“Sidney,” I groan.
“Have you?” She pushes.
“Yes.”
“Is it good?”
I’m seriously debating on yeeting myself off the balcony. Maybe I should invest in a parachute or something to keep at hand so I have a quick escape from conversations that have all the blood draining from my head and into my dick.
“It depends.”
“On what?”
“Preparation.”
“That makes sense,” she nods, contemplating.
“You want to try it?” I ask hesitantly, clearly asking for trouble.
She shrugs, “Maybe.”
Fuck me.
“I figure if I’m going to try anything, it should be with you, right?” She flicks her eyes to me and shrugs, “At least I know I’m safe then. And since we’re already here…”
My hand scrubs down my face. “Right.”
“Anyway,” she pops the last bite of her pancake into her mouth and hops off the stool, taking her plate to the dishwasher, “I've gotta get going so I can get ready for work.”
“We need to talk about the whole… baby thing.”
“I know,” she pauses at the threshold leaving the kitchen. “I have an app that tracks everything, so I’m going to work out dates today.”
I hate the idea of putting this on a schedule, but I nod anyway.
Sidney turns and disappears into her room, clicking the door shut behind her. Now that I’m alone, I let my head bump against the counter, wondering what god I pissed off to put me in this position.
I am so done for.
Chapter Twelve
Ilove my job.
I love my job.
I love my job.
I continue to repeat the words inside my head as I listen to Lauren reel off my schedule for the next month. It’s not her fault; I ask her to do this since I’m shit at checking my calendar and retain information better when it’s said directly to me. So we do this once a week, even though for the most part, I remember every meeting, every deadline, and all the important things, like the janitor’s cat’s birthday. Next Wednesday, he’ll be seven.
“And the charity gala is in three weeks.” Lauren’s nails tap on the screen. “Would you like me to continue?”
I nod, just as my phone buzzes on the counter and I see Sidney’s name light up the screen with a picture of her.
It’s a date. Then another. And another.
I’m suddenly no longer listening to Lauren and my schedule; I want to know what all these numbers mean.
Me: Are we talking in code now?
