Page 4 of Role Play (Off the Books #1)

This time her laugh is melodic and warm. “Like I could ever get enough of my favorite child.”

“Your only child,” I clarify. “And I can’t. I have dinner with Dad. Remember? He’s on a flight to New York right now.”

“Right. I forgot he still visits for your birthday,” she grumbles.

Mom’s tone has deflated, the way it does anytime Dad is mentioned.

They’ve been divorced for twelve years, but I don’t think the wound completely healed over.

They were so passionately volatile. They loved each other so much, but they hated each other more.

I was fourteen when they called it quits. They promised me after the divorce we’d still do family things…

They tried. It was short-lived.

The first year after their breakup, they made the effort to get together for my birthday. That night ended with confetti cake in my dad’s hair and Mom subtly threatening him with a butcher knife. And for the record, he had it coming.

My father is a legendary writer, but he has a chronic mouth-filter issue.

Barely a year after their divorce, he made a few not-so-sensitive comments about my mother’s reemergence into the dating world, and the new risqué dress hanging in her closet.

The very closet my dad most definitely shouldn’t have been snooping in.

After that night, they decided birthday celebrations and holidays should be independent of one another moving forward.

For a while, it was Christmas Eve spent with Mom.

Christmas morning with Dad. Christmas dinner with Mom.

My family really doesn’t give a rat’s ass about Thanksgiving, so that swapped back and forth.

To this day, even though I’m twenty-seven, I’m still my mom’s Valentine’s Day date.

The years she was in a relationship, she’d ditch her boyfriend, and we’d paint mugs.

The day before my birthday, I was Dad’s. Day of my birthday, I was Mom’s.

My wonderful, attentive, handsome boyfriend graciously attends all these events with a big smile on his face.

He endlessly compliments my dad’s impressive author career.

He also maintains eye contact during my mother’s endless boring stories about her clients’ tricky portfolios and enthusiastically nods along as she humble-brags about her most recent promotion.

He’s tall, better looking than me, but not totally out of my league.

He pulls out chairs for me, has never once bought me lingerie for a gift, and even though he’s totally ripped, rugged, rides bulls, and could build me a barn with his bare hands, he’s also very sweet.

Occasionally, he reads poetry when no one is looking, and helps me paint my right fingernails because my left hand is too shaky with a polish brush.

To clarify , by boyfriend, I do mean my fictitious book boyfriend.

The closest thing I’ve had to a real boyfriend in years is my very lazy, weak-willed vibrator. It’s mediocre company.

“Do you want to go to the Galbi Grill or Pajeon Palace? I’m going to make a reservation.”

“Whatever you prefer, Mama. You know Korean food better than me.” Of course she does. I have her eyes, her hair, her smile, and her fair skin—but Mom is from South Korea. I’ve lived in Manhattan since the day I was born. She’s the final authority on the best, most authentic Korean food in the city.

“No, it’s your birthday dinner. You choose. Galbi Grill has better LA Galbi, but Pajeon has better Jjamppong.”

“Hey,” I say softly into the phone.

“Yes?”

I sigh. “You know, when you were my age, you were married, had a master’s degree, and you had me. Is it lame that I’m about to be twenty-seven and I’m still spending my birthday dinner with my mom?”

She’s silent for too long, I’m sure concocting a response that won’t hurt my fragile feelings. “There’s no shame in the fact that I’m your favorite person in the world. Do you want to know why?”

I roll my eyes. “Why?”

“Because you’re my favorite person, too.”

She’s so cheesy. Exactly the way a mom should be. I can’t help but smile big into the phone. “ The end .”

She lets out a sweet hum. “All these years… You’re still doing that?”

It’s been a habit of mine since I was a little girl. Whenever I hear the perfect closing line, the one worthy of a happily-ever-after, I just have to add, “the end.”

The barista suddenly lights up with a wide, toothy grin on her face. She’s staring right at me, a brand-new woman, seemingly enthused to take my order. She makes a beeline to me at the register. “I have to go, Mama. Let’s do Galbi Grill at eight o’clock?”

“Sounds great.”

“See you tomorrow.” I end the call before checking the time once more.

1:13 p.m.

Dangit. Not good. Not good at all.

No, it’s fine , I assure myself. Maybe a prior meeting went late, or Dane stepped in gum just up the block and is currently cleaning off his shoe. There are a million and one excuses for him running a few minutes behind. He’s Dane-freaking-Spellman. There’s no choice—he’s forgiven.

“Hi, what can I get you?” According to the crooked name tag on her brown apron, the barista’s name is April. She is smiling, but not at me. Following her gaze, I glance over my shoulder. Too focused on my phone call, I didn’t realize I now have company in line.

I quickly give the man behind me a once-over.

My stomach flutters uncomfortably as I register why the barista’s mood suddenly improved.

He’s tan, tall, and has neatly combed dark hair.

Gun to my head, I couldn’t conjure up a sexier guy.

His strong jaw is cleanly shaved, and his haircut is fresh.

He’s definitely attractive, but admittedly the most noticeable thing about him is the magenta backpack slung around one shoulder, and his hand, which is securely attached to a little girl’s.

She’s three? Four, maybe? Her eyes are glued to the glass bakery case.

She’s practically drooling as she bounces in place with excitement, making her honey-blond hair dance.

I check his left hand. Ringless.

I snap my attention back to the barista before the man catches me gawking.

I wasn’t really looking at him anyway…more so his daughter.

I struggle to write the mannerisms of kids in my stories.

Whenever I see a child, especially a little blond-haired, blue-eyed cutie patootie, I try to pay attention—how they point, smile, or wiggle in place when they are excited about something.

I don’t want it to be so painfully obvious in my writing that motherhood might as well be a different language for me.

“Anything to eat?” the barista asks.

“Oh, yes. One kitchen sink cookie, but can you pack it to go? And then two flat whites for here.”

The barista scoots a table tent number across the counter. “Any flavors?”

“No, thank you.” A flat white seems sophisticated. I want Dane to see a mature, levelheaded author who also has a decent mind for business. I’ll double back after the meeting and get my caramel crème latte with extra whipped cream and a chocolate drizzle.

After swiping my debit card in a hurry, she hands it back, failing to offer me the receipt. “We’ll bring the coffee out.” The barista is already turning her attention to hot dad behind me. “Hi there. How are you guys today?”

I stifle an eye roll. That greeting was far warmer than the one I received. “Thanks, April,” I offer, glancing at her name tag just to make sure. It always makes my day when someone takes the time to notice my name.

She responds with a curt nod. “Oh, wait. Your cookie.” Swiveling around, she fetches a pair of silver tongs and opens her side of the bakery case.

The very second the tongs clamp around the last kitchen sink cookie, there’s a loud wail from behind me.

A painful, guttural, howl of agony that pierces through the entire coffee shop.

Looks pour in from every direction. It takes me a moment to realize the sound came from the little girl behind me.

I pictured her voice to be bright and squeaky, but what just came out of her was more akin to a Spartan war cry.

“M&M cookie,” she musters out through her hysterics. There’s a light thud as she stamps her teensy foot hard against the tile floor. “That was my cookie.”

Oh, no. Oh fuck.

Heat races up my cheeks. I’m the asshole that just stole the cookie this little girl had her eye on.

Hot dad squats down, sinking to eye level with her. He strokes her back soothingly and whispers into her ear. Her bottom lip puckers, then quivers as she tries to protest against what he’s saying. But he stays calm and continues to talk into her ear until she stops blubbering.

For a split second he glances up and we meet eyes for the first time. His light brown eyes don’t match his daughter’s beguiling baby blues. I show him an apologetic smile as I shrug one shoulder. My knees nearly buckle when he shoots me a quick wink. Translation: Don’t worry about it.

After gently wiping the tears from the girl’s cheeks, he kisses each of them. “You’re going to be just fine, my baby,” he murmurs. Then he rises, collecting his daughter’s hand once more, fastening it firmly into his. She’s calm now, only quietly sniffling.

My better sense tells me to get lost and let this man and his devastated daughter be, but my urge to “fix it” kicks into hyperdrive.

As soon as the barista hands over my cookie in the brown paper packaging, I turn to face the little girl. “Hi there. Was this the cookie you wanted?”

Her cheeks are blotched with red, evidence of her meltdown. With big, sad eyes, she nods.

Hot dad squeezes her hand gently. “Koda, what did we just talk about? There are other cookies to choose from. This one isn’t yours. Tantrums won’t get you your way.”