Danger, Sweetheart Read Free

sheets and French fries. “I’m glad you came. Pretty soon I’ll be glad I came.” He punctuated his idea of a bon mot with a lopsided leer as he stroked his burgeoning erection, which, she hated to admit, was impressive. Ah-ha! Now I remember what I saw in you.
    She tittered around her fist. Was this really happening? “Listen to me, you beautiful dolt. I am not here for another five-minute sweaty interlude.”
    â€œNo?” He wiggled dark, perfectly groomed brows (my first tip-off; what had I been thinking? he has the eyebrows of a cologne model!), then took a firmer grip on his penis and angled it toward her, as if it were a microphone and she his interview subject, or as if he was afraid she would have trouble finding it. Unfortunately, that would never have been difficult. The lovely dumb ass was hung like a steer. “You sure, um…” His inability to recall her name put an end to her giggles, for which she was grateful. And at least he had the grace to be embarrassed.
    â€œI’ll give you a hint: it means lily.”
    â€œIs it Lily?”
    â€œNo,” she sighed/groaned (grighed? soaned?). “It’s not Lily.” Their chat had the welcome side effect of softening his erection. Shannah (English/Hebrew origin; diminutive of Shoshannah, meaning: “lily”) had confidence that her next statement would wilt it entirely. “It’s not Lily, you’re not getting laid tonight—by me, at any rate—and I’m pregnant. By you.”
    Going, going, gone. Farewell, Benjamin’s erection. I barely knew ye.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI understand,” she said kindly, “because that was my exact response when the stick turned blue. No, and then there may have been screaming. Followed by sobbing. But it’s true. I’ve since had a doctor confirm.”
    â€œIt’s not mine.”
    â€œNo need to take my word for it.” Never, she would never, never let him see how that hurt her. His reaction was expected, knee-jerk from a quintessential jerk.
    And it hurt.
    â€œNo need,” she said again through clenched teeth, “to take my word for it. A blood test will show the baby has two dolts for parents and they’re both in this room. Which stinks of French fries and your hair product. In fact—“She held up a finger, then bolted for the bathroom. She could have made it to the toilet but spitefully chose the sink. Then felt bad: It’s not like he’ll be the one cleaning this up. Well, he’ll have to call the front desk. It’ll cost him seven seconds of his life.
    From behind her, a hollow, “Aw, man,” followed by the whump of him falling back on the bed. She heard rustling and assumed he was putting his robe back on.
    She rinsed her mouth and left the bathroom, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes, hard, to shove back tears. She would cry; it was as inevitable as Tarbell’s instinctive ducking of responsibility. But not here and not now and never in front of Benjamin Tarbell.
    â€œSo, rather like two people in a car accident, we should exchange insurance and contact information the better to wade through the legal and moral ramifications. Here’s mine.” She pulled the paper with her contact info, along with a picture of the ultrasound, out of her pocket and offered them to him. When he didn’t reach for them, she put them on the dresser beside his wallet. “Too soon?”
    â€œUm…”
    â€œYes, I understand. I’ve had the better part of two weeks to adjust. In fact, I’m still adjusting. You need time. I need time. Once you are satisfied the babies are yours—”
    â€œBabies?” He said it the way she would have said, There’s a rattlesnake in my soup!
    â€œYes. Twins.” The doctor was certain she had the date of conception wrong. When she explained, at length, that she well remembered her only sexual experience in fourteen