Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
“Why the fuck do these flowers look like shit?” I mutter under my breath, praying no one hears me. I’ve been answering calls from Paula all day, and I’m ready to rip my hair out.
The light-blue dress I chose would’ve fit me three weeks ago, but with Quintin’s desire to keep us fed, I’ve gotten a little larger than anticipated. After my new obstetrician’s reassurance that my weight gain is expected, I felt like I could relax a little. Maybe I’ve relaxed a little too much.
The florist is still here, so I pull her aside to ask about the floral arrangements near the entrance, expressing as pleasantly and professionally as possible that those shitty-looking flowers are unacceptable.
She scurries away to find replacements, and I hear someone clear their throat behind me.
Quintin walks over, his hands clasped as he grins up at me. “You’re radiant,” he murmurs as his eyes stop at the chain dangling over my bare thigh, exposed by the dress’s high slit. My hair is in waves down my back.
I approach him with my hand out, and he takes it in his before pressing a kiss to the back of it, his other hand landing softly on my belly.
It’s too intimate a moment while I’m working, but I allow it, needing something to ground me before things get hectic.
“And I’d hate to be her,” he murmurs before bringing his hand to my cheek. At least no guests have arrived yet.
“You would never be her. The consummate professional,” I joke, gesturing toward the street clothes he’s wearing as I pull my hand from his clothes.
“Is that right?” he asks before leaning in to press a kiss to my lips. “I don’t think kissing on the job would be considered professional.”
“You might be right,” I whisper before turning to walk inside, paying attention to every detail, as if I’m seeing it all for the first time. I walk around, ensuring the tables are set properly, security stationed at every entrance and exit.
Paula invited a few of her celebrity friends, and I’m hoping when this event goes off without a hitch, she recommends me to them.
We’re nearing the start of the event, and I’m already exhausted.
I’m a sweaty fucking disaster. I scurry around, my lower back and feet aching from the designer shoes I shoved my swollen feet in. I can feel Quintin’s eyes on me.
I swear, that man would breathe for me if he could.
While the sentiment is beautiful, for someone who’s only ever had to do things for herself, it’s sometimes a little unnerving.
I don’t know how to be the apple of someone’s eye.
Whenever I catch him staring at me, I fight the urge to ask what he’s looking at.
A swirl of chaos enters my vision as I watch Paula and her entourage walk in.
She has her hair pinned up, her makeup done, and is wearing a silk robe—no doubt scoping out the event before making her big entrance later.
Her eyes lock with mine, and she rushes over.
If the huge smile says anything, she’s pleased with what she’s seen here.
Then her gaze lowers to my stomach, and her eyes widen.
“You’re pregnant ?” she squeals, and I glance around nervously as people stop and stare at the exchange. Did she have to be so loud?
“Yes,” I muster, trying to bite back a sarcastic comment before it’s too late.
Duh, bitch . This isn’t the work of an Italian Beef.
Most of our interactions lately have been via email or phone call, and any time she’s seen me, I’ve been in baggy clothes, trying to avoid the very attention I’m now garnering.
“I had no idea you were married,” she gushes, grabbing my hands. Before I can correct her, she continues, “My husband wants kids, but I’m nowhere near ready.”
Long lashes flutter as she smiles, staring at me like I should know what to say to something like that. I wasn’t ready either, lady.
“It’s a big commitment,” I mumble, nodding with a weak smile as I look past her to see Quintin watching us. He’s too observant, his arms crossed over his chest as his gaze pierces into me.
“I’ll make sure to keep him away from you so he doesn’t get any ideas.” A giggle follows her strange statement, and someone from her entourage joins us with their phone in hand, leaning in to speak softly to her.
This woman is so oddly annoying, and I’m not in the mood to stand here anymore.
I pretend one of the decorators is calling me over and excuse myself.
The doors open in an hour, and I want to make sure everything is set.
At this point, I don’t think I’ll be staying all night, not unless they find me a comfy recliner to relax in.
The event space hums with a frenzy of activity as I dart around, double-checking the placement of centerpieces and ensuring every detail is just right.
This is my moment—the event that could elevate my career and make me a partner at the event planning firm.
The pressure is on, but I can’t help feeling a mix of excitement and exhaustion, especially considering the baby currently using my bladder as a trampoline.
I waddle from table to table, my stomach a constant reminder of the little life growing within me, my new reason for everything I do.
I pause to catch my breath, placing a hand on my belly, and I can’t help but chuckle.
I can’t tell if it’s momentary insanity or happiness.
The baby is kicking the shit out of me, but I smile, happy with their little hello.
“Hey, you okay?” Quintin’s voice, soothing and concerned, breaks through my thoughts.
I glance up to find him approaching, his hazel eyes darkened by those beautiful dark brows. He looks like he could be somebody’s villain, not my Prince Charming.
“Just taking a moment,” I reply, offering him a tired smile as adrenaline calms, leaving me shaken. “I can’t believe I pulled it off.”
With all the recent changes in my life and the accelerated timeline of this event, I tired myself out, making sure everything was perfect.
He places a hand on my arm, as if he knows I need an anchor. “You’ve been working nonstop. Let me take care of the last-minute details.”
I want to protest, but a sudden wave of fatigue washes over me, and I nod before I can stop myself, knowing it’s for the best. Everything is nearly finished. He’d have to actively try to sabotage me to fuck it up.
“Yes, Chef,” I tell him with a huff, tossing my arms up as I turn to waddle away. I fucking hate this dress, hate that I chose to wear these heels with ankle straps, hate that I had no idea what I was in for when I decided to keep this baby.
You get big, and yeah, the notion of it seems cute.
But then you get big in real life, and it’s…
different. Your feet get big, your face gets big, your ass gets so big, people can’t help but look at it—and don’t even get me started on the change in my nipples.
Puneta . The thought has me pulling my strapless dress up, glad I had the foresight to know I’d be a sweaty mess if I’d chosen something with sleeves.
I ponder over all the changes as I slowly walk over to a quiet corner and take a seat, my swollen feet resting on a neighboring chair.
I sigh in relief as I watch Quintin orchestrate the setup with a finesse only he possesses, giving a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, maintaining eye contact that only ever appears professional.
It’s mesmerizing, the way he effortlessly coordinates the staff, ensuring every dish is placed perfectly and every table is adorned with elegance.
When I first met him, covered in tattoos and chasing a cat, I never thought I could see him in a role such as this. He is a chameleon, capable of holding a conversation with anyone and looking comfortable doing so.
There isn’t much time before the event starts, and I’m going through my mental checklist when Quintin suddenly appears before me, holding a glass of water. “Stay hydrated. And I saved you a plate of food when you’re hungry.”
“Is feeding me some kind of fetish?” I ask, taking the glass with a smile. “Thank you.”
He shakes his head with a grin and begins to walk off.
That’s not no.
It’s been thirty minutes since the event was set to begin, and people are starting to trickle in, dressed in clothing far too rich for my blood. I peruse the room, walking in these tight heels I want to chuck into the nearest dumpster before lighting it on fire.
Fuck these shoes. Still, I smile, answer questions from other vendors, and ensure the guests know where the restrooms are. I’d bet my entire commission that if I look over at Quintin, he’s staring at me.
I turn in the direction of the catering, and, sure enough, he’s standing there speaking to someone, looking at me.
He’s too worried for his own good.
But as the evening progresses, I can’t ignore the weight of exhaustion that settles over me. My body aches, and my feet protest every step.
My dress is tight around my stomach, and I realize I haven’t eaten yet as the sound of people mingling fills the space. I catch sight of Quintin near the kitchen door, and I rush over, desperate for the food he set aside for me.
He changed into a fresh white chef shirt and black pants. His sleeves are rolled up, his tattoos on display. As I near him, he pauses, smiling at me. It’s then I notice someone else approaching, just beside me.
“Quint—oh, I’m sorry,” I mumble as I smooth a hand over my belly, narrowly avoiding collision.
“Don’t worry about it,” the person beside me says, and I glance up, getting a good look at him as he peers over at me. “Oh, you’re pregnant. Sorry about that.”
What. The. Fuck?
His hand on my elbow feels like fire as I tamp down my anger at his lack of recognition. Because why would he recognize me? I’m nothing to him.
But I sure as hell recognize him.
The same scar over his brow, the same close-cropped haircut.
The same easy grin.
And not a single flicker of realization that the baby I’m carrying is biologically half of him.