Chapter 8
EIGHT
It’s been four hours since my decision, and in that time, I’ve put my laptop to work, doing research on potential obstetricians and trying to calculate how far along I am based on my last period.
According to my calculations, I’m already in my second trimester.
Fucking crazy, considering I don’t see much of a difference physically.
As I stand in front of the large mirror in front of my bed, I pull my sweater up and turn to the side.
There’s a slight bulge, but I chalk that up to the persistent end-of-day bloating I usually encounter each evening.
I’m a thick woman, so I’m sure my wide hips and soft stomach have hidden the pregnancy up to this point. But between the sudden loss of nausea and the fact that I can’t see any outward signs of the baby, I wonder if everything is okay.
Shit.
I decided to have this baby, and I have no idea if?—
The sound of someone knocking on my front door has me shoving my sweater down to hide my stomach like it’s a dirty little secret.
My heart races as I run my palms over the leggings I swapped my jeans out for, forgetting Quintin was supposed to come over in all of the chaos of deciding to go through with the pregnancy.
My hair is in a loose topknot, tendrils having escaped, now framing my face.
My reflection shows me that the mascara I’d put on this morning is now smudged under my eyes, and I wipe at it as I step away.
As I walk through my apartment toward the door, I notice all the changes I’ll likely have to make to get baby ready.
This commitment is unlike anything I’ve ever signed up for.
I look through my peephole to make sure it’s him at the door, and the telltale sound of the floor creaking under my weight has me rolling my eyes.
I curse myself for not having set up the camera system months after I was encouraged by my mother, who makes a sport out of worrying about me, to purchase it.
If it wasn’t him on the other side, a stranger would’ve known I’m here, and that isn’t the safest of situations for a pregnant woman.
Although, technically, he is a stranger.
Maybe my paranoia is getting the best of me.
My neighbors would hear me scream anyway.
Speaking of neighbors…
I swing my door open, annoyed I’m so unprepared to see him when I’m the one who asked him to come over.
But when I open the door, he smiles at me, his eyes wandering over my face before meeting mine like he can’t decide what he likes best. It warms me internally, and I fight my fatigue as I lean my head against the doorframe.
I notice the way his beard seems a little shorter, how his hair looks like it’s seen a barber recently between the sharp cleanliness of his hairline and the way the waves on top are weaving back rather than toward his face.
Do I compliment him?
“Nice hair,” I blurt, watching as his smile widens.
He looks down at his feet before peering up at me through his dark lashes. “Thanks.” He stares at me for a beat before going on. “Did you…still want to hang out?”
Maybe it’s the way I haven’t moved from my place in my doorway. Or maybe it’s the clear fatigue on my face, the puffiness under my eyes, the way I haven’t offered him more than a slight smile.
“I don’t know if I’d be great company tonight,” I confess, wishing my life wasn’t this rollercoaster that refuses to let me off. “I’m exhausted, and time got away from me.”
I don’t want to tell him I completely forgot, knowing my track record is tarnished as fuck. Trying to find the right way to bring up working together has become a whole-ass mission as I try to navigate the way my vagina is desperate to meet his penis.
Honestly, his fresh haircut isn’t helping. His barber must be a fucking sorcerer. Quintin stands in front of me with a smile on his face, like he knows I’d be willing to contort my body into all kinds of positions for his pleasure—and undoubtedly mine.
I don’t think this qualifies me as a slut, but of the two of us, Quintin seems more like one, knocking on my door with that smile and haircut and, God , I’d love to sit on his?—
“I’d like to hang out, but I don’t want to feel like I’m bothering you—” he interrupts my sinful thoughts, and before I let him think I don’t want him here, I return the favor.
“You aren’t.” When his brows furrow, I rush on to explain. “Bothering me. You aren’t bothering me. I just have a lot on my plate right now. Actually, I do need to ask you something.”
On my bare feet, it’s easy to notice the inches he has over me. I hear someone exit their apartment, and we remain silent as the woman walks past, glancing at us before casting her eyes down and heading out.
“Okay,” he finally says, and when I don’t continue, he glances to the side before pressing his lips together. When his hazel gaze finds mine again, I remind myself I need to speak.
“Oh. Yes. About why I was at your restaurant. And why I wanted to hang out today.” I clear my throat and clasp my hands together in front of me.
“I’m an event planner, and I’m about to work with…
a client who can make or break my career, if I’m being honest. Well, she wants to book you for her event and?—”
“Okay.”
I purse my lips, lifting my chin as I regard him. Okay? “But you don’t even know?—”
“I’m sure if she’s a big deal for you, she’ll be great for my business.” His logic has me pausing, the warmth that was spreading now morphing into heated embarrassment.
Duh .
He’s thinking of his business, not of helping you. You’re a stranger. A pregnant stranger.
“Let’s discuss over dinner tomorrow,” he offers, and I stare at him, trying to understand this man who seems determined to have a piece of my time.
I volley between wanting to know if he likes me, for my own selfish and impractical reasons, and convincing myself it makes sense to spend more time and discuss the event when I don’t feel so unprepared. So much rides on this event.
“Dinner?” I repeat, the word stretched thin past my lips, like it’s a foreign concept to me. I cross my arms over my chest, waiting for his response.
“How’s seven thirty?” he asks, seemingly oblivious to my reaction.
Nothing in the world could throw this man off his game, apparently.
He takes me in stride, like it’s normal for a woman to throw up on his feet instead of throwing herself at his feet.
I’ll bet he’s used to the latter, with his slutty haircut and his earnest smile and beautiful-ass eyes.
But I still can’t quite tell if he’s interested in me or just a really nice guy.
He could be both.
Hell, he could be neither.
I really need to install that fucking camera.
“Does that work for you?” he asks, breaking me out of what probably seemed like a trance to him, not the batshit crazy thoughts of a single woman living on her own.
“Uh, sure. We can meet to discuss working together,” I respond, trying to find the smoothest way to make sure this is, in fact, business. “And eat food while we’re together.”
Trying and failing.
I’m a fucking idiot.
“Sounds great. I know just the place.” His eyes glitter as he takes a step back, pushing his hands into the pockets of his denim jacket. “I’ll see you tomorrow at seven thirty.”
I nod, still not knowing what exactly is going on. “Awesome,” is all I can think to say.
“It’s a date.”
Welp.
“No, no,” I tell him, lifting my finger to point at him, even as he continues to step back toward the safety of his apartment. “A date it ain’t.”
Maybe if I say it out loud, the secret desire to have him fall in lust with me will crawl into a dark hole and die.
But not if my whore-ish hormones have anything to do with it.
“It’s just a figure of speech,” he tells me, and I shake my head.
I can’t fuck him. I can’t like him.
I can’t want to ride him into the sunset.
“I’ll write it off as a business expense, if that makes you feel better,” he tells me, his smile never wavering. It does something to me, my adrenaline spiking at the thought of his attraction. “And spend the entire time trying to figure you out.”
With my lips pursed and my eyes the slightest bit squinted, I watch as he turns to walk to his apartment, not knowing what to say to him. If I had my way, we wouldn’t be going to dinner.
If I had my way, I wouldn’t be attracted to my next-door neighbor.
But as I step inside and close my door, keeping my palms pressed against it, I realize if I had my way, Quintin would be having his way with me.
This isn’t a date , I remind myself as I stand in the doorway of my walk-in, letting the cool air hit me. It’s a business meeting about catering an event for a large client of hers whom I could likely benefit from.
That’s it. A mutually beneficial business endeavor.
Menagerie was busy earlier, and taking this moment feels like a nice little break between the rush of lunch and dinner. It’s also the first night I’m leaving someone else in charge, and somehow, I’m less nervous about that than I am about my “meeting” tonight.
I have two hours before I have to knock on her door, two hours before I bring her to one of my favorite places. My friend just so happens to be partnering with them for the month.
Is it weird that this isn’t a date and she’s already meeting a friend of mine? The way I see it, I’m killing two birds with one stone. I’m supporting my friend Willa’s business endeavor, and I’m also subjecting Daniela to some of the best food in Chicago.
I’ve met beautiful women and we’ve had enjoyable experiences before going our separate ways. A few girlfriends when I was younger, but nothing serious, certainly not as of late.
With Daniela, my curiosity sprang over her lack of desire to even see me.
It triggered an odd need to chase her, to get to the root of why she avoids me.
While it isn’t something I’m proud of, it’s since progressed.
The last time I saw her, I got a glimpse into her true personality, the way she smiles when she’s relaxed.
For some reason, I get the feeling there aren’t many people in the world who’ve had the opportunity to really see her. I’d like to.
Even being in her apartment was a peek into who she is. Clean but lived in. Mostly beige with touches of colors and patterns here and there. A candle burned on her coffee table, and she kept her shoes neatly by the door. She walked around barefoot, her pretty feet on display.
So maybe this isn’t a date, but I can’t deny my desire for it to be one.
I won’t get her flowers, though. I’m honestly not sure if I’m supposed to open doors for her the way I’m naturally inclined to, or if, since we’re doing this in a business capacity, I’m supposed to let her do it. Because feminism .
These are the things I’m thinking about when I’m supposed to be teaching my new manager how to order our alcohol.
I lean my head against the doorframe of the walk-in, the work tablet in my hand heavy as I wonder how the hell I’m going to pull off this non-date.
“Mr. Lavigne,” I hear someone say behind me, and though it grates me to be called by a name that belonged to someone I never knew, I turn with a smile.
It’s one of my servers, and when she starts talking, my new manager steps in with ease.
He is quickly becoming invaluable to me, reminding the server that she no longer reports to me.
He ushers her away, and I’m amazed at how efficient his new system is.
I completely raw-dogged this restaurant, unprepared and not knowing how to handle everything.
But the best thing I learned in business is that if you don’t know what you’re doing, hire someone who does and learn from them.
Now, if only I could hire someone to teach me how to handle this “business meeting.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out to see who’s calling.
Willa.
“Hey,” I greet her, excited to tell her I’m coming tonight.
“Q! What’s up?”
“I’m finally making it to see you tonight.” I cut to the quick, knowing I have a lot to get done before I’m comfortable leaving.
“Really? I’ll put you down for a reservation. Just you?”
“I’m bringing a friend,” I answer, bracing my hand on the wall.
“Oh, Pepper?”
“No.”
She pauses. “What other friends do you have?”
I can’t help but laugh at her question, not bothering to let the truth barb me. “She’s just?—”
“ She? ” Willa shrieks. “Oh, do share.”
I glance around the empty kitchen, not wanting to overshare with the easily excitable Willa. “It’s just business,” I tell her as well as myself. “I’m still very much single.”
I ignore her disappointment, heading back to my office as she bids me a lackluster goodbye.