Page 40 of A Game Plan for Love

“He does.”

“Well, I like it, too.”

I am not looking a gift-horse in the mouth, and if it means Nora will eat her vegetables because Jack does, I’m not going to argue with her logic.

Before she changes her mind, I open a reusable produce bag and she selects a few and gently places them inside. Her small hand holds the side as we move along the aisles.

As we move past the fruit, she sneakily drops a container of caramel sauce into the cart, eyes moving around to see if I noticed. I begin to say something, but let her win when she adds a few apples.

“Do you like Decy?” she asks, halfway through the pasta aisle.

The cart, once again, comes to a screeching halt.

“He’s very nice,” I say.

I laser my focus on a bag of farfalle. If I don’t add anything else, maybe she’ll let the conversation end. It’s a perfect, diplomatic response.

Regardless, my heart thumps behind my ribcage. Fortunately for me, she doesn’t recognize the physical response her words create.

“But do youlikehim? How princesses like princes?”

Gah, I think I do. My cheeks flame as I think of the way he held me against his chest, and how he holds my hand with absolute strength, as if he lets go, I’ll fly away like a balloon. I’ve re-read his text about kissing me a thousand times, and each time, my body reacts the same way it did the first time: like there are a million little fish swimming around my belly.

“Maybe.”

I should not be talking to my daughter about my workplace crush, especially not when she’s also beginning to grow attached to him.

“I like him. He’s nice.” Nora spins in the aisle, then adds, “And he likes you like you’re a princess.”

Instead of acknowledging her statement or the heat creeping down my back, I busy myself with collecting what I need from the shelves. My arms are full of cans when Nora asks another hard-hitting question. “Is Decy your boyfriend?”

She’ll have a long, wonderful career in journalism if she chooses.

“No.”

“Do you want him to be your boyfriend?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s not an answer,” she says, lips pursing.

We engage in a quiet staredown. She’s using my words against me. God, she’s so smart. I don’t know whether to be proud or pissed off. A combination, maybe.

“It’s complicated.”

“Why?”

Ugh. This is what I get for always answering her questions.

There’s nowhere to escape as my daughter doubles down and asks again. Right now, I’m not above bribing her to forget the conversation if I agree to buy Pizza Rolls.

It’s one thing to admit to yourself your forming feelings for someone, it’s very different to admit it to your five-year-old. In another world, she wouldn’t know I went on a date with Declan, but the universe had different plans, and now she’s very invested.

I can’t tell Nora I spend every night thinking about him after she goes to bed, and I want him to kiss me so badly I might combust. Not to mention all the other things I want him to do to me.

“Addie?”

A soft voice filters from behind me.Thank you, universe!

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