way before he was born that he wasnât going to be worth the trouble. Maybe Katherine, if she was his birth mother, hadnât wanted to keep a kid sheâd made with Mr. No Name.
Maybe his birth mother hadnât written down his fatherâs name because there had been too many fucking candidates.
Literally.
Katherineâs chin tightened, and she glanced around the café. Her eyes watered and she took in the pastry-filled glass cases, the carafes lining the coffee station, the tables full of early morning customers. Then her gaze returned to Zach, but she didnât look him in the eye. She nodded in his general direction. âWork is security, another kind of freedom. I found what I was looking for, and more.â
Before today, Zach hadnât considered that maybe, just maybe, the fault lay not in him but in his birth parents. What if 50 percent of his DNA came from she who couldnât be bothered? What if the other half was a gift from whatâs his name? What if Zach was a 100 percent loser? Genetics might fail you, but math, good old math, inherently made sense.
A wail issued from behind Zachâs head, as high-pitched and insistent as any fire stationâs alarm. Katherine homed in on the cute, screaming toddler in the next booth.
The toddlers sitting across from the screamer focused on their buddy with their tiny brows furrowed, as though deciding whether to jump in and sing a round.
The mother of the crying baby turned and mouthed, Teething, to Katherine, and Katherineâs eyes flashed on the word. âHang on,â Katherine told the mom. âIâll be right back,â Katherine told Zach, and she race-walked past the bakery cases and into the kitchen. Her emergency stride, long and purposeful, made Zach think of his mother and all those mad dashes from their driveway and into the house for Band-Aids and bacitracin. It was a miracle Zach had any skin left on his knees.
Seconds later, Katherine returned with a white bakery bag in hand. She reached into the bag and pulled out some kind of hard-looking cookie. âWould Christopher like a banana oat teething biscuit?â Katherine asked Christopherâs mother.
âHeâd love one.â Christopherâs mother took the biscuit from Katherine and handed it to her son. Without missing a beat, the baby clamped down on the edge of the biscuit, whimpered, and quieted. Leftover tears trickled from his big blue eyes and down either shiny cheek. Zach imagined soreness leaving the boyâs gums, relief taking its place.
Katherine Lamontagne, the baby whisperer. Who knew?
Christopherâs mother kissed the top of her sonâs ear. âThank you, Katherine! Youâre an angel to bake homemade teething biscuits. You donât have toââ
âThatâs what Iâm here for.â Katherine waved away the praise, but her smile, the way she tilted her chin down, said she was taking it all in. Moments ago, Katherine had claimed sheâd found what she was looking for at the bakery and more. Was this what sheâd meant?
âWould Jones and Samâ?â Katherine asked.
âYes, please,â the other two mothers sang out. One of the babies banged his plastic cup against the table. The other little guy opened and closed a sticky-looking hand in Katherineâs direction.
Katherine gave the cookies to the moms and then slid back into the booth across from Zach. Her voice came out breathy, the way Zachâs mother sounded when she was doling out praise. âNow, where were we?â
Zach offered Katherine the truest statement heâd uttered all morning. âBeats me,â he said. âI havenât got a clue.â
C HAPTER 3
F or Celeste, junior year in high school had been a series of firsts. Her first boyfriend, Justin, had led to first sex, first breakup, and the first time sheâd suffered the assault of vicious gossip. Another first? Letting her best friend,