Page 59 of Pregnant By the Playboy

“It’s not a deep passion?

She shakes her head. “I like it and it suits me, but I don’t love it. I’m okay with that. My passion is having a steady, secure, balanced life, in which I don’t have to overwork myself to pay the bills, or feel guilty when I get a latte instead of a drip coffee.”

I find that fascinating. I guess I took some of those things for granted—security and not worrying about how I’d pay the bills.

Steady and balanced? Not so much.

Growing up, I knew many people whose families were all about more, more, more. There could always be more money, more prestige, and often it came at the expense of other things.

Me? I throw myself headlong into a project and think about nothing else. I couldn’t tell I was burnt out until I was barely able to function.

In the past few years, I relished cultivating as ridiculous of an image as possible. I played it up with my family, too. The outrageous youngest son.

But in part thanks to Courtney, I’ve gotten a little better at considering my mental health and having some balance in my life, even if “balance” isn’t sexy.

And I don’t think Marissa is ordinary or boring for how she lives her life.

I think she’s amazing.

The waitress brings over our mocktails. Marissa wraps her lips around her straw and sips her drink. “It’s delicious.”

I try mine. It’s pretty good, but not as good as the ginger beer mocktail.

“Let me try yours.” She reaches for my drink as soon as I put it down, and I can’t help a chuckle. “Mmm, that’s even better.”

“Then we can switch, since I prefer the ginger beer one.”

Funny how that worked out.

Our donuts arrive five minutes later. There are four on the plate, plus a little dish of aioli. Marissa breaks one in half and dunks it in the aioli.

“Good?” I ask.

“Yeah. Though it doesn’t taste like a donut to me. More like a biscuit in a donut shape, not that I’m complaining. I can totally imagine myself getting cravings for these.” She takes another bite. “Mocktails and savory donuts aren’t what I expected tonight.”

“What did you expect?” I stretch out on the chair, crossing one leg over the other.

“Oh, I don’t know. Eating flambéed duck on a private boat or something like that.”

“I did consider it,” I say, stroking my chin. “Glad I opted for this place instead.”

A few minutes later, a young man and woman walk past our table. Well, the man passes our table; the woman is distracted by our donuts.

“Those smell so good,” she says. “I’ve been craving them all week.” She pats her stomach—she’s quite pregnant.

“I’m pregnant too!” Marissa says. “And I was just thinking that I might start craving them.”

They laugh together and discuss their due dates, and when the other woman says, “I’ll let you get back to your husband,” Marissa doesn’t protest her choice of words.

We stay for one more non-alcoholic drink, and then I drive to Roncesvalles for the next part of our date. We enter a Polish restaurant, a solid family place that has been around for a long time. It’s almost eight o’clock now, and there are fewer families and more couples than when I went here earlier in the week.

I suggest we get the platter for two, which has pierogis, cabbage rolls, schnitzel, goulash, potato pancakes, and other things. Marissa nods briskly as she practically drools on the menu.

“You must think I’m absolutely obsessed with food,” she says. “I promise, I’m not usually like this. Not to this extent, anyway.”

“I don’t mind.”

She does indeed enjoy dinner—especially the potato pancakes—and by some miracle, we finish everything on the large platter.