the other hand, I’m left clueless as to where Zach and I stand. I was hoping he’d tell me how he feels about me after I confessed to him that I enjoyed our five-second romp in the bathroom way back when. Instead, he brushed it off. And I allowed him to change the subject instead of prying further.

  He claims I get what I want, but tonight I just want some damn answers. Some certainty for a change. Zach nearly mentioned my tits, so is he thinking of me sexually, the way I think of him? Or did I just make an ass out of myself?

  As I insert the keys into the ignition, I spot Zach walking out of the restaurant and into his car. I could go confront him now and get some answers. Just so I don’t have to spend another second wondering whether or not there’s any chance that he’d want to pursue me romantically. But I waste too much time weighing my options and am left watching him drive off. Little Miss Over-think strikes again.

  I’ll see him tomorrow. I’ll get some answers then.

  Chapter Nine

  Zach

  6:02 am. No sign of Kayla. Not a single text or phone call.

  She’s probably still asleep. I’ve never known her to be an early bird. Every summer, she’d go to sleep after midnight and wouldn’t get out of bed until noon. Now that she’s not in school, it seems very possible that’s one habit she hasn’t grown out of.

  Shrugging off the expected disappointment of Kayla’s absence, I put on my earbuds and hit play on my workout playlist. I do some stretching to the musical stylings of Lou Rawls. Not exactly what some would call workout music, but I’ve never been fond of the deafening electronic music, or hard metal others listen to when they exercise.

  After my stretches, I jog slowly to warm up properly but two beams of light break through the fog and land right on me, followed by some honking. I take out my earbuds and squint through the light to ensure it’s not some weird asshole that’s ruining my concentration.

  Once the lights turn off, I see Kayla step out of her car wearing curve-hugging workout clothes: a pair of tight short-shorts with seemingly no underwear underneath and a sports bra that doubles the already impressive size of her chest. She raises her arms, lifting her lush cleavage even higher than its normal defiance of gravity, and ties her hair in a ponytail as she jaunts over to me.

  “Sorry I’m late. My alarm didn’t go off, I got here as quickly as possible.” Her skin is glowing and her eyes are bright, without a trace of sleepiness.

  6:06 a.m.

  What an asshole I am. Punctuality is important, yes. But I didn’t even give her the benefit of the doubt enough to wait a mere six minutes for her. Through the years, the few times my mother had talked to me about Kayla, she criticized me for never giving the girl enough credit. I suppose she’s not wrong.

  “That’s alright. You’re here and that’s what matters. Let’s get started!”

  Typically, I run five miles around the community park, which amounts to nine times around the perimeter. Before hitting my first mile of the day, I notice that Kayla was stopped far behind me, holding onto a tree for balance. I sprint over and hand her my water bottle. She wheezes a quick thanks and drinks all of my water in a few swallows.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “R
unning… sucks…” she informs me between breaths.

  “Kayla, I can still see your car from here. How are you this out of breath?”

  “‘Cause... running… sucks.”

  Kayla wants to be a cop but can barely hit a mile. It’s hard to get a read on her now. She has goals, worthy goals. And she chases him intensely—but not in any practical way.

  She seems to have decided that she would just automatically honor Dad without once taking into consideration the work that she would have to put in. Typical. This is how Kayla has always operated.

  “There’s no way you’ll get in if you’re not fit, Kayla. You have to be able to complete at least a mile without passing out,” I warn her.

  To my surprise, she springs up, tall, and starts jogging. “Then let’s complete a mile,” she calls back to me.

  This time, I keep a steady pace behind her. I make sure to correct her posture by pushing her hips to tuck under her spine with both my hands, which I notice can almost encircle her pelvis and still touch thumbs. To help her breathe properly, from behind, I grasp both shoulders and pull them back towards me.

  I kind of hate how I can’t see what this does to her chest. I run up alongside her, to assess her posture in profile. Her eyebrows have furrowed deeper and deeper with each of my corrections. But soon we draw near the large oak that marks the mile line.

  As she passes it with raised arms, she collapses to the grass, hooting victoriously then gasping for breath, laughing while she holds onto her surely sore sides.

  “Let’s never do that again!” she jokes.

  It’s a few minutes until she catches her breath, breasts heaving all the while.

  “Alright. Time to fuel up,” I declare, clapping my hands together sharply to distract from the amazing view. “Fall in, recruit!”

  She follows me to my car. As I back it out of the parking space, she suggests a nearby coffee shop she frequents for breakfast that I recognize as a local favorite. I’m actually impressed with her choice here, noting the place’s reputation among health-minded foodies such as myself.

  Until we step up to its deli counter. I order myself a roast beef, swiss and spinach sandwich on sprouted multigrain bread with a baked sweet potato and fruit cup on the side. Kayla just orders “the usual.” I anticipate this eagerly until the barista hands her a chocolate donut with chocolate sprinkles and an enormous mocha coffee topped four inches high with whipped cream.

  “You’re not going to get anything else?” I am aghast.

  “It’s breakfast.” She shrugs.

  I wipe my forehead to avoid my hands involuntarily planting a face-palm. I look up to watch her take an enormous bite out of the whipped cream and then chew like it’s a hamburger.

  “You realize that breakfast is the most important meal of the day, right? You have to eat more than sugar and caffeine. You need meat, fruit, veggies… definitely not a donut!” I’m trying not to lose my cool. I take a breath. “What do you normally eat?”

  She pauses from her chocolate reverie for a moment, blinking. “For breakfast, this. Then just whatever’s in the house. Ramen. Chips. But I do love vegetables, I make nachos with real cheese and salsa!” She beams to me. “And there’s a Chinese restaurant by my place I order egg rolls from a lot. They make them all fancy, double-fried.”

  “Okay, Kayla. Right after this, we are going to get some shopping done. You need actual nourishment. You need food that will give you enough fuel to complete the workouts we’ll be doing these next few weeks, and later, fuel for chasing bad guys. If you’re going to take this seriously, you’re going to have to follow a very strict diet.”

  This will likely be a deal-breaker. Her fast metabolism has allowed her to partake in unhealthy amounts of junk food all of her life, and I’ve never seen her step out of her comfort zone with food. This is the same Kayla who refused to even try fried shrimp because they were “shaped funny.”

  Realizing that she won’t gain much weight or muscle unless she does step out of her norms, she’ll likely give up on this endeavor. I don’t want her to, but I have to be realistic.

  “Are you paying or am I?” she asks. “Also, how many cheat days would I get?”

  “You’re serious?”

  “I showed up today, didn’t I? Take your sandwich and fruit cup to go. Let’s get to it!” She charges towards the door.

  On the drive to the grocery, Kayla sits quietly while I let her steal from my fruit cup.

  “So you’re sure you’ll be okay without daily donuts? Or ramen? You won’t go into shock or start howling?”

  Chewing a mouthful of pineapple, she answers. “I’ll deal with it. If I need to eat boiled chicken breasts and sandy brown rice for every meal, I’ll do it. I’ll do anything I have to do.” She stabs the air with her plastic fork at every syllable then continues to loot my fruit cup. “Besides, I could probably stand to get healthier.”

  I internally count the times I’ve heard Kayla say, “I’ll do anything I have to do.” It’s an impressive number. From ballet, to piano, to leaving for studies in Europe. It’s a phrase she utters often, but for the first time in the years I’ve known her, I feel that she’s actually serious. Typically, she’d be deterred by the first obstacle that stood in her way.

  It’s good to see her so focused and determined. It hasn’t been easy watching her potential go to nothing all these years. It’s a new and welcome change to the Kayla I know.

  Chapter Ten

  Kayla

  The next week of my life is hell. In a good way.

  Sticking to my diet was much harder than I expected. I figured shoveling food down my gullet would be easy regardless of what it was. But eating the same flavorless meal every single day got old, fast.

  Regardless, I persevered, not only with the diet but also with my morning workouts with Zach.

  Much to Zach’s disappointment, I’m only able to do eight pushups at a time, and the 20-pound dumbbells he brought at the start of the week would certainly bring injury to my muscles, just starting to hatch. But still I push. Painful as they are, I start to enjoy the soreness I end each session with.

  Today, Zach pushed me into running two miles. And I actually did it. At the end, I felt two things: pride at all I’ve accomplished after only one week—and soreness. Incredible soreness. After two miles, I can barely walk properly now. I make my way towards Zach wobbling as if my thighs were made of jelly. I collapse on the grass and call him over.

  “Can you just do my stretches for me?”

  This is a joke I’ve played since he and his mom moved in. I was 15 and overwhelmed with a homework project on ancient Egypt. He was getting his associate’s degree, class by class, after his patrol shifts and had just finished a World History course. Every suggestion he gave me, I ignored and followed up with my bratty voice, can you just do my project for me? After the third time, his face started going red. I loved making him stammer, anything to get a rise out of him. I still remember how my stepmom egged me on, “Git him, girl!” We giggled together at his growing but pent-up rage.

  But this time, he responds without hesitation. Zach grips my thighs and starts massaging them. I’m caught off-guard but I sure don’t want him to stop. I’m lying on my back as he raises my knees. Now I’m the flustered one.

  I’m not sure how to react, so I stare at the blue sky above us as he spreads my legs slightly to properly massage the muscles in my inner thighs. The soreness is now long gone, I’m focused only on the pleasure generated from his manly hands digging into my slick skin, dangerously close to my womanhood.

  I raise my head and see him biting his lip while he rubs my legs. Not only that, he wears a sly grin that seems to show he’s enjoying himself, maybe more than I am. I finally allow my eyes to travel down his wide bare chest, all the way down to his waistband. I see a thick bulge raise his basketball shorts, almost revealing the tip of his cock.

  “Hey, Zach,” I whisper. Our eyes finally meet and lock with an unexpected intensity. �
��Can we finish the stretching at your place? I’m getting itchy from this grass.” His sly grin widens to a knowing smile.

  Zach nods and helps me back on my feet. I’m sad to lose sight of his incredible glistening chest when he puts his shirt back on. But I vow to see it again. Soon.

  Thankfully, his place is literally around the corner, so our drive is quick and silent. I take this quietness as a good sign.

  When we get to his apartment building, I struggle up the two stairs to the entry porch I had stranded myself on, all those weeks ago. Once in the front door, he has to help me up the stairs. At first, he holds my hand and basically pulls me up each step.

  But the inefficiency of that method frustrates him. So instead, he takes the stair behind me, pushing me up by placing his hands on my lower back. I try not to melt as I savor the sensation of my hips being enclosed in both his huge hands. I focus my mind on getting to his bed. But after another painful step, I resolve to just make it inside his apartment. I’m only a few steps from the landing that leads to the second floor when I trip and fall, pitching forward.