Chapter 13—Willow
“This is too much.”
“No, it isn’t, Mommy,” Lily says, not even looking up from placing each new toy gently in its chosen spot on her side of the room.
Of course she would say that. She’s never seen this many toys outside a store.
“Yes, it is. We’re going to get spoiled if we accept this.”
I bite my tongue and turn away from Ivy as she talks with all the seriousness of a seven-year-old. I agree with her, but it just sounds funny coming from her, and I refuse for my girls to think I’d ever laugh at them.
Not to their face, at least.
“Oh.” I might not see Lily, but I can hear her thinking. “You’re right, Mommy. This is too much. You can tell Mr. Bobby he can take this back.”
I turn back around and grab the stuffed dinosaur that somehow ended up in their room.
Out of the billion toys they’re unpacking from the massive number of deliveries we’ve had over the last four hours, she’s graciously picked the one thing that would be too much.
The dragons, unicorns, dolls, books, and even games must be considered essential now that she has them in her room.
Doesn’t matter that in our own home, all of her toys, and her sister’s, fit in one box.
Now it’s tripled in size for both of them.
With one last look at the sea of toys, I take the blue dinosaur and walk out of the room. I just can’t. My girls don’t seem to mind the entire department store that threw up in their room that they’re “redecorating,” but I do.
I look down at the stuffed animal and don’t even see how this is my life now.
So much has happened. Too much. I’m going from one extreme to the next, all in one breath with my head underwater.
And somehow Bobby seems to be the crux in all of it.
I should probably be concerned, but instead I’m grateful.
For years, every problem has been mine to solve. Every bill, every emergency, every setback. Now someone keeps stepping in before I can even figure out what to do next. Maybe that should bother me. But… it doesn’t.
I’m overwhelmed to the point that laughing is the only way to keep me from crying.
I didn’t sleep well last night, which isn’t helping the matter.
Not because the bed wasn’t comfortable, or the clothing wasn’t soft.
It was the softest clothing I’ve ever felt, and I swear the bed was made of clouds as I sank into it.
But how could I sleep when our entire world has gone up in flames? Literally.
Every time I tried to tell myself that it will be okay, that we can rebuild and buy again, a memory pops up of what I lost. Of the keepsake handprint ornaments they made when they were babies.
Or pictures of me and my parents before they died.
Small things that fit in shoeboxes, that we’d kept with us for this long only to be turned to ash.
“They didn’t like the dinosaur?” Marco asks from his spot on the couch.
He’s been with us all day, “looking over the deliveries,” he says.
Him still being here makes me almost sick to my stomach, thinking about how much more is coming.
Seems like an awful lot for us. First came breakfast, then a full load of groceries for two weeks.
Clothing came next, including new school uniforms for the girls that Bobby somehow got in a day’s notice when it took them almost a month when I ordered them before the school semester started.
With the last load, we got household items like toys and just some homier items to liven up the place a bit.
It barely resembles the sterile apartment it was the day before.
“Guess not.” I plop down on the other end of the couch in mental exhaustion.
“If you saved the receipt, you can return it.” Nothing came with a tag, but I know everything is new. It feels and smells new.
I toss it beside him on the couch as the doorbell rings.
“What now?” I mutter and hear a soft chuckle from Marco. He didn’t laugh or smile much when I met him a week ago, but he does now. Just a little to let me know he’s getting used to us.
With another groan about another delivery and not about how my knees do that cracking thing when I stand, I get up and shuffle over to the door.
I still can’t believe this all happened in a week. It’s as if my entire life has turned upside down.
Scratch that. It isn’t like it has. It did.
“Yes?” I open the door and see a man standing with a clipboard and blue overalls with some furniture company logo on it. Behind him, holding the elevator, is one of the security guards who’s accompanied all the other delivery personnel up here today.
“We have the princess bunk bed set to deliver?” He phrases it as a question, as if he’s unsure if he rang the right apartment number, judging by his expression. Which I’m sure is not a pleasant one based on how I’m feeling.
“Seriously?” I ask, my voice flat with zero emotion behind it. Kind of like him, as he gives me a blank stare back until he looks down at the form.
“Deluxe princess bunk beds with the added vanity and two-desk layout for a Willow Frazzer. Are you her?”
Are you kidding me? The girls already have a bed to share, and the room comes with a desk as it is. Why do they need more?
“Yes,” Marco cuts in before I can refuse the delivery. He comes up behind me and opens the door wider. “That’s her. I’ll sign for it.” He grabs the clipboard, and the guy looks at us strangely before nodding.
“I got my guys unloading it downstairs now. We should have it up and start setting it up soon enough.” He grabs the clipboard that Marco signed and goes back to the elevator across the hall.
The door shuts, thanks to Marco, and I look at him with a shake of my head. I’m done. So done.
“Marco,” I growl, and his lip twitches, which just irritates me even more.
“He’s in his home office. Go on up. I’ll watch over things here.”
I don’t hesitate to do just that. I trust Marco with my life as well as the girls’. And I really need to have a few words with our boss.
The elevator seems to be the only thing on my side, as it opens immediately on my floor and drops me off almost as quickly at his.
When the doors open, I walk right into the foyer of his home, just like last time.
The fact that the elevator goes directly to his apartment, and he doesn’t seem to care who has access to it, makes part of me worry for his safety.
Silly, really, since he has Marco and also owns the building.
I saw the security downstairs when we first arrived last night.
I’m sure they guarantee no one comes up who isn’t supposed to be here.
Unlike last time, when I was hopping mad from a bad wake-up call in the form of knocking on the door, that time a sugar delivery for breakfast that had the girls screaming too loud for me to do anything but be pissed at Bobby for, I don’t just storm to where he is.
I take my time, admiring that the entire top floor belongs to him.
There are windows, just like in his office, but nothing seems to cover the view.
There’s even a staircase inside the apartment, with the kitchen under it.
It’s those stairs I travel up when I hear Bobby talking.
His home speaks of wealth, but not in a stuffy way.
It feels lived-in, even if it’s just essentially a second office.
He has more laptops lying around than I think any household should have.
I spotted one on the counter in the large kitchen, another on the coffee table, and I know I saw one on the dining table when I came up earlier.
Granted, it was closed, like the others, while he was having breakfast, but it was there.
Just the memory of seeing him this morning sends a shiver through me.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him out of a suit.
Dark blue jeans and a gray fitted tee. It was a simple outfit, but it put him fully on display for my wandering eye as I ate up every bit of detail.
It was his features alone that made my brain stop functioning and instead focus my anger on the disbelief that he could look even sexier than usual.
Bobby in a suit makes GQ cover models look average. A relaxed Bobby with his hair only a little off his perfect style was… well, it’s downright sinful. If he were in the apple’s place, I’d totally get why Eve took a bite out of it.
I slide my hand over the banister, looking out at the giant U-shaped cream-colored couch below, and can’t imagine ever having one in my house with the girls. Kids are messy. Light colors never last long in a home with them.
Slowing my steps, I come to Bobby’s open door and see him looking at a painting of what appears to be a scene from Tuscany, based on the trees and vineyard. I stay still so I don’t disturb him as he talks to someone on a speakerphone.
He’s still wearing the same clothes, and I feel as if I’m looking at the wizard behind the curtain. He seems almost relaxed, though deeply annoyed, as I can see his eye roll from here when whoever is on the phone says they can’t do what he’s asking for another month.
I giggle at the simple act that I never thought in a million years I would witness from him.
He turns his head at the noise, and I cover my mouth, forgetting that the other person could probably hear me as well.
He gives me a soft smile and rolls his eyes again as the guy on the phone keeps droning on. I might not know the topic, but I do know an excuse when I hear one.
“Barry,” Bobby cuts him off without doing more than saying his name on a sigh. “I’ve given you two extensions already. I think I will look for a new supplier. My team will be in touch to draw up an early withdrawal from the contract. Good?”
“Wait.” Barry’s panicked voice followed by silence has Bobby looking at me with an evil grin as he raises an eyebrow.
“Yes? Was there something else you had to say?”
“Tuesday. We can get it there by Tuesday.”
“That’s lovely. Thank you, Barry. See you then.” He hangs up the phone just as Barry starts speaking again.
“Is that how you do all of your negotiations?” I ask. “Make them think you’re going with another company unless they do what you say?”
“It’s effective. And it wasn’t a threat. If I arrive on Tuesday and the products aren’t there, I’ll have another supplier deliver them on Wednesday,” he says with a shrug of confidence as he leans against the desk.
“What is it exactly that you’re trying to get?”
“Flour.”
“Flour?” I take a step closer to his giant desk that takes up half the room.
“Imported from Naples, Italy. It’s what makes the pizza taste so good at Da Nonna Leone. We’re a month behind on a shipment, and we’re running low enough to force us to take it off the menu for a bit.”
“Can’t you just get another type of flour? I find it hard to believe that New York doesn’t have what you’re looking for.”
He stands and comes around the desk. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. Part of the reason Da Nonna Leone is so unique is that we don’t get flour from just any supplier. We get the best. And if Barry can’t supply it with his shipping business, then I need someone who can.”
I get it, but I still find it ridiculous. And I know he can tell based on my smile.
He grabs my hands, pulling me closer to him as he perches on the corner of his desk. “Now tell me, what brings you up here to see me?”
Right. I need to stay focused on why I keep coming up here and not let him distract me with all his good looks and side missions I keep learning about him. Like that he’s strategic but also caring.
Before I can even open my mouth, he voices my concerns. “The deliveries? They’re too much.” He states it rather than asks it.
“Did Marco text you?”
He shakes his head. “No. You’re just easy to read. Come on.” He stands tall and drops one hand, but not the other, as he walks us out of his office. “I need some caffeine after that call, and I bet you could use a cup of coffee too.”
“You don’t happen to have a Diet Coke, do you?”
“No, but I can get one.”
“No.” He arches an eyebrow as we descend the stairs. Shouting wasn’t necessary, probably, and I feel myself blushing at my reaction. “Coffee is fine. No need to do more than you already are.”
His lip twitches, but he says nothing else as he drops my hand and rounds the kitchen counter, going to an obscenely large and impressive coffee maker.
The type baristas spend their entire college careers learning to use to make a single perfect cup of coffee.
And he just happens to have one in his home.
I watch him work, fascinated by the way he moves about the process as if he’s done it a thousand times before.
“Surprised?” He doesn’t even look at me as he does some kind of tamping motion with a round cookie cutter.
“Very.”
He huffs out a laugh as he glances at me for a second before focusing once more on making us coffees. “I seem more like the pompous type who has things done for him, huh?”
“Well, you do always have a driver.”
“Fair point.” He turns with a cup in each hand, rounding the counter to sit on the barstool next to me.
“My youngest brother, Tommy, is the worst without coffee in the morning. Then again, so are the rest of my brothers. I learned at a young age that it was better to just have a cup made to their liking ready for when they woke up before saying any words.”
“You always woke up before them?” I ask as I sip the drink. “Damn, that’s good.”
“Thanks. And yeah. I’ve always been an early riser, even as a kid. Sleeping in means anything past six.”
“Ugh, don’t tell me you’re one of those types who can function properly on like three hours of sleep and never need to recover from it.”
He takes a sip of his coffee before setting it down. “Okay, I won’t.” He winks, and I roll my eyes, then catch sight of yet another laptop.
“What’s with all the laptops? Do you really need so many?”
“Probably not, but I find it useful to have one in most rooms so I don’t have to run around the house to do business when someone calls or I get an idea I need to look into.”
I nod. Makes sense, in a weird, Type A personality way. I do the same thing with notepads; I always have one close by in case a thought pops into my head that I want to write down.
“I’m also a bit of a tech nerd and seem to collect different styles of computers as a sort of hobby. Or that’s what Tommy calls it.”
I raise an eyebrow. “A hobby? Really?”
“Yeah. He said I needed a hobby outside of work. I disagreed. Then he found out about my little collection of laptops, and that seemed to appease him enough to think I have a hobby. Again, his words, not mine. I just use them for work.”
I sip my drink again because I have nothing to add. Especially since I have no hobbies myself, unless work is the hobby outside of being a mom. Mom duty is all day, every day, even if you aren’t with the kids, in my opinion.
He turns to look at me fully. “So tell me, what’s the issue? The deliveries in general, or that I didn’t talk with you about them before they arrived?”
“Yes.”