7. Georgia-May
7
GEORGIA-MAY
“Are you happy to be home?” I ask Coco, holding her close.
She wiggles in my arms, her energy boundless despite everything she’s been through. “Yes!” she exclaims, throwing her tiny hands up. Then she flashes that smile that never fails to lift me up. “Love you,” she babbles, planting a small kiss on my cheek.
Those are words she knows well and says a lot, but after all that has happened in the past few weeks, I’m barely able to hold back my tears. She doesn’t need to see them, though. “I love you too, baby,” I reply, keeping my tone upbeat as I return her kiss.
While going through the surgery and treatment for the second time, I realize it wasn’t me supporting her. Coco was my guide, an angel in the midst of our ordeal. Sometimes, I almost think she held back her cries as if knowing when I was at my lowest point. Instead, she smiled, giving me the courage to face each day with grace.
“And what’s the first thing you want to do?” I ask, tickling her lightly. She giggles, but I don’t think she’s as ticklish as I am.
“Duck!” Coco responds, pointing at the rubber duck sitting in the tub, dry since the day I took her to the hospital.
“You want to have a bath?”
She bobs her head eagerly.
Despite the thirty grand vanishing like a puff of smoke on hospital stays, specialist care, and ongoing medication, I’m determined to give my daughter everything she needs for her upcoming therapy. She has to be the happy girl that she is, running, jumping, getting up to mischief.
“Are you ready?” I lower Coco into the tub, securing her in a bath seat to prevent her from slipping. The special waterproof cap provided by the hospital shields her incision site, letting her enjoy the bubbly water with her favorite toys. Her giggles fill the bathroom. It’s clear she has missed this.
“Daddy would be so proud of you.”
“Daddy!” she squeals, grabbing at the bubbles around her and tossing them into the air. She loves saying that, even without a cue, and I love hearing it. It’s as if Sebastian were just around the corner.
I laugh, masking the ache inside. Anne always says Coco is my absolute mini-me, but I can’t help seeing Sebastian in her. Especially in her smile.
Intriguingly, another figure slips into my thoughts. The possibility of returning to Hartley Marine sends my mind wandering back to Blake, an indulgence I’ve resisted due to the taxing days at the hospital. But how can I forget his otherworldly gray eyes or the way the corners of his eyes crinkled with his smile? Whoever holds his heart is one incredibly lucky woman.
What’s the harm in imagining, though? What if he were here, right now, helping me with Coco’s towels and clothes? Asking me what else I might need? A massage would be nice!
Not that anyone’s ever managed to give me one, thanks to my ticklishness. Poor Sebastian tried and failed miserably. But Blake’s thick, strong mitts? Maybe they could bypass my ticklish defense system and hit the sweet spots.
Oh, sweet Jesus…
Before I can get lost in the thought, the front door opens, and there’s Anne, her face lighting up as she sees us.
“You’re home!” Anne exclaims as she stoops to kiss Coco. “My sweetie pie is home!”
Coco babbles away as if she’s telling Anne all about her adventure.
“Come, join us.” I motion for her to grab a chair.
Anne does so with a smile. “Got your game plan ready?”
“You bet. After this, can you watch Coco for a bit? I need to check my cell at my apartment.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. No one’s going to follow me this time.”
“I’ve got Coco,” my sister assures me. “Why don’t you go now so we can have dinner together later? Besides, I’ve really missed bath time with Coco,” she almost pleads. I miss it too, but I let her have this moment.
I give Anne a grateful smile, reassure Coco that I’ll be back soon, and head out the door. Opting to leave my car behind, the bus ride to my apartment feels longer than usual, but it gives me time to clear my mind. I stay vigilant, watching for any signs of followers, but the streets are quiet. No shadowy figures, no suspicious cars.
Once I arrive at my apartment, I go straight to my cell phone. My heart skips a beat when I see a missed call from Kylie, Rob’s assistant at Hartley Marine. I can’t stay here long, and I’m not about to risk carrying this phone with me.
Determined to stay ahead of any potential threats and protect my anonymity, I set up all emails and calls from this phone to forward to my laptop through a virtual private network—something I hadn’t had the chance to do. It’s a small step, but it gives me a sense of control.
With that task done, I head back to Colorado Springs. Anne is watching over Coco, who is now asleep, clearly more comfortable in her own bed than at the hospital. I feel a wave of relief seeing her so peaceful.
But then, a distinct ping nearly shatters the calm. Thankfully, Coco doesn’t stir. I quietly slip out of her room and go to my laptop.
A new email from Hartley Marine.
Dear Georgia-May,
I tried reaching your mobile and left a message, but I wanted to follow up with an email just in case.
Great news! You’ve been invited to dinner with Rob and Clayton. Thomas and Rocky will also be there. It’s a casual gathering, but you’re welcome to bring your laptop and present your final demo after the meal.
The dinner is scheduled for next week at 7 p.m. Please find the details of the invite attached.
Best regards,
Kylie
Dinner at seven. That means I’ll have to leave Coco overnight. What if she wakes up scared or needs me?
But I have to do this, and I know Anne will do everything she can to help Coco not miss me too much.
P.S. Thomas has a special request for your demo. He asked if you could include the QuantumSync Data Transfer Protocols. (I’m as clueless as Rob’s koi on this one, but I’m sure you understand).
I chortle at Kylie’s last remark, imagining her strong Irish accent. She’s such a joy to be around.
So, my return to Hartley Marine is now inevitable. I know my next steps for QEOPA, but my strategy regarding Simon Blake remains unclear. I should probably shake off these thoughts and focus, be the responsible adult who doesn’t indulge in fantasies. Yet, for someone with such a first impression, in my world of numbers, secrets, and fears, dismissing him is like ignoring an elephant in a phone booth.
I allow myself a few minutes to search for him online again. But just like my previous sporadic attempts, I find nothing. It appears he has taken his PI role to the extreme.
Hearing Anne approaching, I tuck away my searches and flip to my email.
“So, businesswoman!” she chirps, plopping down beside me. “Caught eyeing an important email, huh? Preparing to roll out the next big update for your program?”
“Yes,” I confirm.
Anne notices my lack of enthusiasm—and something else. “What were you investigating?” She eyes the specialized search window poking behind my email. “Running a background check on Simon Blake? I guess that’s more intense than swiping right.”
I roll my eyes, trying to keep my cool. “Anne, he was just a fancy driver employed by a multi-billion-dollar company in California.”
“Uh-huh,” she drawls. “That wasn’t my impression when you first told me about him. A wise older man, smooth driving, country music.”
I might have gotten a bit carried away, but my mind was scattered after returning from that trip.
“He was unlike anyone I’ve ever met, that’s all,” I respond defensively. “Sebastian was the only man I’d been with, and Blake is…” I pause, searching for the right word, then it slips out. “He’s from another world.”
She laughs, shaking her head.
I flatten my lips, insisting, “There’s nothing to share, really. Look!” I show her the search window. “There’s absolutely nothing about him. It’s as if he doesn’t exist.”
“Takes one to know one,” she retorts.
“I doubt he’s hiding from insurance salesmen,” I joke. “Anyway, he was just a fleeting muse.”
“That fleeting muse is about to become a two-day affair,” she counters with a smirk, asking to see the Hartley Marine email again. “You’re attending the dinner, right?”
“Definitely! And on that note, let’s pivot back to reality and strategize this dinner meeting, so I don’t lose my sanity.”
“All right. First off, how much do you plan to charge Hartley Marine this time?”
My mind races with the possibilities and pitfalls, still kicking myself for asking for too little the first time. “I’m still figuring that out. I don’t want to ask for so much that it turns them off. I’m sure they’re used to people trying to fleece them.”
Anne rolls her eyes. “Gi, you’ve worked your butt off.”
“I know, but I don’t want Rob and Clayton to feel like I’m exploiting them.”
She quirks an eyebrow. “Weren’t you supposed to be the logical one, not letting emotions cloud your judgment?”
“Come on, I’m not a robot,” I counter.
Anne shakes her head. “Look, they’ll easily make millions out of your invention. And let’s not forget, you’re doing this for Coco. Her future, her medical bills. You need to think about her.”
Her words hit home, and I bow my head. “You’re right.”
“Chin up, sister.”
I gear up to dive back into work on my laptop.
She halts me. “Hold your horses! We need to figure out your knockout attire first.”
“Maybe the navy blazer and black trousers? Definitely ditching those rental straitjackets.”
Anne scrunches her face. “Sure, it’s professional, but honey, this is dinner, not a board meeting.”
I roll my eyes at the word ‘board.’ She knows, but at this stage, I don’t think she cares. I let it pass, too, saying, “They say it’s casual.”
“Casual for billionaires, Gi, which means anything but. You need to sparkle. What about a red dress? Fits like a glove at the waist and hips, with a hint of scandal at the neckline.”
“Anne, Rob and Clayton are married. I’m not auditioning for The Real Housewives of Newport Beach .”
“It’s not about them,” she insists with a mischievous twinkle. “It’s about you owning the room. And don’t forget about Blake. You said he wasn’t sporting a wedding band.”
“Blake? At a business dinner?” I laugh. “That’s way past his bedtime.”
Anne doubles over laughing. “Oh, stop it. He can’t be that old.”
“I suppose he’ll be there,” I mention casually, though inside, fairies are throwing a party. “He’s not old enough to be my father—or our father, for that matter—but he’s certainly beyond the days of youthful trends. Conservative is more his style.”
“Huh!” she mocks. “Age has got nothing to do with fashion taste. I’ll go shopping tomorrow, and trust me. You’ll be the darling of the dinner, commanding numbers those men can’t ignore. And who knows, you may become the darling of Blake’s bed, too.”
I swat her shoulder, and she bursts into giggles, immune to my attempts to sidestep the Blake topic.