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The Jerk wasn’t saying anything that I didn’t already know. Caught up in the heat of the moment, I was able to understand how overwhelming this was for him. The difference was that I had no choice but to accept my actions. This baby was growing inside of me and every minute that ticked past, I was reminded of that.
The Jerk didn’t show up at work for two weeks. When I asked Mr. Sadler of his whereabouts, he simply informed me that Haden had taken some personal time off. I didn’t question further, and our resident fairy, a.k.a. National Inquirer Clive, told me he was in Maui at some surfing gig and scouting wedding locations with Eloise.
Seriously, what a fucking jerk.
Marcus didn’t call me, except for last Friday night when he was obviously blazed and asked if he could come over so I could give him a blowjob. It was laughable, and a polite ‘no’ was all I could give him. He then proceeded to rant on and tell me that I’m a no-good bitch and he could get better head elsewhere. That was my cue to disconnect the call, but not before he threw the apologies in and professed his love for me, again.
Talk about being a hormonal mess—and I mean Marcus, not me.
Project
Fallen Baby was in my hands, so I spent time tying up all the loose ends. The author would be attending our yearly publisher’s event on Friday night. It would be a great chance for her to meet fellow authors and for us to let our hair down at a fully-paid catered event. Too bad I couldn’t drink, though Clive would no doubt drink enough for the whole office.
My biggest dilemma is finding a dress to wear to the party since my belly now pops out and my current wardrobe is no longer an option. Vicky offers to go shopping with me, but her voluptuous figure fits perfectly into every dress she tries on. I, on the other hand, give up shopping with the regular women and hit up the maternity store. I expected ugly frocks, so I am quite surprised when the shop assistant shows me some fabulous evening wear.
It doesn’t stop me from feeling sorry for myself.
“You’re silly. You haven’t put on a pound apart from this little stomach forming,” Vicky tries to reassure me, rubbing my belly while cooing at the baby.
“I feel like a beached whale.”
“You think you feel like a beached whale now? Wait until the end.”
“Thanks. So much to look forward to,” I answer back sarcastically.
“It’s all part of the experience, Pres,” she reminds me.
As the shop assistant bags the items, I lean into Vicky, whispering, “My breasts are huge and my nipples . . . I can’t even begin to tell you what’s happening with them.”
Vicky raises her eyebrows and the nipple-talk is put on hold until we leave the store.
Having found a black cocktail dress in a stretchy fabric, I am all set and ready to go. Most of the office will attend, and Vicky is dead-set on there being some eligible bachelors she can get her hands on.
The event is held at a rooftop bar consisting of a small and intimate crowd. The view is sensational, the bright lights and city skyline surrounding us. Clive is terrified of heights. Standing beside me with a fierce grip on my arm, his face pales from the sheer terror of being 30 stories high.
“I’m scared I’ll shit my pants, Pres.”
“You won’t shit your pants, and you know why? Because they cost you a whole paycheck and what would Gianni Versace say if he knew you shit in his ridiculously expensive pants?”
“Okay, you have a point. At least if there was some good eye candy here then I could distract myself.” Clive shrivels his face in discontent as a not-so-attractive waiter walks by carrying some shrimp.
“I need to go talk to Mr. Sadler,” I tell him. “Look, here comes Vicky. If there’s anyone who has found the hot guys, it’ll be her.”
“Okay, so here’s the lowdown. A bunch of guys near the bar that belong to that party over there are single. The guy with the black slicked-back hair is gay,” Vicky informs us.
“Vicky, your gaydar has been off so many times!” Clive complains.
“Well, this time I straight-up asked him if he wanted to come home with me. He said he likes playing with snakes, not beavers and pussies.”
I snort out my club soda, laughing at Vicky. Clive disappears into thin air, then reappears at the bar trying to make conversation with the animal lover.
“Is that true?” I ask, still unable to contain my laughter.
“Of course not! As if I would ask him to come home with me. You know my rule—minimum two drinks first, then always at his place.”
“Oh that’s right, your rules,” I mock.
“Maybe if you stuck to your seven-week-rule, you wouldn’t be in this predicament,” she points out in jest.
