Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
All morning, I’ve cursed my ever-shrinking wardrobe and the fact that I chose to wear these fucking leggings to work today.
The waistband digs into my stomach for the millionth time as I lean forward to read yet another email from Paula, and when Remi raps her knuckles against the doorframe, I press my lips together to keep my frustration at bay.
It isn’t her fault I’m stubborn in my disdain for maternity wear and am now paying for it.
All maternity clothes look like shit, accentuate how fucking big I am, and are more expensive than the clothes I normally wear.
Because on top of the fact that I hate the way I look, I now have to hate the clothes I wear as well.
Pregnancy glow, my ass.
“You okay?” she asks when I don’t offer her a smile. “Is Paula getting on your nerves?” She leans against the doorframe, watching me as I try not to lose my shit. Can’t she tell I’ve gained a hundred fucking pounds?
Why is it so damn hot in here?
Maybe it’s my hormones, but everything and everyone is getting on my nerves. Especially Paula, who refuses to stop calling and texting and emailing with more requests and last-minute details for her event.
You need this shit. You need it to pay for your baby’s tuition.
I plaster a smile on my face and shake my head. I shake my head so much, Remi walks up to me and places her hand on my shoulder. My eyes are wide as I blink away the slight panic.
“Are you okay?” she asks again, and I continue shaking my head as I lean back, hoping to ease some of the pressure on my belly.
Yes, my stomach is officially a belly. I don’t know when it happened, but I hate it here.
“I can’t hide it anymore,” I say, more to myself than to her. I’m not sure why I haven’t told her.
Actually, I do know why I haven’t told her the amazing news.
I know Remi wants kids, and I don’t want her to hate me for getting pregnant without even trying.
I worry that, even with my years of servitude, she’ll think I can’t handle partnership.
Even with all her friendliness toward me, this is her business.
She has to make decisions that are in its best interest, and Remi not having children may be something she wants to change, but no one can deny the hindrance that comes with such a huge commitment.
She looks at me, her brows drawn. Does she know?
“I did notice?—”
She catches the way I squint, ready for her to make a comment I don’t like. Is she going to mention my weight gain? The bags under my eyes? The emergency that kept me from meeting with Paula last week?
“What?” I spit out the word, waiting for her to continue.
She tilts her head a fraction, brows still drawn. “You just seem a little preoccupied is all,” she answers, holding her hands up as she takes a step back.
I try not to chuckle, though I fail as she continues to stare at me.
“Not the ‘p word’ I was thinking of,” I mutter when I regain my composure, bringing my hand down my face, not caring about my makeup.
I feel so exhausted suddenly, like I could fall asleep mid-conversation at my desk. I think Remi is finally starting to catch on, her eyes widening.
“Well, you can’t be preg—are you pregnant?!”
“Why can’t I be?” I demand, standing and yanking at my waistband. I shouldn’t have had such a heavy lunch. I don’t have room for food and the baby.
But I was fucking starving. Sue me.
I pull up my oversize sweater, fanning myself with a folder I pick up from my desk.
“You aren’t even dating,” she exclaims, her eyes on the belly I revealed in my discomfort. They’re narrowed into slits, making it impossible to see her blue irises.
“Turns out, you don’t need to be someone’s girlfriend for them to knock you up.” I try to decide just how much I want to share when I figure I may as well lay it all on her. “And actually, I am dating.”
Just not the baby’s biological father.
“Huh,” she responds and drops down into one of the chairs in front of my desk and leans forward. “Who is he? And why didn’t you tell me? I thought we were closer than this, Dani.”
Her feelings stifle me, and the guilt makes me feel even warmer. I wave the folder faster as I swallow, trying to find the right words to tell my boss the man I’m currently seeing is working with our current and biggest client.
Wow, my life sounds like a fucking trainwreck.
“Uh…turns out, the caterer for Paula’s event is my neighbor…and one thing led to another.”
Hormones, loneliness, and really good di—dessert.
“You’re fucking the caterer? Dani.” She tilts her chin as she looks at me, slouching in the chair with a huff. “You’re smarter than this.”
“Apparently not,” I start, setting the folder down.
It feels odd, having my boss refer to us as close while also casting judgment and making it apparent why I felt uncomfortable sharing my personal life.
While things have the potential to get sticky when it comes to Quintin catering, I’ve still given Remi years of unblemished work. Oh, how quickly we forget.
We stare at each other, and she glances away first.
“Are you…” She clears her throat, her gaze still averted as she asks an uncomfortable question. “Do you think you can still handle the workload that comes with this promotion?”
I allow myself a split second of anger before I remind myself it’s a logical question, even if it annoys me.
“I feel like I’m still handling it quite well,” I tell her with an edge to my tone. “But if you aren’t comfortable…”
“I… Listen, I love you to pieces. You know I do,” Remi starts, sitting up, as if she remembers she’s the boss. She tucks her hair behind her ear and finally meets my eyes again. “But this is something I’m going to have to sit with before I make a decision.”
I nod, and it’s my turn to plop down in my chair behind my desk. I feel deflated. I feel slighted.
I feel really pissed off.
“Listen—” she starts, but I can’t stand to hear another word, knowing I’m on the verge of tears. I refuse to let her see that after she questioned my professionalism and dedication.
“I think I’ll take the rest of the day,” I cut her off, pulling my bottom drawer open and grabbing my bag. I shut my laptop and stuff it inside my bag as she stands.
“Of course. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
Give me the job I fucking deserve , I want to scream at her.
Instead, I grab my coat from where it hangs on the rack, leaving her in my office.
I walk past a frazzled-looking Bridget, who gasps at the sight of my belly.
I realize I forgot to pull my sweater back down, but I don’t give a shit as I shove my arms into the sleeves of my coat.
So much for a seat at the goddamn table.
I’m sitting on my bed, sniffling, when I hear a knock at my front door.
I don’t want to get up. I don’t want anyone to see me like this. I’m about to embark on the most intense journey, and so far, I feel like my life is imploding, nearly unrecognizable.
But I get up as the knocking continues, and when I open the door, the sight of my best friend and my neighbor standing there makes me smile for the first time in hours.
Which makes me wonder if Quintin is my boyfriend.
Not today, bitch. We’ll tackle that another time.
“ Madrina is here,” Santana calls out, reaching to pull me into a hug.
Only she would refer to herself as godmother before the baby is even here.
“And I found someone loitering outside your door. Poor boy must be lost.” She pulls back and casts me a knowing smile as she walks into my apartment, her long blonde wig trailing behind her.
I shake my head, nearly forgetting my tears.
Until Quintin catches my eye, those beautiful dark brows of his pressed in concern. Why is he so fucking attractive when he’s serious?
Maybe because it’s a side of him I rarely see. My Quintin is gentle and kind and filthy. I wonder if this Quintin is filthier.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, breaking me from my inappropriate thoughts.
His question is immediately followed by movement, and he reaches for me, too, but not to hug me. No, it’s to examine me, to place his palms on my cheeks and stare into my eyes as his thumbs stroke the apples of my cheeks. It’s too much right now.
“I’d rather not get into it,” I whisper, closing my eyes so I don’t start crying again. I can’t bear the thought of someone seeing my tears today, can’t stand crying over something my tears won’t fix.
Which is strange for me to think when I now watch animal documentaries and weep.
I try to avoid Quintin, but he doesn’t let me off easily, still standing in my personal bubble.
He wants me to lay myself bare to him, something I don’t even do with Santana.
I watch the internal conflict as it plays out in his eyes, but he nods and presses a kiss to my forehead before stepping back to walk inside.
You can’t fix this one, mister.
“I like your friend,” he tells me, the side of his mouth quirking up as he walks past me.
“Everyone does,” I say, looking in her direction just as she pulls a tin from her purse. She pops it open, taking something out as she glances around like she hasn’t been here more than Quintin. Hell, she helped me move in.
“Care to indulge?” she asks, placing a hard candy in her mouth before gesturing in our direction. I don’t bother telling her no, her eyes on Quintin as she offers.
“I’m not much for sweets,” he says, and I snort as she shrugs and tucks the tin back in her bag. He has no idea what those are, but I’m glad he didn’t say yes out of a desire to make a good first impression.
“You could introduce yourself before trying to get him high, Santana.” She smirks before sitting on my couch, and I roll my eyes. “Quintin, this is Santana. Santana, this is?—”
“The hot neighbor you’ve been fu?—”
“ Have you no shame?” I interject, trying not to laugh, tears long forgotten.