2. Rosay
Chapter two
Rosay
I stare at the screen, dumbfounded at the audacity of my brain to let me utter his name in a moment of panic.
“Graham? Why does that name sound familiar?” Dad asks.
Somehow between the fuzz in my head, I realize I’m still on the line. “Dad, I’m sorry, but I gotta take this other call. I love you.”
“I’m so happy for you. Te amo, mija.”
My heart pounds furiously against my ribcage, not only because Graham calling me after hours on a Friday night means chaos, but also that I just told my family that I’m engaged to the most annoying man on the face of the earth.
Before I have a chance to answer—or decline—Graham’s call, the screen goes dark, and I let out a sigh of relief.
I’m sure I’ll receive a voicemail or email from him with a list of things he needs me to do, but I’ll deal with that when it comes.
Right now, all I need is relief in the form of delicious baked goods.
Of all the names I could've blurted out, my crotchety boss's was by far the worst choice I made tonight. I could’ve—should’ve—corrected Winnie the moment she misunderstood me, but hearing the sheer pride in my dad’s voice kept me tongue-tied.
The thought lingers in my mind as I leave the pizzeria and wade through the crowds at The Pearl, headed toward my favorite bakery.
The air is tinged with a potpourri of scents from the diverse eateries, but as I approach the bakery the yeasty goodness of fresh pastries hits my nose. I salivate, imagining the massive pina colada cinnamon roll I'm going to take a bite of then save for tomorrow morning.
"Welcome to Tilly's," the baker's daughter yells from a kids’ table bumped up against the wall. Her brown pigtails bounce when she extends her hands as if celebrating my arrival.
"Inside voice, Jessie." Tilly, the baker and one of the newest additions to our friend group, comes through a stainless-steel swinging door with a tray of steaming croissants propped on her round, pregnant belly. Her gaze flits towards me, and she smiles. "Hey, Rosay. Here for your usual?"
I nod. "Yeah. It’s been a hell of a night, and Saturday mornings watching Mr. Darcy just aren't the same without a cinnamon roll and a pile of bacon."
She laughs. "I couldn't agree more. I've got some fresh ones in the oven if you don't mind waiting a few minutes. I'll throw in an extra roll if you keep an eye on the little one."
"That sounds amazing. Thank you."
She vanishes through the door, leaving me with her kid. Jessie blinks up at me with a pile of coins haphazardly strewn across the table and a gnome figurine in her hand.
I cram myself into a small chair beside her. "You've got a lot of money there."
"Mommy was teaching me how to count coins." Her bottom lip protrudes out as she drops the gnome and crosses her arms. "But I don't understand it."
I stare at her, this four-year-old wizard that wants to learn about counting.
With her curly brown pigtails and wide smile, it's like I'm looking at myself as a kid.
I've always been enraptured by numbers: percentages, fractions, risk and reward.
At one point, I thought I'd become a teacher, spreading my love of statistics and probability to eager students who wanted to become math teachers.
But then my mom died, and I didn’t escape my teenage years without getting into trouble with the law.
One simple background search. That’s all it would take for the school system to black mark my application without a second thought.
When one of Dad and Wendy's friends offered me an internship working under him as a financial consultant right out of college, I couldn't say no. Saying no thank you to someone willing to hire you despite a checkered past was not a luxury I had. When I proved my worth, they hired me full-time. Nearly ten years later and I’m still grateful for the opportunity.
Thinking about the promotion and the looming email I’m sure Graham has already sent gives me indigestion.
"Do you know how to count money?" Jessie asks, staring up at me as if I know all the answers to life's questions.
I can't help the smile that forms on my face. "I sure do. Want me to show you a trick?"
Time passes as I teach her how every 100 cents equals a dollar, showing her how a quarter can either be broken down into two dimes and one nickel or five nickels, or even 25 pennies, then repeating the process for the lower values.
It's not until my phone dings in my pocket that I look up and find Tilly staring at us, rubbing her hand on her belly.
"You're great with kids," she says, folding down the bag with my warm treats. "I've been trying to teach her that for the past week. The kid loves numbers, but I'm only good at measuring flour math." She laughs, and Jessie runs around the counter and squeezes her mom’s leg.
"Thanks," I reply. "She's a smart cookie." I wink at Jessie, and she flashes me a toothy smile. I nod toward the bag. "How much do I owe you? "
She slides it my way. "It's on the house."
"Girl, you’re too sweet. Thank you so much.”
"No, thank you." She shrugs. "You just saved me from spending the night looking up the best way to teach kids to count coins."
“Should’ve made Archer do it.”
“You’re right.” She leans a hip against the counter and crosses her arms. “He starts shooting that new show I was telling you about in a few weeks. If you and Stella want to come out and celebrate the premiere, I’ll make sure to set aside tickets for you. There’s a big afterparty too.”
“You had me at celebrate.”
Her grin is wide. “Perfect. You can meet Archer’s first guest host, Dandelion. She’s hilarious and super sweet.”
“Can’t wait,” I say. “Text me the details?”
“Sure thing.” I grab the bag and wave at Jessie before heading out into the night. A glance at my phone shows a funny GIF from my best friend, Stella, but nothing from Graham. The hopeful part of my brain chalks it up to a butt dial.
Jazz music floats in the air from where families have spread blankets on the astroturf, relaxing to the musician playing in the Friday Fall Jamfest. The pastries warm my hands as I walk to my car, humming along with a version of Etta James' At Last .
Inside the confines of my Mercedes Coupe, I shove a gooey piece of the cinnamon roll into my mouth and groan at the flavors bursting on my tongue.
My head falls against the seat, and I heave a long sigh.
Tonight sucked.
Between the boring speed dates, the constant emails from Graham on my off time, the phone call from my sister that ended with them thinking I’m engaged, and the ensuing conundrum I've found myself entangled in, sleep can't come soon enough .
As soon as I enter my condo, a fluffy ball weaves between my legs, purring loudly. "Hi, Bingley." I crouch, scratching behind his ears. "Watch anything good on TV today?"
He stares disapprovingly at me as if to say, 'yes, human, I watched every episode of Real Housewives.' I fill up his food dispenser and water before retreating to my room. My phone vibrates in my back pocket, and I pull it out to find a few messages from my dad.
Papa: Mija, me alegro por ti.
Papa: Your mom would be too. Te amo, mi cielo.
As I see his words, my chest fills with something like pride, an emotion I’ve been chasing for longer than I care to admit.
Should I tell him about the miscommunication?
I ponder this as I meander through the house, tidying up the place before I retreat to my room for a hot shower.
I slip out of my clothes and flip on the water, allowing it to steam the room.
Pink curls fall to my shoulders when I release my hair from its side bun.
I expel the tension bunched at my nape with a stretch and groan when I step into the shower and hot water sluices down my body.
I spend an exorbitant amount of time on self-care, applying a fresh slather of pink Overtone conditioner into my hair, shaving my legs, and moisturizing my face.
If Stella was in town, I would've called her to see if she was down for girls' night, but her husband whisked her away to London where one of his clients has an art gallery opening. I could call my sorority sister, Christine, but she has three kids and a bed time that’s not even in double digits.
Fresh from the shower, I wrap myself in a towel and go into the room for clothes.
My phone dings but figuring it's yet another email from ‘Getting on My Nerves’ Graham, I snatch it from the nightstand and swipe away the six notifications before tossing it back down.
I slide my smooth legs into a pair of underwear and open the drawer filled with my bras.
The jingle of an incoming video call has me picking the phone back up with a grumble, though I know the only person who ever FaceTimes me is Winnie.
I’m fully intent on pitching it across the room when it slips from my hands into the crevasses of my D cups, and I curse at myself for ever touching it.
I search around the drawer, pushing straps out of the way before landing on the boxy shape.
The tangled web of bra straps is like an intricate maze, and I'm Indiana Jones on a mission to stop the annoying jangle. Success greets me as I slide my hand free and answer the call.
“Hey Win,” I say before glancing at the screen. My stomach plummets when I find Graham's stupidly handsome and annoying face staring at me with wide eyes. It's not until I look in the little corner that I realize my towel has fallen and he's getting an eyeful of my tits.
"Fuck!" I throw the phone onto the bed like a snake has bitten me, and blood rushes to my face and neck, boiling me with embarrassment from the inside out.
I just flashed my boss.