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Chapter 25
The proper way to use a stress ball is to throw it at the last person to upset you.
Icollapse in the chair at my office and contemplate crawling underneath it for a nap. I could steal a pillow and blanket from the supply closet and make it a cozy, little retreat. Oh, who am I kidding? Crawling is now beyond my capabilities.
I set my phone on the desk and notice a cup I didn’t put there. I lift it and sniff. Peppermint tea. Yum. My phone buzzes with a message and I glance over to read it.
Drink your tea.
Cole strikes again! Since we had sex on New Year’s Eve, he’s been Mr. Sweet and Supportive. I can’t handle him being sweet especially not with these pregnancy hormones rolling around in my body. They want to jump him before turning into a stage 4 clinger and never letting him go. Not happening.
I send him a text thanking him for the tea. I may not want to want him, but I’m not a complete bitch. I sip my tea while I work on the reservations for the Imbolc celebration, the first weekend of February. It’s not as easy as it sounds. Not when the twenty reservations are accompanied by forty different room requests. I wish I were exaggerating.
The door creaks open and I glance up to find Cole standing there. “Let’s go,” he says and holds his hand out.
I squint at his hand. “Let’s go where? Where are we going? It better not be another shopping trip.”
He totally pulled one over on me there. Not only did he buy all the necessities for the baby’s nursery, but he bought me a mound of pregnancy clothes. I don’t need ten pairs of pants! But try to tell Cole that. The man specializes in selective hearing.
“No shopping. We’re going for a walk.”
I check the clock. “It’s the middle of the work day.”
“It’s always the middle of the work day for you,” he mumbles before clearing his throat. “Taking walks is good for you.”
I frown. “Have you been reading pregnancy books?”
He shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his feet while he shrugs. “Maybe?”
Dang it! This is exactly what I mean. He’s too sweet for his own good.
“I’d rather have a nap,” I say as I stand and approach him.
“I can escort you to your apartment.”
I snort. “I don’t need an escort to my apartment, which is basically in the backyard.”
He places a finger over my mouth. “I wasn’t finished.” Finished? What’s he talking about? When he touches me, I forget words exist. I step back and his hand drops.
“Finished?”
“I can escort you to your apartment in the backyard and stand guard over you to make sure no one bothers you for thirty minutes if you want to have a nap.”
“Stand guard? What am I? The Queen of England?”
His eyes dip to my stomach, which seems to be growing with every second. “Nope. She’s no longer of child rearing age. What you are is a workaholic who allows everyone to bother her.”
“What?”
He shepherds me out the backdoor and into the parking lot while I seethe. I do not let everyone bother me. I’m the boss. I make all the final decisions. Of course, everyone comes to me with questions. It’s natural.
He whirls me around and cradles my face. “Take a breath.”
My nostrils flare. “I’ll take a breath when I want to!”
“Ellie girl, I wasn’t trying to make you mad.”
“Congratulations! You did anyway.” Somewhere in the back of my mind – way, way in the back of my mind – I realize I sound like a petulant child, but I couldn’t care less at the moment.
