Page 35 of Poison Apple Crisp
“Dr. Frankie Allen?” I ask. “As in your old couples therapist?” Noah initially saw her with his ex-wife, Brittney, but I went with him a few times as well regarding our own relationship. Everett joined us once or twice, too—seeing that he was firmly embedded in the middle of my relationship with Noah. And I believe Dr. Allen referred to him as Essex. But I could be wrong about that. With this baby nibbling on my brain, I may never be right again.
“That’s the one.” Noah snatches an onion ring off the table. “She said since you and I are still good friends—and considering the fact I might be the father of your child—
she suggested you and I hang out so that the baby can get used to hearing my voice.”
Everett slides a basket of fried zucchini between us. “You’re here, Noah. Live it up. Start speaking.”
Noah shakes his head my way. “I think she’s right, Lot. And I’d like to spend some one-on-one time with you in a far more intimate setting.”
“He means his bedroom.” Everett doesn’t mind offering up the commentary.
“He’s not wrong.” Noah sighs. “But I’ll take a pizza dinner once in a while. Without Everett, if you don’t mind.” He shoots him a look. “I want my voice to be heard without your smart-aleck remarks mucking it up.”
“Dinner once is fine.” Everett shrugs. “Or you can stop by the bakery now and again. It’s quiet enough.”
“I want to read to the baby,” Noah says with a twinge of excitement in his voice, and it breaks my heart. “I mean it, Lottie. I can’t wait to hold this child.”
“Noah,” I all but whisper his name.
“I know.” He closes his eyes. “And I get it. This baby may not be mine. But—it’s not going to matter too much to me. I’m sorry if you find that weird.”
“Not weird.” Everett points a fry in his direction. “The restraining order might make things weird, though.”
Noah takes a deep breath. “Don’t start, Everett. I’m working long hours, I’ve got another killer on the loose, and you’re sleeping with the love of my life. I’m this close to using you as a punching bag for all of the above. Don’t push your luck.”
I hold up a hand in the event Everett wants to toss out a remark, and I don’t doubt he wants to.
“Guess what, boys? You really can duke it out, and I’ll be glad to watch. At my mother’s trivia night. Sharpen your brains. It’s the only thing I’ll allow you to battle with.”
“A battle of the wits?” Everett slides the fried pickles my way, and I gladly accept them. “I’ll try to go easy on you, Noah. I’d hate for Lemon to start thinking there’s a chance you might pass on your IQ level to her unborn child.”
Noah doesn’t look amused. “Out of respect for you, Lottie, I’m going to refrain from saying anything.”
A dry laugh bucks through Everett’s chest. “Nice cover for when a snappy comeback escapes you.”
I sigh. “The two of you are going to have to play nice. I mean, what if thisisNoah’s baby?” I pose the question to Everett. “I’d hate to deny him the right to read to his unborn child.” A thought hits me. “And what about when the baby is born?” I look to the two of them.
Noah takes up my hand, a sorrowful smile flickering on his lips. “If the baby is ours, I promise I will never use it as a tool to hurt you or Everett. I’m not going to hurt you in any way, Lottie. I want to get that up front, right away.”
My chest bucks. “Then the two of you are going to have to figure out a way to get along, because this baby is going to have both of you in its life.”
The waitress comes by and turns her back to us before landing a tray of fresh fried pickles down once again.
“At Brew Ha Ha’s, we bend over backward to please you.” She shakes her tail in Noah’s face before taking off.
“Lord knows we’ve seen that routine before,” I say before diving into the basket of yummy fried pickle goodness.
“Lemon”—Everett slides a small container of what looks to be ranch dressing my way—“try it with that.”
I dip my pickle spear before indulging, and once that creamy tart combo hits my taste buds, I let out a low, guttural moan.
“Now that is next level. How did you know to do that?”
Noah’s chest pumps with a dry laugh. “I’m guessing he’s dipped his pickle into a few things.”
Before Everett can toss a barb his way, the sound of a microphone squealing garners our attention.
A woman with chestnut hair, the requisite donkey ears, and not much else on, claps against the mic, lighting up the room with a steady thump.