21. Addy
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Addy
By Friday morning, my body has apparently decided to become a hostile work environment. I’m consumed with a low, floaty dizziness when I stand up too fast. A weird twist of nausea that comes and goes just enough to make me suspicious of every single thing I ate yesterday.
Which, for the record, included coffee, half of Oliver’s toast crusts, and one bite of a muffin that Captain ultimately stole.
So honestly, the nausea could be karmic.
I stand at the kitchen counter with one hand braced against the marble and breathe through a brief wave of lightheadedness while the coffee machine hisses in a deeply judgmental way.
“Okay,” I mutter to myself. “Rude.”
Captain trots in, tail wagging, expression bright and hopeful in the way only golden retrievers and extremely delusional men manage. He sits on my foot like this is a normal thing to do.
“You're not helping,” I tell him.
He blinks up at me.
I sigh.
From the doorway, Oliver says, “Are you talking to the dog again?”
I turn and find him standing there in dinosaur pajamas, hair sticking up at angles that suggest sleep fought hard and lost badly.
“Maybe,” I say. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not making it weird,” he replies, climbing onto a stool. “You’re the one having conversations with a dog.”
Captain looks pleased with himself, as if he’s won.
“Traitor,” I murmur to him, then glance at Oliver. “How would you feel about waffles?”
He narrows his eyes slightly, which on a five-year-old is both adorable and faintly threatening. “Frozen or real?”
“Wow,” I say. “That's an incredibly judgmental question for this hour.”
“It matters.”
“It does,” I admit. “Frozen. But in a way that says I care.”
He considers this. “Okay.”
So that’s breakfast settled.
The morning moves along in the usual, now familiar blur of getting Oliver fed, dressed, persuaded into socks, persuaded out of trying to bring an entire airplane book collection into the living room, and then redirected when Captain steals one of those socks and turns it into a giant game of cat and mouse.
At one point, I bend to grab a toy from under the couch and have to sit back on my heels because the room tilts just enough to make me blink.
I’m tired, maybe slightly dehydrated, and definitely not still thinking about yesterday in Ethan’s office, where we had a deeply sensible, mature conversation about rules that somehow still managed to feel one wrong breath away from disaster.
Very professional.
Excellent.
No notes.
Actually, many notes.
Mostly:
1. We shouldn't be allowed in enclosed spaces together.
2. His voice should probably be regulated by law.
3. Why is every conversation with that man one sentence away from becoming a problem?
I shove that thought away and focus on Oliver, who's currently using two toy planes to narrate a midair diplomatic incident.
By eleven, I’ve decided fresh air is a necessity, not a luxury. Also caffeine, and possibly one baked good.
“We’re going to the café,” I announce.
Oliver looks up from the floor. “Can I get the cookie with the face?”
“The smiley one?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe.”
He gasps. “That means yes.”
“It means your legal team is very good.”
Captain is at the door before either of us fully moves, because he understands the concept of outings with terrifying emotional intelligence.
“You're not coming into the café,” I tell him.
His entire body sags in betrayal.
“Don’t do that,” I say. “You live here. This is your home. Some of us have jobs.”
He sneezes.
“Great point. Still no.”
In the end, I take him down first for a quick walk because otherwise he’ll spend the next hour staring into my soul through the window like a Victorian orphan.
Then Oliver and I head across the road toward Brewed Awakening, the city crisp around us, traffic humming, the wind off the lake doing that rude Chicago thing where it acts like personal space is optional.
The second we step inside, warmth hits.
Coffee, cinnamon, pastry sugar, the low murmur of people pretending to work while actually reading emails they hate.
The place is busy but not overwhelming, sunlight warming the brick wall by the windows, the toy corner occupied by two toddlers engaged in what appears to be a silent, mutually agreed territorial dispute.
Sophie spots us almost immediately. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite tiny pilot and the woman trying very hard not to look like she needs a nap.”
I stop at the counter. “First of all, wow. Second, I’m fine.”
She leans on the register and gives me a look. “Mm hm. You feel better after the other night?”
I roll my eyes. “Much, thank you.”
“Well, like I said in my text, you missed out.”
Oliver lifts a hand. “Hi, Sophie.”
Her face softens instantly, all telling me off for skipping out on our night out fades away. “Hi, sweetheart. Still running the city?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Someone should.”
I glance at the pastry case. “Please tell me there’s something in there capable of restoring my faith in humanity.”
“There’s banana bread.”
“No.”
“Blueberry muffin.”
“Closer.”
“Chocolate croissant.”
I put a hand over my heart. “Why didn’t you start there?”
Sophie grins. “Because I enjoy watching you suffer a little.”
“That’s fair.”
I order coffee and a croissant, Oliver gets grilled cheese because apparently we are still in our grilled cheese era, and yes, the smiley face cookie gets added because he looked at me with the solemn dignity of a tiny union representative.
We settle near the toy corner, Oliver immediately absorbed into his own little orbit of food, planes, and curious side glances at the other kids.
I sink into my chair with my coffee and nearly moan.
Sophie drops into the seat opposite me once the rush thins. “So. You look weird.”
I stare at her. “You really know how to make a girl feel radiant.”
“You know what I mean.” She narrows her eyes. “Tired weird. Floaty weird. Have you slept?”
“Barely.”
Her expression shifts. “Sick?”
“I don't think so. Just a little dizzy. A little nauseous.”
She points a finger at me immediately. “Hydration.”
“I've had coffee.”
She sighs. “That isn't hydration. That's bean anxiety.”
I laugh despite myself. “You sound like Luci.”
“Your sister?” I nod. “From what you’ve told me about her, that means I’m correct.”
Unfortunately, it does.
I break off a piece of croissant and glance over at Oliver, who's now explaining runway etiquette to a plastic dinosaur. “I’m probably just drained. This week’s been a lot.”
Sophie tips her head. “Because of the job or because your boss looks like he should be illegal?”
I choke on my coffee.
She grins without remorse. “Ah. So both.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t. You miss me terribly when we’re not together.”
That's also annoyingly true.
I lower my voice. “We’re being professional.”
“Sure.”
“We are.”
She takes in my expression. “You’re saying that like someone reciting affirmations in a burning building.”
I should deny it.
Instead, I stare into my coffee like it might offer moral guidance.
“Nothing’s happening,” I say finally.
Sophie hums. “And how tragic for you.”
I glare at her.
She lifts both hands. “I’m not saying do anything reckless. I’m just saying your face right now has all the energy of a woman trying not to climb something expensive.”
I laugh so hard I nearly regret it because the room tilts again, not much, just enough that I pause and close my eyes briefly.
Sophie catches it immediately. “Okay. No. That’s not nothing.”
“I’m fine.”
“You look pale.”
I throw my hands up. “I’m fine. Really. Probably just stress.”
Her expression doesn’t change. “And the dizziness?”
“Okay, yes, maybe Chicago is trying to kill me specifically.”
“Drink water.”
“Yes, mother.”
She leans back, satisfied enough with having bossed me around, and changes the subject to a customer who tried to flirt with her yesterday by comparing espresso to destiny, which is so terrible I nearly forgive the universe for my current state.
By the time Oliver and I leave, I do actually feel a little better. Maybe Sophie’s bean anxiety accusation was clinically sound.
We head back across the street, Oliver swinging our joined hands and talking nonstop about how planes should probably have snack buttons for emergencies.
“Honestly,” I tell him, “that’s one of the smartest things anyone’s said to me all week.”
“I know.”
The confidence. Incredible.
Back at the penthouse, the afternoon settles into an easy rhythm. Oliver colors, Captain attempts theft of three separate crayons and succeeds with one, and I answer a video call from Luci while Oliver’s occupied and instantly regret not turning my volume down first.
“Bitch!”
I yank the phone away from my ear as I head into the darkest corner of the kitchen. “Jeez. Luci.”
Luci’s face fills the screen, sunglasses on despite the fact that she appears to be indoors, lip gloss gleaming like she’s just won a small war. “I’m packed.”
“Wonderful. Maybe lower your voice from nightclub emergency to indoor human.”
“Absolutely not. I’m excited.” She drops her sunglasses dramatically. “How’s pilot daddy?”
I stare at her. “No. We are not doing that.”
She laughs. “You slept with him, and now you’re living in his house. I’m doing it forever.”
“Please remember you’re talking about my employer.”
She grins. “That makes it hotter.”
“You're the least helpful person I know.”
“And yet your favorite.” Luci sprawls sideways across what looks like her bed and props her chin on her hand. “So. Update me. Is he still devastating? Is the child still adorable? Is the dog still a menace?”
“Yes, yes, and yes.”
“And are you in love with him yet?”
I nearly drop the phone. “Luci.”
“What? I’m asking as a supportive sister.”
“That isn't support. That’s psychological warfare.”
She cackles. “You didn’t answer.”
“Because the answer is shut up.”
“Interesting.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “What time are you getting here?”
“Early evening. Train should be on time unless the universe wants to be dramatic. Anyway, tell tiny aviation child I’m bringing him snacks.”
“Are they normal snacks or Luci snacks?”
She looks offended. “Rude. I know how to buy for children.”