Chapter 8
Olivia
Setting the bags on the counter, I don’t bother emptying them yet. Instead, I wash my hands and cut through my bedroom to reach my bathroom. Maxwell sits in his stabilizing chair in the tub, immediately splashing with a loud squeal when he sees me. “Mama.”
Cassandra and I share a smile before I kneel beside the tub. Reaching in, I tickle his tummy, causing an uproar of belly laughs. That sound shoots straight to my heart, filling it. “Hi, Maxwell.”
I duck just as he sends water my way. Laughing, I say, “He loves to splash me.”
She holds out her shirt and says, “You’re not alone.”
“Aw, hey,” I start, getting up to sit on the edge of the tub instead. “Sorry I was late.”
“It’s only a few minutes. I don’t mind if you need to run errands. I know it’s much harder with Maxwell in tow.”
“I appreciate you staying, but I’m going to pay you for your time.”
Getting to her knees, she adjusts her jeans. “I won’t say no.”
“Good.” Rubbing Maxwell’s chunky little leg, I add, “I can take over.”
“You sure?”
“Positive. I appreciate the extra help, but I enjoy my evenings with him.” I glance over at her again. “He brings calm to the chaos for me.”
“I can see that. He’s been fed and is happy.” With the towel in her hand, she moves closer to give it to me. “I’ve already washed him. He’s just playing now.”
She’s more than I could have asked for. Cassandra has become a friend. Not but a few years younger than I am, she loves kids, and especially my son. We’ve spent holidays together, and she’s dried my tears when life overwhelmed me as a new mother, and I was working again.
I’ve been there for her when she had a kitchen fire and no other place to live, gone through a breakup, and graduated from NYU. I say, “He loves the water.”
She hands me the towel. “So much. I didn’t have the heart to pull him out just yet, but he’s ready whenever you are.”
“Thanks for taking care of him.” Holding the soft terry towel, I stand, not sure how to ask her about Friday without her thinking there’s more to it. “How would you feel about staying late on a Friday night? I can pay overtime.”
Her eyes slightly widen, but then she tries to calm her reaction.
Nice try, but I already know what’s coming next.
She asks, “Is it a date?” I laugh when she continues, “Because you know I’ll stay all night if you need a night out or a night in at his place.
” She’s not lying. She’s only mentioned that I should find a companion for a night or life a few hundred times or more.
I’ve not been looking for either and don’t intend to anytime soon.
Her giddiness gets the better of her, and she giggles. “Please tell me it’s a date.”
Maxwell is the one laughing now. I rub the top of his head, admiring this handsome kid. “She’s funny, isn’t she?”
“Fun,” he says, but I think he’s unaware of the fact he said an actual word. He’s also quickly distracted by a rubber ducky floating in front of him.
It feels good to laugh. Unwrapping the towel, I set it aside, ready to plunk Maxwell in it.
I glance at Cassandra. “It’s a business dinner, not a date.
” Willing away that night in the Hamptons with Noah hasn’t erased one memory despite my best efforts.
A date would undo any progress I’ve made . . . if I’ve made any at all.
It’s best to keep things in perspective—a professional dinner with clients.
Taking hold of Maxwell, I bring him against me. I don’t care that he’s soaking my shirt. I love holding him close.
“Well,” she says, looking over the baby’s shoulder. “Business or pleasure, I’m glad you’re getting out. This Friday or next?”
“This Friday.”
“I’m available. Next Friday, I’m going to the Hamptons for the weekend.”
I burst out laughing as I settle on the edge of the bed. Maxwell squirms, wanting his freedom. Too soon for me, but for him, I set him down so he can stand on his own. “Be careful. The last time I went to the Hamptons for the weekend, I came back with this guy.”
He drops to his knees and hurries across the floor toward my closet. He loves seeing himself in the mirror in there. I maneuver behind him, keeping enough distance for him to feel independent of me.
Cassandra looks down at her stomach before souring her face. “Yeah, I’m not sure what to say to that.”
“Don’t worry. Neither was I.”
We’re laughing as I get Maxwell dressed. We walk her to the door, and she waves before heading toward the elevator. “Thanks again. See you tomorrow.”
When I close the door, I rub noses with my cutie. “Looks like it’s you and me, kid.” I carry him to his room and get comfortable on a gingham-covered chair and ottoman. The pale creams are serene, and the chair is comfy enough to put me to sleep many times since he was born.
The routine of reading him a book before bed is my favorite part of the day to spend with him. Other than that first-thing-in-the-morning grin he always sports for me.
My contagious yawn catches on, and I watch him yawn before he leans against my chest. I chose a shorter book because we’re both too tired for something that will keep us up too long. I kiss his head before I start reading.
Not twenty minutes later, I’m laying him in his crib and tiptoeing out of the room.
Opening the fridge, I pull out a bowl of berries and then break off the end of a baguette to snack on. I’m too tired to make anything, much less even bother buttering the bread or grabbing the olive oil to dip. I’m not sure this will tide me over, but I’m too drained from the day.
I watch TV for a bit, hoping it takes my mind off things. So much from Chip to Noah to Friday night circles in my brain that even a sitcom can’t win my attention. I almost roll my eyes, but my apartment is an eye-roll-free safe zone. This is where I come to recover from the straining all day.
A giggle erupts as I pad into the bedroom.
I’d be an Olympic Gold medal winner if it were a competition.
It was my one rebellious act as a teenager.
My dad hated it, so I leaned into it. I wasn’t perfect, but damn near close to it.
I never stepped out of line, but it still didn’t matter.
I could never live up to his expectations.
After slipping on my coziest pajamas, I take my time doing my skincare ritual. I don’t always have the time for it, but it seems like a good idea to while away a few minutes before crawling into bed.
My phone buzzes on the counter, so I look down at the screen:
Will the file have the breakdown of expenditures, including who approved the spend and who spent the money specifically? Or will it be an overall budget without details?
I get spam texts all the time, but this one is pretty dang specific and directed at me. I reply:
Who is this?
The three dots roll and then a reply pops up:
Noah.
In my surprise, I stare at the screen. His sudden ability to contact me takes me back to a time I used to pray to hear from him.
He sure didn’t bother then, so I try not to get worked up now.
But really . . . where was this text two years ago?
Not the one about the numbers but hearing from him.
I’m getting worked up, so my fingers fly across the screen:
How did you get my number?
His response comes just as swift:
The company directory.
I didn’t even know there was a directory. The serum I just dropped onto my face drips down my neck. Rubbing it in, I then glance back at the first message before I type again. Me:
Why?
Why what?
Why do you want to know about the expenditure approvals and details?
In their last email to me, the Torreses said that money was wasted. Some clients will consider money that doesn’t recoup the spend a waste. Others might not know where their money went.
I’m not sure if I can allow myself to be impressed that he’s working at this hour. It’s not late, but it’s hours after the workday ends.
Are you at work?
I’m out with a friend, and I was thinking about the details of this file.
Date must not be going well if you’re thinking about numbers and clients instead . . .
It’s not a date. I’m having a drink with a friend.
Not sure what comes over me, but this conversation makes me laugh.
Is that what the kids are calling them these days? Friends? Are benefits involved?
There’s no quick reply.
There aren’t even the three dots like he’s going to.
Did I cross a line?
I’d hate if someone made assumptions about me . . . well, they do already, and I hate it. I definitely crossed a line with him.
I rush to type:
That’s none of my bus—
Are you jealous?
I read the message as soon as it pops up on the screen. Another follows:
Don’t worry. This is not that kind of friend. Not anymore.
I’m not sure if I’m more offended by the accusation of jealousy or that he had to tack on “not anymore” to the end. Ugh.
Huffing, I cross my arms over my chest, not sure why I’m bothered by either part. It’s not like I’m attracted to the man. Just because he’s hot and knows how to wear a suit doesn’t mean I want to jump on his hard body and climb him like a monkey.
Oh good lord.
Do I . . . Do I want to climb Noah Westcott like Mt. Everest and mark him as my territory?
No.
It’s not butterflies that start fluttering in my stomach. It’s a tingling I feel between my legs just thinking about him naked under me, on top of me, the way he stretched me and filled me, leaving me empty afterward that has my head spinning.
A cry from the other room breaks through the fantasy . . .
I’m hit with reality, my reality to be exact. I exhale, trying to clear my head. I need to stop this. Noah Westcott was a one-time thing. A vacation fling. A rebound at best and a memory in the least. That’s it.
I wait, listening, while my heart races through ragged breaths. No other sounds are heard. I glance at the monitor to see Maxwell sound asleep again. At least one of us can sleep.
Lying in bed, I can’t seem to stop thinking about Noah. He may be the father of my baby, but there’s absolutely no way the two of us will ever tango in the sheets again. I’m not sure why I feel . . . down . . . disheartened.
It happened once between us but didn’t work out thanks to him. So I can’t ever let that happen again. I won’t set myself up for a second round of disappointment.
I need to end this part of our relationship and focus on telling him the truth about my son. The sooner, the better so we can move on, hopefully to a peaceful co-parent situation instead. I reply:
I’ll get you the details of the expenses tomorrow by close of business. Good night.
Another message doesn’t come right away, though I feel relieved by the way it ended. But then my mind starts into overdrive . . . Did he get the text or is he too caught up in his friend to notice? He bugs me after hours, then leaves me waiting on him. Figures.
What the hell?
I hate myself for worrying about this. For thinking about him.
I’m totally failing at forgetting about him.
Let it go. You know he has.
Frustrated, I call it a day. Who cares that it’s only eight thirty-seven. I finish getting ready for bed and climb under the covers. I’d lost my sexual desires when I realized I have no one in my life to want. And since I don’t plan to date anytime soon, I don’t know why that tingling persists.
I’m left with only two things I can do:
Take matters into my own hands.
And try to forget that Noah was not only the last man to give me an orgasm but he also deftly did it four times that night.
Lying in the dark, I slip my hand under the covers, succeeding on the first and epically failing with the second.
I may be unsuccessful at forgetting about him, but the one thing I won’t fail at is protecting my heart and my son. No matter what.