I wasn’t sure whether Diesel wanted anyone in town to know about the baby, especially since things were still so uncertain. But if he did, it was up to him to tell folks.
“Er, no one local,” I said, a little shocked that the lie came to my lips so darn easily. Apparently, it was easy enough to lie when you were protecting someone.
Not just someone. Diesel and Marigold.
Of course, that was the exact moment Kelsey came from the back, hauling a pink basket the size of Ava’s baby carriage.
“Here you are, sir.” Kelsey set the basket on the ground at my feet, only panting slightly. “Your apology baby basket for you to hand deliver in person.” She dusted her hands and said disapprovingly, “Best of luck with it.”
“Thanks.” I cleared my throat and hefted the basket. “So! It was great to see you guys, but I’ve gotta run—”
“You’re coming to the Tavern with us on Friday, right?” Mal said. “Since you’re super single? It’ll be fun.”
Oh, right. Dinner with Uncle Beau, Mal, and Brooks.
“Yeah, I’ll be there.” Even though fun was the last thing I wanted to think about when I had to break this news to Diesel.
I was so, so screwed.
Mal’s eyes had a mischievous glint way too similar to Ava’s. “I’m looking forward to it.”
I was glad at least one of us was.
4
Diesel
I had approximately seventeen and a half minutes at most before the ticking time bomb that was my sweet girl went off and stopped my productivity for the rest of the afternoon. I’d already mowed the dirt patch that pretended to be a lawn out front and picked the aggressive weed colony from the flower bed by the mailbox. Up next was finishing the tall wooden privacy fence that would block the view of the salvage yard from the street and allow the caseworker to ignore the giant lot full of sharp, rusty parts just lying in wait to attack my niece at any moment.
I’d set the fence posts last night after putting Marigold to sleep. After the frustrating visit from Stewie and the horribly embarrassing desperation I’d shown to poor Parrish Partridge, I’d been full up on angry energy.
How the hell could I have ever asked a perfect stranger to pretend to be married to me? I was a no-good salvage dealer who didn’t even have a proper high school diploma. And Parrish… Parrish was the very opposite. He was smart and successful, tidy and poised. The man was a breath of fresh air that shouldn’t ever even be near all my stink.
I sighed and kicked the empty weed bucket across the gravel parking pad, accidentally scaring the chickens who’d snuck out of the yard since I’d pulled down the old chain-link fence. Even though I had the baby monitor clipped to my belt, I’d still had to rush into the house every ten minutes to make sure it wasn’t accidentally broken. Being a parent was no joke. My chore list was taking forever to get through, and at this rate I thought I might get in good enough shape to win custody of her right around the time she became a legal adult.
“Stop bitching and get back to work,” I told myself. “Parrish Partridge isn’t for the likes of you.”
As I began nailing fence pickets to the rails, I couldn’t help but slide back into thoughts of the pretty little man. He was adorably flustered and prim, and something about him made me want to pull him into my arms and protect him from the world.
As if I needed someone else to protect right now.
“You just want to fuck him,” I grumbled out loud. “It’s your lonely dick talking.”
One of the chickens squawked in response and tried to get in my face. I shooed her away from the box of nails she mistook for feed. “Get away, Brenda, this isn’t for you,” I muttered. She tossed her plume of white head feathers and strutted off in a snit.
My brain unhelpfully provided the memory of Parrish’s gentle touch with Marigold, the sweet sound of his singing to her, and the way he’d blushed to the tips of his ears when I’d caught him checking out my ink.
Memories of him helping me in the courthouse were quickly overridden by memories of the rich boys in high school calling me Reverend Rust and Deacon Dirt. They’d thought they were so fucking funny after they’d learned where I’d come from,