Best Kept Secret Read Online Free Page A

says.
    “Right,” I say. “C’mon, Mr. Man.” Any fight I had is knocked clear out of me. Round one: Alice. I let Charlie lead me to the car and help him climb into his booster seat, ever conscious of Alice’s sharp blue eyes on me. For good measure, I say loudly, “All right, you’re all buckled in,” just so she can’t tell the court I let Charlie bounce around like a red rubber ball inside my car. Anything is a threat now. Anything could be used against me. I step slowly around to the driver’s side, open my door, and then force myself again to smile at Alice and wave good-bye. “Say ’bye to your omi, Charlie bear.” This is what he calls her, Omi—the German equivalent of Nana.
    “’Bye, Omi!” he chimes in. This is out of good breeding alone, I convince myself. Good breeding that I, as his mother, am personally responsible for.
    I buckle my own seat belt, start the car, and look at my son in the rearview mirror. “Ready, Spaghetti Freddie?” I ask.
    “Ready!” he squeals. He kicks his feet against the seat in front of him in emphasis.
    I pull away from the curb, wondering if the real question is, how ready am I?

Two
     
    I wasn’t looking for a husband the night I met Martin, I was looking for a story. Two years after a summer internship morphed into a lifestyle section beat at the Seattle
Herald,
I was twenty-six and anxious to prove to my editor-in-chief that I was capable of writing more than fluff pieces on the newest trends in weight-loss programs or the yearly sand castle-building contest at Alki Beach. One of my sources—a woman I’d gotten to know during an article I did on a state workers’ successful holiday food drive—gave me the heads-up regarding a conflict between the pay increase percentage the governor had promised teachers and what the state could actually afford, so on a Friday night I showed up at a benefit dinner intended to raise money for creative arts in public schools. I figured I could chat up the teachers in attendance and see what kind of feature might evolve.
    As it turned out, after two unsuccessful hours of trying to track down an educator who was incensed enough with the governor to speak to me without the presence of their union rep, I stood alone by the appetizer buffet table with a glass of wine in hand, nibbling on a cracker spread with goat cheese and caramelized onion. Discouraged, I wondered not for the first time if I actually had the determined nature it took to be a successful journalist. I was weighing the option of making an early exit when a handsome man withbright blue eyes and short, spiked black hair suddenly appeared by my side.
    “Do you like sausages?” he inquired.
    I laughed out loud, hand over my mouth, trying not to spit out my last bite.
    He smiled at me, tilting his head in a disarmingly adorable manner. “A server sent me over to ask if you prefer sausage or chicken for dinner since he didn’t have your preference on the list. Why is that funny?”
    I touched the back of my hand to the side of my mouth, making sure I wasn’t covered in chewed-up appetizer before responding. I was suddenly conscious of my hair, happy I’d chosen to wear the flattering black dress that showed off the best thing about being an hourglass girl in a push-up bra.
    “It’s a rather presumptuous question, don’t you think?” I said.
    “Presumptuous, how? I didn’t ask if you like
my
sausage in particular.” His eyes flashed a wicked sparkle.
    I couldn’t help myself; I took a sip of my wine and looked up at him over the edge of the glass. “Sorry, I make it a strict policy not to reveal my meat-eating preferences to a man until at
least
the second date.”
    “Oh, really?” He raised his eyebrows in a way that convinced me he was definitely interested in learning more about my particular appetites. “And when do we go on our first?”
    “As soon as you call me.” I set my glass on the table, took out my business card from my purse, and handed