Chapter 22
Lydia
By the time Friday rolls around, I have determined two things. One: Cole is definitely a workaholic. He’s been at the office so much this week that I’ve barely seen him . And two: because of this my plan of attack may actually be a blessing in disguise. That’s fine though, I won’t be dissuaded. Anyway, he won’t see it as a blessing, and that’s what counts.
I dress carefully, knowing I’m headed to his big, fancy law office and unable to squelch the desire to make a good first impression. Or at least a better impression than I made on his parents. I choose the black calf-length skirt my mom bought me for law school interviews and a lilac top that ties on the side. Currently I still have a waistline, because, as it turns out, throwing up multiple times a day makes it hard to gain weight. I know I’ll be packing on the pounds soon enough though, so for now I’m going to enjoy the fact that I can still fit into my clothes.
In the kitchen I pull out the food I got at the grocery store deli earlier this morning and set it on the counter. Like David brought his brothers lunch during their war with the Philistines, today I am bringing Cole lunch during his war with, well, me. This lunch is special though, and the perfect blow to his inflated ego. The ego that laughed at me when I fell asleep on my parents’ countertop two weeks ago. Guess who’s going to be laughing now?
I crush one of my Unisom tablets and sprinkle it across the chicken salad I bought for him. Some may look at what I’m doing as drugging Cole, but I prefer to think of it as giving him a supplement. He’s overworked and deserves an afternoon nap.
“Hehe–” I stifle the villainous laughter that bubbles out of me, and quickly snap the plastic lid of the container shut. I put it inside a basket I found in one of the cupboards, then take care to remember that his chicken salad is next to the fruit and mine is next to the carton of orange juice.
Cole
I’m just getting off the phone with a client when a commotion from out in the hallway grabs my attention. Curiosity getting the better of me, I peek my head out my office door, and my jaw drops to the floor. Lydia is here…in my office…and… wow…I’ve never seen her hair swept up like that. Her outfit is reminiscent of that day at the airport, all business-like and extremely...hot. There’s no other word for it. She’s spilled something all over the floor and four male ass ociates are down on their hands and knees trying to pick everything up for her.
“Guys,” she sounds panicky, “it’s okay, I can get it, really.”
I look down and see that it’s food all over the floor; she’s dropped a lunch basket of food. She brought me lunch? My stomach swoops at the realization, the image of the two of us eating lunch in my office stirring something inside me.
Brian Morris, one of the firm’s newest junior associates, picks up a container of what looks like chicken salad.
Lydia gives up trying to get them to stop and joins them, bending her legs carefully to avoid any fashion mishaps. My eyes inadvertently follow the curve of her hips. Out of the corner of my vision I notice Brian’s eyes do the same. Unexpected possessiveness rises inside me, and suddenly I’m striding towards them, a growl on my lips.
“Morris,” I snap, “Bates, Townsend!” I don’t know the last one’s name, so I just level him with my scariest senior associate stare. “You’re excused, I’ve got this from here.”
Lydia freezes as they all rush to their feet and scatter, nodding to me as they go. Her gaze rises to meet mine. “Oh, hi, babe.” She pastes on a smile.
“Hello.” I quirk a brow at her, discomfited by my body’s reaction to her use of the word “babe.” When did we start using terms of endearment with each other? I can think of quite a few for her I’d like to try out. Namely, I just really want to call her Lyddie again. Stupid. I pull away from that thought.
“I brought you lunch,” she says brightly, gesturing to the food around her.
“I can see that.” I swoop down and help her retrieve the remaining items. I tuck the basket in the crook of my elbow and use my free arm to help her up.
“The thing is,” she says carefully as I lead her towards my office, “I think that fall probably ruined the food. Definitely our chicken salads anyway. Maybe we should order out.”
I scan the food, spotting the two containers of chicken salad nestled between a container of fruit.
“They look fine to me,” I tell her. “Some smeared on the lids, but the seal didn’t break.”
“Oh. Good,” her voice squeaks.
“You okay?” I ask as I swing the door to my office open.
“Oh yeah. Super good.” She nods, swinging her arms back and forth in front of her body and looking anywhere but me. Suspicion starts to rise in me.
“You know,” she continues, “you probably don’t even have time for lunch with me. I mean you’ve been so busy this week. I should just go.” She tugs the handle of the basket, but I don’t release my hold.
“I’m not too busy to have lunch with my wife,” I tell her, eager to get the truth out of her, and loving how flustered she looks right now.
“Are you sure?” She releases the basket, but then starts grabbing items from inside it, “because I could just go, leave you all this food to enjoy while I just take this chicken salad,” she holds up the container she selected. That’s the second time she’s mentioned chicken salad.
“Lydia,” I say slowly, “what did you do to the chicken salad?”
“Hmm?” She squeaks again. “What do you mean what did I do to the chicken salad?” She emits a high-pitched laugh.
Still holding onto the basket handle, I sit in my chair and study her. “Let me guess, you made it with something gross, like vanilla yogurt instead of mayonnaise or olives instead of cherries.”
“Olives instead of cherries,” she sputters. “Actually, that sounds good.”
“No, it doesn’t,” I reply. “That’s just your pregnancy talking. Now stop avoiding the question. What did you do to my food?”
“Cole,” she holds up the chicken salad in her hand, “do you really think I did something to the chicken salad when I’m holding my own container of the stuff to eat? I wouldn’t poison myself, now would I?”
“First off,” I shake my head, “no one said anything about poison.” I eye the innocuous-looking container still in the basket and frown. “Oh my gosh, did you put something in my food? Like a laxative or something?”
“What? No!” Her lips curve up in the briefest of smiles before she wipes it away.
“Wow, Lydia.” I raise an eyebrow, trying to appear angry despite my amusement. “That’s really adult of you. And let me guess, when you dropped the food out in the hallway you lost track of which chicken salad was supposed to be mine, so now you’re trying to abort your plan so you don’t end up giving yourself a laxative.”
“What?” she says again, clutching her hand to her chest in offense.
“Lydia.” I stare unblinking at her.
“Cole,” she says placatingly, “I did not put a laxative in your chicken salad.” Her lips twitch, giving her away.
“Fine, you didn’t put a laxative in my chicken salad.” I shrug as I remove the container from the basket and set it in front of me. I stand and walk over to her, her wary eyes trained on me the whole time. “So then sit down,” I take her by the shoulders and push her gently into the seat across the desk usually reserved for clients. I pull the container of chicken salad from her grasp and set it in front of her. “And eat lunch with me.”
Across from me Lydia chews her lower lip. I refuse to let this distract me from the task at hand. Sure, she has lips. Everybody has lips, that doesn’t mean I want to kiss everybody.
“Here’s the thing,” Lydia snaps the container open then wrinkles her nose, “I don’t think this is going to sit well with me. I feel sick.”
I cross my arms across my chest. “Nice try, but I’m not buying it. I know you did something to one of these chicken salads, so now the question is, can you risk ending up the one with the doctored chicken salad?” I slide a plastic fork from the basket across the desk to her, then select one for myself. Without breaking eye contact I pop the seal on my container, challenging her to this game of chicken with a quirk of my brow.
Lydia studies me for just a second then pops the seal on her own container. She stabs her fork into the salad and raises it up as if to clink it with my fork. A chicken salad toast.
In unison we move our forks to our mouths; I try to look nonchalant despite the fact that I’m nervous. What the heck did she do to the chicken salad? It can’t be too bad if she’s willing to eat some herself. Across from me Lydia doesn’t hesitate, just takes the bite in her mouth. I quickly do the same.
Tastes normal. Delicious actually. Did she get the bad one then?
Lydia sets her fork down and smiles, not giving anything away. Fine. She doesn’t want to back down? I’m certainly not going to. I stick my fork back in and take another bite. Lydia flinches ever so slightly but then quickly recovers, picking her own fork back up and mirroring my bite. Bite by bite we go until all of the chicken salad is gone. Our eyes never leave each other’s, and I can’t help but find this weirdly sensual.
We both set our forks down, and I wait for some sort of urge to rush to the bathroom, but none comes. Maybe she really didn’t put a laxative in the food. Or maybe she got the bad food.
“Wait a minute,” I break our silence, suddenly concerned, “you didn’t put something in the food that could hurt the babies, did you?”
“Cole, do you really think I would do that?” she says indignantly.
“I don’t know,” I say slowly, “I didn’t honestly think you would ever drug me, so–”
“Excuse me,” she interjects, “I did not drug you. Would you say the person who feeds you turkey on thanksgiving or a barista who makes you a cup of warm milk drugged you? No, you wouldn’t. All they did was make you pleasantly sleepy.”
Realization dawns. “You put a sleeping tablet in my food?”
“Technically, yes. But, as it worked out, it was more of a Russian roulette situation, since the sleeping tablet may have ended up in my chicken salad.” She looks at me defiantly as if daring me to call her crazy. She’s definitely crazy. I only wish I were less attracted to her crazy. This ten-minute lunch has been more fun than I’ve had since, well, since our impromptu food fight last weekend.
“Or perhaps,” she adds with a mischievous glint in her green eyes, “they were both poisoned. I’ve just spent the last two weeks building up immunity to Unisom powder.”
I can’t stop the bark of laughter that escapes me or ignore the rush of attraction her answering grin ignites in me. What is wrong with me? This woman just tried to drug me, I should want to run for the hills. Instead, I find I’m desperate to see what she does next. It’s got to be because she’s carrying my babies. It’s just some sort of paternal instinct.
She’s still smirking at me, her eyes bright with humor. Maybe it’s the eyes that have me hooked on her. Or the fact that she just dropped a Princess Bride reference into our conversation, and it totally applied. Whatever it is, all I know is that I feel lighter around her. Happier. I just wish I could tell her that. Wish there was ever a chance of her feeling the same way about me.
Lydia yawns, blinking rapidly. Triumph rises in my chest, and it’s my turn to smirk at her.
“That was just coincidental,” she asserts quickly. “Doesn’t mean I got the bad chicken salad.”
“Sure, it doesn’t.” I want to kiss her. I want to cross the room, take her in my arms, and spend the afternoon keeping her awake. “Lyddie,” momentary weakness pushes the pet name out. Maybe I can wave a white flag. Is it my imagination or does her face soften? I find myself leaning forward, locking eyes with her once more.
“Knock, knock.” My office door opens, and Ashley pokes her head in, her presence bringing me back to reality. I haven’t told anyone at the office about Lydia, least of all Ashley. It’s stupid not to, seeing that they’ll all find out soon enough, but every time I think about announcing it, I remember Ashley’s words when she said no to my proposal and embarrassment keeps me silent.
“Cole, do you have a minute?” Ashley steps inside, then her gaze finds Lydia, and her body stiffens in surprise.