Page 73 of The Dating Charade

“Teens are pretty great, Jett. You just have to get to know them.”

“Oh, yeah. Of course.” His eyes widened, clearly realizing he was barking up the wrong tree. “But you gotta admit it takes a special person to be able to work with them. Me, I’d rather haul a hundred-and-thirty-five-pound hose into a burning building than spend ten minutes with one of them. But the little kids now. Toddlers. They’re incredible.”

Being “able” to work with them. Her focus narrowed in on that word, distinct as the crow soaring beneath a blanket of snow-white clouds. Her voice hitched. “Toddlers? Toddlers are the ones who throw temper tantrums in the middle of a grocery store. Whenever you see a parent who looks like they hate life, you can bet there’s some little kid around.”

“They can be exhausting, sure, but at least they’re not having moody blowups every ten minutes,” Jett said. He paused as though recalling a particular situation. “They can be so ungrateful.”

Cassie laughed without humor. “And toddlers aren’t moody?”

“Sure, but they’re just a few years old. Teens are old enough to know how they should be acting, without doing it. But babies. When they snuggle up to you—”

“And poop in a diaper. It’s disgusting. You won’t ever change a teen’s diaper.” She picked up the ball. Tossed it a little harder than she intended at his chest.

He caught it, his eyes narrowing. “Yeah, with teens all you have to worry about is them cussing you out and stealing your meds. Sure. Teens are a breeze.”

His return throw bounced loudly on the concrete before she caught it. She bounced it back. “Babies spit up.”

“Teens throw up after getting drunk at a party you didn’t want them to go to in the first place.” He bounced the ball back to her.

She caught it. A frustrated huff escaped her chest, and she didn’t try to hide it. “At least you’re not walking around like a zombie with three hours of sleep a night.”

“At least you’re not worrying about them getting pregnant.”

They stared each other off, she with the basketball on her hip, he with sweat dripping down his forehead. A bead drifted into his brow, then eyelid, but he didn’t move. He was too busy resisting her, ignoring the drop as though any movement whatsoever would have been a white flag.

Her gloved fingers wrapped around the ball. “So that’s it, then. You hate teenagers.”

He waved a hand in the air. “Sure. Yes. Forgive me, but I’m like every other person in the world who would rather dive into a shark tank than sit with them for ten minutes. And you are the one female in existence who doesn’t look at a picture of a baby and think they are adorable.”

“Oh, I’ll look at the picture, alright,” she said, her voice rising menacingly. “Then laugh at how miserable the parents are every single night of their lives.”

He nodded once, twice, lips once so attractive now tightening into a firm, straight line. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Likewise.”

She stared at her ball for several long seconds, aware of just how badly things had turned in a span of a minute. “I guess I’ll see ya.”

She heard him clear his throat, all the while incapable of looking up. “I guess so.”

A heavy moment passed in silence. Then she dropped the ball, and they both moved.

There was no sound but the slow, rhythmic bounce of the ball thudding against the concrete as they both walked swiftly across the grass to their cars.

20

Jett

His frozen knuckles gripped the wheel tight enough to unlock a bank vault.

A woman who hated toddlers. It was insane.

Sure, every point she had brought up had been verbally plagiarized from his own mouth. Sure, when Drew had torn open the shower curtain on him that morning, he’d declared he’d find the padded white walls of a mental hospital a welcome alternative to the chaos of his own apartment. Yes, Timothy had spit up on his shirt enough times to make him a walking advertisement on the benefits of stain remover. True, Drew had fallen flat on his face crying bloody murder in the middle of the cereal aisle because he wanted to hold the blue box instead of the brown one.

But there was nothing quite like holding a sleeping baby at 4:00 a.m. against his chest.

But no adult could make him laugh so authentically as the twins did over the silly things they said each day.

But no one could walk past those curly-headed three-year-olds without feeling the urge to rub their heads.