Babydaddy To Go: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

by Adams, S. C.

  Only two hands go up.

  “Excellent. It’ll be a learning day for most of you. Any other questions?” This time, the room stays silent. We have about thirty minutes left before our scheduled time is up, but we got through everything I had to get through today. “Well, then, you’re free to go. I’ll see you all tomorrow!”

  The class packs up slowly. It’s nothing like it was when I went to school. We would have our things packed up twenty minutes before class was over. Half of us were out the door as soon as the second hand hit twelve.

  Of course, Alyssa is the slowest to leave. I don’t think it’s on purpose. She seems to be re-organizing the bag she dropped when she got here.

  “Alyssa?” I call. Her head whips up, clearly startled. Her eyes are wide when she realizes I used her first name for the first time all day.

  “Yes, Nate?” she asks quietly.

  “Don’t be late again,” I say, my voice cold and distant. “I won’t be as lenient on you next time.”

  “Lenient!” she gasps. “You call embarrassing me in front of the entire class lenient?”

  “If you can’t be bothered to show up on time, you can drop the class.”

  She gives me a stern look. “I thought I knew you yesterday, but now I see you’re an asshole. I’m glad I learned my lesson early on. Thanks so much, teacher.” Alyssa gathers her bag over her shoulder and stalks towards the door. Without turning to look at me, she adds, “I won’t be late again.”

  I watch her go, completely in awe, and wanting to chase after her to bring her back.

  I know I can’t, so I don’t, no matter how badly I want to.

  7

  Alyssa

  Monday

  What felt like a dream just a few days ago has turned into the worst decision of my life. Why did I come all the way to New York? I’m not cut out for this because yesterday’s criticism has me feeling weak and limp. Nate was harder on me than anyone else in the class. What happened to the sweet, funny guy I met yesterday? Which version of Nate is the real him?

  I’m so confused. The first friend I made in New York is a sham. There are a few nice people in my class, but I’m partnered with a girl who hates me even though I did nothing wrong. It’s like I never left high school!

  I quickly unlock the door to my apartment so my neighbors don’t see me crying. The trip here was a lot easier than my run to school this morning. I’m going to set more alarms tonight so that I have time to take the subway tomorrow.

  My apartment looks exactly the same as it did when I left in a rush earlier today. Has it been less than a day since I missed my alarm, showed up late to class, and got reamed out by the same guy who kissed me passionately last night? It feels like years have passed since then.

  As soon as I plop down on the couch, my phone starts to ring. The caller ID flashes my grandmother’s photo on the screen.

  The last thing I want is for my grandmother to know how upset I am. She’ll tell me I can come home, and I might just take her up on it.

  “Hi Grams,” I answer cheerfully.

  “You sound happy!” she exclaims. “I take it your first day went well?”

  Thank goodness I’m good at masking my true feelings. “It did. We went over how important it is to use certain equipment for certain things. We even played this game where we had to pick out the proper utensils for cooking specific dishes. I wasn’t expecting class to be so fun.”

  Grams laughs. “Doing what you love should always be fun! I’m glad the professor isn’t too stuffy. What celebrity chef did they bring in?”

  I force excitement into my voice. “You’ll never believe it! Nathaniel Glover is our teacher!”

  “Your favorite chef? What are the chances?”

  “I thought the same thing. It’s crazy. He’s just as talented in real life as he is on TV.”

  “I should hope!” she says. “I don’t want some faker teaching my granddaughter.”

  We both laugh and my heart breaks. Eventually, I’ll have to tell Grams about Nate – Nathaniel – and how he hurt me. For now, I want her to be happy. One of us should be.

  “It’s everything I hoped it would be, Grams,” I lie. I’m reaching the end of my fibbing abilities, so I turn to something easier: the truth. “Tomorrow, we’re going to make pasta and alfredo sauce.”

  “Oh, girly, your homemade alfredo is the best! You’re going to nail it tomorrow.”

  “We’re working on learning how to follow recipes before we start deviating, but I looked at the recipe in the text book and it’s almost the same as mine. I’m really excited!” This is true, too. Even though Nate is being an ass, I’m looking forward to tomorrow’s assignment. I’ve been making alfredo sauce since elementary school.

  “I’m sure you’ll do great, Alyssa. I’m so proud of you.”

  “Thanks, Grams. I love you.”

  We talk a bit more about what I’ve missed at home in the last twenty-four hours. Gramps jumps on to share the latest gossip. They both act as if it’s been weeks since they last saw me, not a day and a half. I miss them terribly.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” Grams promises. “Have fun. I can’t wait to hear how your pasta turns out! You’ll have to make homemade pasta for us when you come home.”

  I tell her I will and we hang up. Once again, the silence surrounds me. The temptation to text Nate and ask him what today was all about is real, but I delete his number from my phone instead.

  Unfortunately, I’ve already memorized the pesky ten digits. If I wanted to put it back in my contacts, I could.

  The clock is nearing dinner time and my stomach growls. The leftover tacos sit uneaten in the fridge. Just thinking about eating them reminds me of Nate, and I don’t want that.

  I could cook something else, but I’m not feeling up to it. I’m too depressed to set foot in another kitchen today. After everything Nate said about my steak, I’m not even sure I should be cooking dinner. Am I really that bad? Have my friends and family been lying to me all these years? I don’t think they would do that, but people do a lot of things for the people they love. Didn’t I just lie to my grandmother so she wouldn’t worry about me?

  My apartment is stifling. I don’t even want to order delivery. Instead, I just need to get out of here.

  Nate wasn’t the only one who told me New York has amazing food options. I want to try the pizza, the bagels, and everything else this city has to offer. I can’t do that if I hide in my apartment.

  The early fall air is a bit chilly, so I change into long sleeves and jeans. I’m glad to be out of my ridiculous chef’s uniform. It’s stiff and uncomfortable. I’m going to need to wash it before tomorrow, because it’s sweaty from my run to class, too. I was lucky to find an apartment that came with a washer and dryer in my unit. This place is worth its high cost.

  New York is alive when I exit my apartment. Unlike this morning’s traffic free excursion, the streets are packed with people making their way home from work or tourists looking for the next family-friendly thing to do.

  I join the masses walking towards the central part of the city. The sun is still high in the sky but it’s falling quickly. I might have to take a taxi back to my apartment later. I’ve read enough to know that a young girl shouldn’t be walking home by herself late at night.

  My neck hurts as I strain to see the tops of the tall buildings. The closest major metropolitan area to my Maine town is Boston, and I’ve only been there a couple times. Besides, compared to New York, Boston is a short city. There are skyscrapers, but it’s nothing like this.

  A savory aroma distracts me from my gawking. Every year on my birthday, my grandparents and I go to this one storefront in town that serves Middle Eastern food. It’s my favorite restaurant in the world. The street I’m walking smells just like that place – it reminds me of home.

  I find the origin of the delicious smell. It’s a small vendor truck parked on the corner of 53rd street. On a spit enclosed in glass, the chefs have lamb, beef,
and chicken turning, ready to be shaved. My mouth waters just looking at it.

  “This looks incredible,” I tell the older woman working in the truck. “I love shawarma.”

  She smiles gently at me.

  “Would you like a sample?”

  I nod my head, grinning.

  “I’ll take lamb and beef. I can tell by the smell that it’ll be delicious.”

  She wields her knife and slices thin strips of meat from the spinning pieces. Each piece is rolled up like a cone and placed into a paper container lined with pita bread.

  “Would you like any toppings?” she asks.

  “Tahini and hummus?”

  “You know your shawarma.”

  I tell the kind woman about the restaurant back home. She reminds me a lot of the owner of that place, in fact. They both have sweet smiles and friendly demeanors.

  “Are you always at this location?” I ask. “I just moved to the city and I don’t know much about the area, but I’ll definitely be coming back.”

  “We have this location and one other in Queens. We’re always here, so you’ll be able to visit any time you want.”

  I take a bite of the shawarma and moan. “Absolutely delicious,” I tell her. “I’ll be back soon.”

  “Thank you!” she calls after me.

  Next to the shawarma truck is another vendor. They line this street, each serving something unique. Everything looks delicious. I’ll have to try them all eventually.

  What would it be like to join these people? I could own a truck. I could serve my alfredo sauce. Pasta isn’t the easiest street food to eat, but I could do something unique with it. Maybe put it in garlic bread cones?

  No, I think. That’s not me.

  I want to own a restaurant. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with owning a food truck. They serve great food and they’re really convenient. It’s just that my dream has always been to open a restaurant, to plan the menu, to decide how the dining room is going to look. I’m not going to give that up just because one teacher was mean to me. I’m definitely not giving it up because I ate delicious food from a truck. I’ve eaten plenty of great food from restaurants, too.

  Maybe after I’ve established my restaurant, we can expand into food truck territory. I’ve heard that the vendors form a community of their own. I’d love to be a part of that, once I’m a proud restaurant owner.

  The flow of pedestrian traffic keeps me from dwelling on the food vendors for too long. It also makes it difficult to eat my shawarma. I’ve only managed a couple of bites. I don’t want to choke should an overzealous New Yorker knock into my back.

  My food is starting to get cold, so I pull off onto another street. The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place why. Shrugging it off, I walk on this less busy road, enjoying my food as I go.

  One block turns into two. The storefronts get nicer and nicer in this area. I must be reaching the business part of New York. At the very least, I’m in the ‘fancy’ part of the city. The part where I can walk in the setting sun without worrying about something bad happening to me.

  After four blocks, I’m considering putting on my GPS to head home. I’m exhausted from the long day, but I’m not done with my food yet. They always give so much meat when you order shawarma.

  I pause in front of a sleek, glass front building and pull out my phone. Before I have a chance to type in my address, I realize why this street sounded so familiar.

  I’m standing in front of Nate’s restaurant.

  It looks just like its pictures. The storefront is wide, taking up three or four units. The entire front is covered in floor to ceiling windows. Expensive apartments sit on top of the restaurant.

  The restaurant is luxurious. The tables are lined with white linen cloths. Each one holds a single white candle in the center, flanked by two long-stem red roses in crystal vases. I can’t make out the walls. Photos I’ve seen show expensive paintings sitting above the best tables in the restaurant.

  All of the waiters are tall and graceful as they carry food, wine, and other drinks to their tables. The women wear conservative black dresses while the men wear expensive-looking suits with black ties. It’s the kind of restaurant I long to open. Only the best people can eat there. Reservations for a table can take weeks, sometimes months. As soon as I got my acceptance letter to NYACA, I tried to get a table for one and was told their next opening was in December. It’s their busy season.

  I’m not dressed for dinner, but it can’t hurt to walk inside, can it? People do that all the time.

  I start towards the door, but I stop myself from going in. No, I need to wait to experience the interior. I’ll go in when I have a reservation and when I’m dressed appropriately for this beautiful restaurant. It deserves more than my jeans and t-shirt. The patrons I can see through the window are in their Sunday best.

  Even though I can’t bring myself to walk inside, I can’t force my eyes from the window, either. It’s magical to watch how well everything works inside the restaurant. Most of the places near me run in disorganized chaos. Nate’s restaurant is a well-oiled machine.

  Just as I’m preparing to peel myself from the window, a movement near the door catches my eye. Out walks Nate looking incredible in a tailored suit. His hair is slicked back, revealing his perfect eyes.

  My heart is racing but my entire body feels numb. It shouldn’t be legal for someone to look that handsome. I struggle to breathe, but it’s nearly impossible.

  Nate scans the small crowd gathered in front of his restaurant. His eyes lock on mine and hold my gaze. He smiles slightly like he’s happy to see me. I return the look.

  This is the same kind of moment we had last night. Maybe what happened in class today was a fluke. He could have been trying to keep up appearances so that no one knew we’d shared an intimate night together.

  I take a step towards him, but he looks behind him. A stunning woman in the most gorgeous red dress I’ve ever seen walks out of the restaurant and locks arms with him. Her long, skinny legs capture the attention of everyone standing around.

  Nate smiles at her the way he smiled at me last night. Who is this woman? I thought he didn’t have a girlfriend! Have they been keeping it a secret? If so, what was the deal with last night?

  I thought we had something real. It felt real to me. The way he looked at me, the way he kissed me? That had to have been more than my imagination.

  Yet here he is, getting into a limo with some model. He doesn’t look my way again even though he knows I’m there. I want to believe he’s embarrassed, but it’s more likely he just doesn’t care.

  I’ve lost my appetite, so I throw the remaining shawarma into the nearest trash can and speed walk back to my apartment. I’m glad I stopped at the store on my way home from class and stocked my freezer with ice cream. I take out a tub of mint chocolate chip and settle on the couch to watch a movie.

  It’s not enough to take my mind off of Nate, but it’s a good start. At least the ice cream is delicious.

  8

  Nathaniel

  Monday

  The paparazzi flashes burn my eyes and make my head swim with an ache that wasn’t there before. The one thing I hate about my job is the attention it brings. All I’ve ever wanted was to own my own restaurant. I didn’t realize I’d end up a celebrity by achieving my dream.

  The vapid model I’m stuck with tonight slides into the waiting limo. With a quick wave to the small crowd, I climb in beside her.

  My driver knows where we’re going. He pulls the car away from the curb and heads towards the extravagant hotel hosting tonight’s charity event.

  “I’m really looking forward to this,” the model, Jasmine, tells me. “You know, I have a friend with cystic fibrosis. It’s a terrible disease. You’re awesome for raising money for it!”

  “This fundraiser is for diabetes research,” I inform her plainly.

  “Right! That’s what I meant. My friend has diabetes. She can’t eat any gluten.”


  I huff against the window. Is this girl for real? Of all the models-for-hire I’ve had to ‘date’ over the last few years, Jasmine is by far the most annoying.

  “Do you like my dress? It was made especially for me. You know, I’m really good friends with the designer, Luce Divito. If you want, I can introduce you. You’d look great in his designs.”

  “Thanks, but I’m pretty happy with my designer.”

  Undaunted, Jasmine continues to chat. “I love modeling. I’ve been in New York for almost ten years now. I moved here when I was twelve. I got my first print run that same year, so I’ve been doing this a long time. I’m really good. D&G is considering me for their next perfume campaign. My agent is working it out…”

  I tune her out as best I can. Apparently, the paparazzi love it when I have a date. They get off on writing about my relationships. Because of this, my agent hires girls to escort me to events like the one I’m going to tonight. They’re not prostitutes. They’re models working in the city. Like Jasmine, they’re pretty prominent. The more beautiful the woman on my arm is, the better the tabloids treat me.

  What I’m really looking for is a relationship, not a business arrangement. I want a woman to wake up to. I’m thirty-five years old. It’s about time I settled down.

  My agent doesn’t care. He would rather I never get married. The paparazzi will follow a bachelor longer than they’ll follow a guy with a wife and kids. He says I’ll be more successful if I’m single and only go out with models like Jasmine. Because I want my businesses to do well, I go along with it. I’m hoping my good behavior will convince my agent to let me get married eventually. So far, it hasn’t worked.

  “So my cat climbed a tree. I didn’t think they did that in real life! He’s not really my cat. He’s just a cat that wanders the street outside the apartment I share with a few other girls. We adopted him as our own. His name is Cookies. Anyway, he climbed a tree, and I had to call the fire department…”