Baby for the Bosshole Page 19

  More banging. It can’t be a delivery—no delivery person is this insistent.

  Ah, shit! Emmett! I was supposed to meet him at the airport more than an hour ago for our trip to Napa! Shock and guilt race through me. How could I have forgotten?

  I hop out of bed, then freeze with one hand braced on the wall as my bedroom does the same eerie waltz that the office did yesterday. When the room quits spinning, I start to reach for my purse so I can call Emmett, but the banging on the door won’t stop.

  “All right already!” Take care of this first, then call Emmett.

  Shrugging into a robe, I stumble toward the door. “Who is it?” I call out.

  “It’s me!”

  Emmett…?

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Emmett

  When Amy doesn’t show at the airport at ten thirty, I figure it’s the traffic. It’s L.A., and shit happens.

  When she doesn’t show by ten forty-five, I start to worry.

  The worry turns to panic when she doesn’t answer my texts or calls.

  I stride out of the terminal. It isn’t like Amy to ghost someone. She’s one of the most responsible people I know. Unlike some of the women I’ve dated, she also wouldn’t say yes to something she wasn’t too keen on and then show her displeasure by canceling the last minute or not showing. The only time she canceled on her ex-boyfriends was when I dumped so much work on her that she couldn’t make it to their dates.

  And I made sure she didn’t have any urgent deadlines from Friday to Sunday.

  After tossing my carry-on into the car, I drive to Amy’s place. Her car is in the lot. So she’s home.

  What’s going on?

  I go up and bang on the door. There’s no immediate answer.

  Is she okay? She lives in a safe neighborhood, but…

  With someone else, I might assume she’s being passive-aggressive. But this is Amy. Miss Upfront. A woman who is candid enough to say all she wants is sex—and list her terms—wouldn’t play games.

  I knock harder and wonder if the super’s available to let me in. Normally they’d refuse, but if I make a compelling case that she might be hurt…

  “Who is it?” she finally calls out.

  Oh, thank God. But the relief only lasts a moment. Her voice is a little off. “It’s me!”

  The door opens. Amy stands there, her hair sticking up and pillow creases on the left side of her face. Her cheeks are flushed—but not in a healthy way. Her eyes are glazed, and she’s crossing her arms tightly, hands wrapped around biceps like she’s cold.

  “Oh.” She blinks a few times. “Oh crap. I was about to call you. I’m so sorry. I totally overslept.”

  I put a hand to her forehead. “You’re burning up. You should be in bed.”

  “Uh. I should…?” She looks dazed.

  I nod and put my arm around her. She must really be sick to be this messed up. “Mind if I come in?”

  She starts. “Oh. Yeah. Sure.”

  I walk in and push the door closed.

  “I’m really sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to make you come all the way out here. I should’ve called to let you know I can’t go. But you can. You should go to Napa and have a good time.”

  Just what kind of dick does she think I am than I could “go to Napa and have a good time” while she’s sick? I may be a demanding boss, but that doesn’t mean I’m a shitty human being.

  “In fact,” she says, “if you go now, you can still ma—”

  I put a hand over her mouth. “I’m not sorry I’m here instead of Napa.”

  She stares at me blankly, then pulls back. “But you were really looking forward to the trip.”

  “Yes, but with you.”

  She continues to stare. But she doesn’t refute what I said, or claim that what we have is just sex like she would if she weren’t sick. She’s scrupulous about sticking to deadlines and parameters. Actually, she’s meticulous about executing plans exactly as laid out.

  She has no plans to move us beyond fuck buddies. But I want more, and I’m not above taking advantage of her weakened state.

  “Let’s get you back in bed,” I say.

  “But I really—”

  “Now. Rest.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” Since she isn’t moving on her own, I start pushing her gently toward her bedroom.

  “But the trip—”

  “Canceled. We have new plans for the weekend. Nursing you back to health.”

  “But…it’s your time off.”

  We reach the bed. I put my hands on her shoulders to have her sit down. Then I move her until she’s lying there with her samurai teddy bear.

  “You should use it more productively,” she says. “Or for fun.”

  I tuck her in, pulling the sheets all the way to her chin. “It’ll be both, taking care of you.”

  “Um…okay. Feels a little weird, though.”

  “How come?”

  She frowns. “Nobody’s ever nursed me back to health. I mean, except my father.”

  Either she’s been exceptionally healthy or her ex-boyfriends were shit. I put my money on the latter. I’ve been sick before, and my ex-girlfriends never did anything.

  “Well, your dad isn’t here,” I say. “So you’re stuck with me. Let’s see what we can do to make you feel better soon. You have anything for the fever?” There must be some Tylenol or Advil around.

  “Chicken noodle soup,” Amy says.

  “Huh?”

  “That’s what I want.” Her eyebrows pull together. “That’s what I get when I’m sick.”

  “Comfort food?” I wonder where I can get some soup. There’s always Campbell’s, but I don’t know if that’s what she has in mind. And nothing’s sadder than getting not-quite-right comfort food when you’re sick.

  “Yeah. Dad used to make it for me from scratch.”

  From scratch? She looks at me like I can single-handedly butcher a plump chicken and turn it into soup in the next hour. But I don’t want to burn the building down. “I can’t do homemade soup, but I know someone who can.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Amy

  I don’t have to wait long before Emmett has piping-hot chicken noodle soup delivered and brings a tray of it into my bedroom. It isn’t homemade, obviously, but it doesn’t seem to be from a can, either.

  The broth is richly flavored, full of shredded chicken meat, noodles and veggies. It isn’t exactly like how my dad makes it, but it’s pretty close.

  “Good?” Emmett asks.

  “Yes. Thank you.” I smile a little. The soup tastes like warmth and love. But most importantly, it shows he cares.

  Since I left home for college, I’ve put pressure on myself to do well and be self-sufficient. When I got sick—which happened occasionally—I fended for myself and did my best to avoid letting Dad know because I didn’t want him to worry. He’s done so much for me already that I don’t want to be a burden anymore. I want to be a daughter he can be proud of, an adult he can count on.

  And some of my ex-boyfriends didn’t want to do much when I was sick because dealing with a sick person is never fun. Sasha can’t stick around when I’m sick; she’s way too busy, which I totally understand. We’ve sort of mutually agreed to bring each other OTC meds and some snacks, but that’s about where things end.

  Emmett is the first person since Dad to not only hover but insist on taking care of me. Our relationship is supposed to be just about sex, but his solicitousness makes me feel good anyway. Part of me wants to lean just a little bit more. A small voice in my head warns that that’s a terrible idea. But I can’t figure out why it’s so bad when it feels so nice.

  After I finish the soup, Emmett tucks me in and takes the tray away. I watch him read a printed report—he’s always working—and we talk a little bit about the project. Then I start to get tired. He looks at me and shuts his mouth. I doze off.

  When I open my eyes again, it’s dark in my room. My head is no longer full of wet cotton balls and molasses. The chicken noodle soup Emmett brought me must’ve done the trick. If it hadn’t been for that, I would’ve gotten a can of Campbell’s. Sasha thinks it’s weird, but when I feel this awful, nothing but chicken noodle soup will do. Placebo effect, maybe, but it works.

  I stand up carefully. The room doesn’t whirl.

  Feeling optimistic, I start to stretch my arms above my head. I wonder if Emmett’s gone home. It’s not like he has anything to do around here. If he goes home, he could work…

  Work!

  Holy shit! The offer from the Blaire Group! I left it on the dining table last night!

  Sheer, unadulterated panic surges. I rush out into the dining room and freeze at the sight of Emmett at the table.

  He is typing away on his laptop, but that isn’t the point. The manila envelope is the second one from the top, right below some grocery store leaflet. Is that how I left the mail last night? I can’t remember. There’s no reason for him to go through my mail, but if he accidently knocks the stack over… Or… Or…

  There are billion perfectly innocent scenarios in which he might discover the written offer. The envelope doesn’t have anything to indicate it’s about a job, although he might wonder why the Blaire Group sent me a thick manila envelope.

  “Well, hello,” Emmett says.

  “Hi.”

  “You must be feeling better.”

  “Yeah. Sort of.” I try to read his face and fail. He’s wearing his inscrutable business expression, which means whatever he’s been tinkering with on his laptop is work-related and not necessarily good news. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He closes his laptop and props his chin in his hand. “So. Do you want more soup, or something else?”

  He’s way too close to that envelope. I want him as far from it as possible. “Why don’t we go out and get something to eat?” I can probably manage an hour or so of outing.

  “Actually, I thought we should do delivery.” He comes over, puts a hand on my forehead and nods. “Better. But I don’t want you to overexert yourself.”

  “No, no, it’s really no problem. At all. Really. I just want to make sure the weekend isn’t a total loss for you.”

  He looks insulted. “Why would staying here with you be a total loss?”

  “Isn’t it?” Rick certainly would’ve been annoyed. Actually, any of my ex-boyfriends would’ve been less than thrilled if I got sick and they had to cancel a trip. They’d also hint—if not outright whine—about the fact that they lost money, since it was a same-day cancellation. And they’d expect me to do something to make up for it, which I would, since I’d feel guilty. I feel bad about Emmett missing out on the trip, so I should do something—or at least encourage him to enjoy Napa on his own or something.

  “No. You make me sound like a, a…” He thinks for a moment. “A soulless insurance adjuster or something.”

  Shame comes over me. Emmett deserves better. But I also need to pull him away from that package from the Blaire Group. And getting delivery will mean spreading food out on the table.

  So…

  “Why don’t we order a pizza, and we can watch a movie while eating?” I give him my most winning smile. Perfect. It’ll force him to park himself on a couch in front of the TV and give me an opportunity to hide the mail.

  “Okay.”

  Whew.

  He stands up, and his hand brushes the pile. Everything falls, landing in complete disarray.

  Shit!

  “Sorry,” he says, bending down.

  “No, no!” I fall over the mess like a football player diving for a fumbled ball. Since I don’t have any athletic grace, I land on my face. My whole body jars at the impact. But it doesn’t matter. I manage to block Emmett’s view.

  “Are you okay?” His tone says that he’s now worried about my mental health.

  “Yeah, fine. Totally good. Lemme just, uh, pick these up, and why don’t you order the pizza?”

  “Um. Yeah. Okay. What do you want?”

  “Anything,” I say. “I’m not picky.”

  “Pepperoni good?”

  “Perfect. Excellent.”

  He pulls out his phone. While he’s tinkering with a delivery app, I grab every piece of mail under my torso, dump it into Sasha’s bedroom and shut the door firmly.

  Disaster averted.

  I wouldn’t be as happy, though, if I knew another disaster was just around the corner.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Amy

  I hear Sasha curse from the next room on Tuesday morning. We’re both getting ready for work when her “Shit!” comes through the wall quite clearly.

  Did she forget something at the office? She came home with her carry-on last night, which means she plans to actually start sleeping in her bed.

  There’s a knock on my bedroom door. I lower my lipstick. “Come on in.”

  Sasha appears. “Can I borrow a couple of tampons?” she says, exasperated. “I thought I had some, but I’m out.”

  “Yeah, sure.” I go to the bathroom and grab a handful for her.

  “Thanks. You’re the best!” She rushes out.

  I watch her go, then look down at myself. Sasha and I have the same cycle, more or less. Sometimes she’s a day early; sometimes I am. But after having lived together for almost two years, we’re basically synced.

  But I’m not feeling anything that indicates I’m about to start mine anytime soon. Sometimes I’m late when I’m stressed or not sleeping well, but I haven’t had any of that. I mean… I was sick over the weekend, but that wouldn’t be enough to delay my period… Would it?

  Well, Aunt Flo is a fickle bitch. I try to shrug it off, since it’s not like I can force myself to start menstruating. Thankfully, I don’t have to think much about anything except work. Emmett spent the entire weekend taking care of me while I recovered, then left early on Monday for a Chicago business trip. So I’m the one in charge of the small water filter company team. Also, I need to wrap up the next phase of the Drone work. Which means I don’t have time mull over why I’m not bleeding like a stuck pig.

  After lunch, I get a text from Marion.

  –Marion: I hope you got the offer letter.

  –Me: I did. Thanks.

  –Marion: Did you have a chance to review the terms?

  –Me: Not yet.

  I wasn’t opening that envelope while Emmett was around.

  –Marion: If you have questions, you can always reach out to me.

  –Me: Okay. I appreciate that.

  –Marion: I know you’re interviewing elsewhere, and you’re a candidate in high demand.

  –Marion: Before you accept an offer from a different firm, I want you to contact me. We can always match or do better for you.

  I blink a little. That’s…flexible of them. Maybe they really need a new body at the Blaire Group.

  –Me: Okay. Thanks!

  I make a mental note to review the offer in more detail later and go back to work. A little after two thirty, Emmett texts me. I smile as I read it.

  –Emmett: Everything going well?

  –Me: Yeah. Everything’s on track. How are the meetings?

  –Emmett: Boring. Wish I’d brought you with me.

  I try not to laugh. I can picture him sighing with annoyance. All right. Time to cheer him up a little.

  –Me: You have Jerry with you. Didn’t he amuse you with 2000 pictures of his daughter?

  –Emmett: The baby’s cute, but I’m not into other people’s kids, especially when the stories are about drool and diaper changes. Plus, he’s not you. You’re more fun to be around.

  I can feel my smile widen. It isn’t every day somebody says I’m more fun to be around. Most would say I’m more practical or methodical or preplanned or something.

  Still, I don’t mind. It’s sort of nice to hear somebody say I’m fun.

  He’s a guy. He’s thinking sex.

  Yes, but I can be sexy and fun at the same time.

  –Me: I’ll still be here when you come back.

  –Emmett: Can’t wait. I wish I could move all the meetings to tomorrow so I could be in L.A. by Thursday morning.

  –Me: Thursday would be tough, but I’ll go over to your place Friday after you land. How about that?

  Hopefully, my period will have started by then, so we’ll be limited in what we can do, but I’m sure I’ll manage something. I’m a creative problem solver!

  –Emmett: Deal. That’ll be the perfect incentive for slogging through this trip. Let me know if you need anything.

  –Me: Will do. Don’t work too hard. Don’t want you all exhausted when we get together. ;)

  I put my phone away. Maybe my period is late because Emmett isn’t around and I’m down about waiting until Friday to see him. Stress is a killer.

  Still, it’ll start any day. Look how miserable Sasha is. All that cramping, and the hormonal rollercoaster. I’ll be joining her at Club Misery soon.

  Wednesday goes by. Nothing.

  Thursday. Nothing.

  Friday. Still nothing.

  I even wait until after lunch. But no. Not even a fleck of blood.

  Good God. What does it take for my period to start? A virgin sacrifice?

  Since I’m getting a decent amount of sleep and eating three squares a day, it can’t be that. Then again, maybe it’s because I’m getting decent sleep and nutrition for once. My body simply can’t adjust.

  The only other explanation would be pregnancy, except that’s ludicrous. Emmet and I have been very careful. Neither of us wants to have a baby off a sex-only fling. We’ve always used condoms…

  A shiver runs down my spine. Time slows; the air in my lungs thins.

  We didn’t use one that first time. When I caught him masturbating in his office.

  Oh shit.

  But he pulled out. So… Um… The little swimmers couldn’t have wriggled across my skin, into my vag and squirmed their way up until they ran into my unguarded, foolishly welcoming egg.