Chapter 17 #2
I almost laugh and scold him that I can handle it myself, but I don’t think my words would do anything to deter him.
I’m not used to having someone step in and fight for me, and when he did it the other day with that horrible fan in the crowd, I could only swallow back the complicated emotions it stirred up and thank him.
I didn’t expect it to become a common occurrence, though, despite his vow of from now until forever.
The sentiment is lovely and I certainly appreciate it, even if I don’t fully believe it, only because I know how easy it is to be left behind.
For now, though, I smile at him and watch as the corners of his mouth tip up in return.
‘So, Ava,’ Basil Maynard calls across the table, dragging my attention away from Zaid. ‘Who’s the better team principal: me or your dad?’
‘You don’t have to answer that,’ Zaid says loudly, which makes Basil throw his head back and laugh, ruddy cheeks aglow.
I pat Zaid’s knee under the table to show it’s all in good fun, and I nearly jump when he puts his hand over mine, keeping it there. I do my best to ignore the electricity that tingles up my arm as I call back, ‘I need to spend more time around here before I can decide!’
‘In that case, I expect to see you at all the races until you pop,’ Basil declares, lifting his wineglass in toast. ‘You and that little one are part of the Mascort family now.’ His head bobbles around as he looks for someone at the table, eyes widening when he spots them.
‘Cordelia! Make sure marketing gets that baby onesie up for sale on the website ASAP, yeah? And send a box of them over to the Yousefs.’
The Yousefs. A family unit. Mommy and Daddy and baby.
We haven’t done anything to dispel the rumors that we’re in a relationship, and I’m sure after our showing today they’re only going to get bigger and louder.
Even Edith sent me a text after the podium celebrations asking me if there was something going on between Zaid and me, attaching the photo of us together down in parc fermé, his hands cupping my face as I beamed up at him and he stared tenderly down at me.
I don’t remember it being that much of a charged moment, but the photograph says different, and I have to admit that I may have saved it to my camera roll.
I’ll get back to her eventually with an honest answer, that no, there’s nothing to report, though it’ll probably exclude the part about how I’m starting to wish there were.
Maybe she was right that I should go after everything I want from him.
For now, I’ll enjoy this lovely dinner with Zaid and the team and try not to think about how much I like his fingers wrapped around mine.
A fleet of waitstaff step into the private room a moment later, placing family-style platters of food along the table.
I’m reluctant to slide my hand out from under Zaid’s, but I’m starving, and the steaming bowl of potatoes au gratin in front of me is singing a siren song.
Before I can reach for the serving spoon, though, Zaid’s hand is lifting off mine and grabbing my plate, holding it aloft as he dollops potatoes onto it.
‘I can serve myself, you know,’ I tease, but I mean it.
‘I know you can. But let me do it for you.’
Again, I’m thrown by the resolve in his voice, like helping me – literally serving me – in this way is what makes him feel good.
Odd as it is to experience, I sit back and let him make my plate, shamelessly admiring how the tendons in his strong forearms flex as he does so.
He even spreads my napkin across my lap for me like the fanciest waiter, and I have to stifle a smile when his fingers brush over my bump.
Considering I can barely keep my hands off it, I won’t begrudge him a sneaky touch.
By the time we’re finished eating, I look several more weeks pregnant than I actually am and I’m almost certain Zaid’s going to have to carry me out of here.
The last few days have given me a – hopefully permanent – reprieve from my nausea and I’ve been making up for lost time, giving in to the cravings that have now hit me full-on.
Honestly, I just want to have a tub of ice cream in my hands at all times.
I’ve even considered moving into the gelato shop around the corner from Zaid’s apartment.
‘Can we order dessert?’ I whisper to him as the staff returns to clear away the plates and platters. ‘Like, right now?’
We’re sitting so close that I can feel his smile against my cheek.
Our hips are practically melded together, his arm again on the back of my chair.
I know we all squeezed together when a few more team members wandered in late and we insisted on making space for them, but I didn’t realize it had put us this close.
Zaid doesn’t seem to mind, and I’m not interested in moving, so I take the chance to unabashedly admire him from the corner of my eye.
‘Can you hold out for ten more minutes?’ he asks, fingers absentmindedly stroking up and down my arm.
I pout, but it’s to cover up how his touch has sent the good kind of shivers down my spine. ‘Ugh, I guess.’
‘Good girl.’
I barely have time to react to the praise and the desire it sends flooding through me before he’s pushing back his chair and taking my hand to help me stand.
He doesn’t let go once I’m up, holding tight as we wind our way past people offering goodbyes and congratulations to us both.
I expect him to guide us to the valet stand when we step out of the restaurant, but instead he turns the corner and keeps going, glancing back at me to make sure I’m following, even though he hasn’t dropped my hand.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask, curious but not put off by his secrecy.
‘You’ll see.’
A moment later, we’re stepping into a gelateria, an employee holding the door open for us, and I have to laugh.