Page 78 of Minted

“No, I didn’t. I said Merry Christmas.”

But now he’s cheering again.

“They scored,” he says.

I force myself to pay attention to the match, but it’s hard when Bentley’s knee keeps bumping mine. I glance sideways.

“What?” he asks. “Have you ever been a huge guy on bleachers?” He’s whispering, but the woman next to me is staring at him like he’s a famous movie star. “Because it’s not easy. Sorry if I’m accidentally touching you.”

“He can touch me any time he wants,” the lady next to me mutters.

“What?” Bentley asks.

“Nothing,” I hiss. “But listen, I didn’t say—”

“Merry Christmas,” Bentley says, his words so loaded they’re practically dripping, “Barbara.”

Okay. I maybe see his point. “But still, all I said was—”

“You said we could date,” he says. “You said I could take you out. That I’d be your boyfriend.”

The woman next to me has eyes as round as tennis balls. “That’s your boyfriend?”

I roll my eyes.

“Because he’s a real upgrade.”

“Excuse me?”

“It was the British guy before, right?”

Who is this woman? “I’m sorry,” I say. “Do I know you?”

“You’re Killian’s aunt, aren’t you?” The woman blinks. “I thought I’d seen you at the high school games.”

I forget, for a moment, how many kids’ things I’ve been to over the years. “Oh, no, that’s me.”

“I thought so, and trust me.” She tosses her head. “Better. Way better.”

I can’t help laughing. “That’s true.”

“See?” Bentley says. “Give the people what they want.”

I can’t help my half smile. And when the match is over, and Bentley insists on taking us out for ice cream, even when it’s twenty-nine degrees, I don’t argue. Then, when the girls want him to build a snowman now that it’s finally snowed, I don’t argue with him about that, either.

And when he shows up for every tennis match, and we start going to ice cream after every single one, I don’t complain. Because I suppose, when you have two foster daughters, this is what dating is.

When he starts bringing dinner over most days, and joining us on others, when either the girls or I have cooked, I don’t argue with that. When Alice calls to tell me that their father agreed to sign papers to terminate his parental rights, as long as the government doesn’t pursue any child support from him, it feels like things in my life can’t get any better. But they do. Before I know it, we’re all seeing Bentley every single day. The girls shoot their commercial, albeit a little later than the gum people wanted, and it goes over really well when it launches.

Everything in my life is looking brighter and better, and after I manage to hire someone to take my place, my manager even wishes me well in my departure. So it makes sense that, when my car is in the shop and I have to take the bus, Bentley comes to pick me up with a smile and a bouquet of flowers.

“For the best agent in New York,” he says.

“I have exactly zero clients,” I say. “I’m pretty sure I’m the worst.”

“Well, you have the girls, at least,” he says.

“Think again,” I say. “I can’t represent them since I’m their foster mom, and I couldn’t take them either way. They’re excluded by the non-compete I signed since I met them through the firm.”

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