“Not at all. What’s up?” I ask.
“We have a situation. The venue usually uses this one caterer, but that caterer has to work another event for some family member or something. So we need to find a great caterer on short notice for the gala.” She cringes, and her outward expression matches my inward one.
“Okay,” I say, using my computer to pull up a list of caterers.
“I’ve literally called all the big ones. I’m on a waitlist, but everyone else has bad Yelp ratings and I didn’t think this would be the time to try out a newbie.” She crosses her legs, her arms clasped in her lap, her face holding a green tint.
“Are you okay?” I side eye her.
“Let’s just say all those sweets I’ve been eating? I’m not going to have to worry about gaining a pound.”
“Morning sickness?”
“Yeah, but as long as my body isn’t my own, I’m happy. Means the little bean is still there.” She tries to smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. I can’t even imagine what she and Dean are going through. Every day waiting for the ball to drop.
“What have the doctors said?” I press print and the hum of my printer fills my office.
She crosses her fingers in the air. “All good things…so far.”
“Special delivery!” Victoria comes in holding a box.
Normally I might have assumed it was for me, but since Chelsea is always getting deliveries from Dean, I’m not surprised when Victoria hands the present over to her.
“We’re going to have no money to raise this kid.” This time her smile does reach her eyes, her cheeks round, and her eyes glisten.
Do I look like that when I’m with Roarke?
“Um…I’m pretty sure that’s an exaggeration,” Victoria says.
We both wait, eager for Chelsea to open the gift. Dean is definitely an outside the box kind of gift giver.
She pulls another wrapped gift from the cardboard box. It’s in Cubs wrapping paper. She reads the note and places it on my desk then giggles to herself and tears off the packaging.
Victoria eyes the note on the edge of my desk. “May I?”
“Sure,” she answers, her concentration intent on opening the box.
“Thought tearing the paper would be a good stress reliever. Love, Dean,” Victoria reads it and then sets it back on the desk.
“He’s right, that felt good to rip the blue and red,” she says with a smile.
She opens the clothing box and I’m expecting to see some sexy lingerie, but she pulls out a little onesie. A note that was folded within the fabric slips back into the box and she places the onesie down to read the letter. This time she reads it aloud. “We can be the first people to raise a crosstown lover. No picking sides. Love, Dean.”
Victoria awes as Chelsea holds the onesie back up. It has the Cubs logo on one side, Sox on the other. The back has a number one and the name Bennett. One tear falls down Chelsea’s cheek, and then another, and then another until there’s a cascade of them.
“Let’s not ruin this.” Victoria grabs the box and I snatch a tissue to hand over to her.
Chelsea accepts, dotting under her eyes. “I’m seriously losing all control. He’s so sweet. I can’t believe he’s mine,” she sobs, her sentences barely making any sense between the hiccups of her labored breathing. I think she said something about their past and how sometimes you just know and why did she try to fight it.
Victoria and I let her get everything out of her system. “Chelsea, go call Dean and thank him. Maybe ask him to lunch,” I suggest because at this rate she’ll never find a caterer for me.
“No.” She swipes the tears but more fall. “I’ll get control of myself. I’m a professional.” She says the words like I am Superwoman. She is, but not today. Today she’s a pregnant woman whose hormones are tormenting her.
“Go. It’s fine. I’m sure Dean will love the surprise.”
She stands, and Victoria hands her the box with the onesie and notes, sharing a look to me like this isn’t the last of her outbursts. I wonder what stage will come next?
“I’ll just go have lunch,” Chelsea says.
“Please, we know you’re going to have an afternoon delight.” Victoria laughs, spurring Chelsea to change her tears into a chuckle.
“Now that you mention it.” She wiggles her ass on the way out of my office.
Two minutes later she’s waving goodbye and heading out the main door.
“You know she’s gone for the day, right?” Victoria asks, walking over to the doorway.
“She deserves it.”
“I should convince Reed it’s time to have a baby,” she jokes.
“Something tells me that boy will do it the traditional way.” My phone vibrates on my desk.
“You know it. I keep half expecting him to propose to speed things along. He’s hardly the type who waits around for the time to be right.” She pats the entryway of my door and heads back to her desk.
My phone dances across my desk, reminding me it’s ringing.
“Hello?” I answer, not looking at the caller ID. Hopefully it’s not Tracy telling me the club is booked. No way do I want to find a restaurant.
“I miss you.” Roarke’s deep voice sets my body on high alert.
“You saw me this morning.” I pick up my pen, teetering it back and forth.
“Exactly. It’s been too long. Torrio’s at six?”
“You don’t plan on feeding me?”
He chuckles. “Do you want the gentleman to answer that question?”
“No.”
“I’ll feed you something substantial, but you’ll still be hungry after.”
I press my thighs together. “You call me at noon to torment me?”
His deep chuckle rings through the line. “Am I tormenting you?”
“What do you think?”
“Oh Firecracker, I hope that I am.” A phone beeps in the background and I catch his name said by a sweet woman’s voice, one that sounds much younger than my own.
“You have to go?” I ask.
“I do. For the first time in my life, I want to play hooky.”
“Well, I just sent home my marketing manager.”
“Tempting baby, but I’ve got back to back meetings with clients. Can’t people be civilized?”
The beep comes through again but before she can say anything, he must hit a button to reply. “Please tell Mr. Quinton that I’ll call him back.”
“No, Roarke. It’s fine. I have to go find a caterer for the gala anyway.”
“What does Sonya say about the one they usually use?”
“I guess they’re not available. Hopefully I’m not having taco trucks, not that I personally would oppose.”
“Do you like tacos?” he asks and I’m reminded that he never gives up an opportunity to find out something about me.
“I do.”
“Then I’ll be feeding you tonight after Torrio’s. See you tonight, Han.”
“Bye.”
The line clicks dead and the fact he called me by Han, something more intimate than my full name, makes me giddy inside.
Until the client’s name he spoke to his receptionist finally makes its way through the lust induced haze Roarke initiates.