Best Kept Secret Read Online Free Page B

it to him. My response to Martin was completely out of character—most of my relationships with men grew out of casual friendship, gradually evolving into something more intimate. My reaction to him was physical from the get-go, his pheromones unabashedly speaking to mine. We were seated at separate tables for dinner, but at the end of the night he offered to walk me to my car. The article was forgotten and I went to bed that night with a wide, stupid grin plastered across my face.
    We went out for dinner the following week at a cozy Italian cafe. After racing through the usual niceties about the weather and how our day was at work, we dove right into our family histories.
    “It was horrible,” Martin told me about his mother’s pregnancy with him. “I made her very, very sick. But she instructed me that I would be a strong, healthy boy.”
    “She ‘instructed’ you?” I said, twirling my hair in what I hoped was an appealing, playful manner. Being near him made my stomach feel as though it was full of a thousand fluttering butterflies.
    He nodded with mock gravity. “I learned in utero it was best to do what my mother expected. I mean, look at me!” He swept his hand from his chin down toward his waist. “Aren’t I a strong, healthy German boy?”
    I laughed and nodded. He wasn’t especially tall—five foot eight, maybe? Only a few inches taller than me. But he had the kind of arms I knew were strong enough to beat the begeezus out of any type of assailant. I was a sucker for a man with excellent arms.
    “You are absolutely strong and healthy,” I agreed. “But what about your father? Didn’t he have any say about how you turned out?”
    A brief shadow fell over his face. “He died when I was two. A construction site accident.”
    “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said. “Do you remember much about him?”
    He shook his head. “Not really. Nothing more than the
feeling
of him.” His mouth shifted into a wistful bend. “Does that make sense?”
    “Of course it does.” I gave him a tender smile and reached across the table to squeeze his thick fingers. They felt warm and sturdy. We fit. “Did your mother remarry?”
    He squeezed my hand in return and made no move to pull away. “No. It’s always been just the two of us.” He paused. “What about you?”
    “My family?”
    He nodded. “Brothers? Sisters? Pets? Crazy old aunts locked in the attic?”
    I laughed. “One younger sister, Jessica. And my mother. No pets. Or crazy aunts—that I know of.” My mind flashed briefly on the possibility of telling him about my grandmother, but I decided against it. Not good fodder for a first date.
    “And your father?”
    “I think I’d call him more of a sperm donor than a father.”
    Martin cringed. “Ouch.”
    I shrugged, pulling my hand back from his. “I was too young when he left for it to affect me very much.” I recited this line out of habit; my mother had said it to me often when I bemoaned the fact that I didn’t have a father like most of my friends.
    “How old were you?”
    “Not quite six months. My mom was about eight weeks pregnant with my sister.”
    “Nice guy.”
    “I don’t know. According to my mom, he just wasn’t cut out for the whole family gig, you know? He was an artist. Sort of the free-spirit, one-with-the-earth type. She was a registered voter and dental hygienist. An upstanding citizen.”
Total opposites,
I thought.
Not like you and me. We already have more in common than the two of them ever did.
    “Still,” Martin said. “I just couldn’t imagine taking off like that. As a father. Or a husband.”
    I smiled. “They never actually got married. But that’s good to know about you.” Having witnessed the demise of her own parents’ disastrous union, my mother insisted she would never venture down the aisle. I was not quite so averse to the idea.
    “Is she still a hygienist? Your mom?”
    “A dentist, actually. After Jess was born, she worked about sixty hours a