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CHAPTER5
Magdalena
My glass is empty and my belly is full. Even better, I expect Chef Stirling Cox is getting me the actual recipe.
Preparing this drink while I’m on bedrest might be a challenge since the doctor was clear—bedrest means no standing around at a stove or chopping vegetables. Basically, if I can’t do something while lying down, I have to stop. Even some of the things I do very well laying down are now a no-go.
I jot a quick note on my phone to remove the batteries from my favorite magic wands so even if I’m tempted to give my twins some bouncy castle time, I’m not able to. No fun being thrown from a soft ride to the hard ground before you’re ready.
These limitations were not included in my detailed pre-birth plan two days ago, but with support from Mom this morning, I’d arranged all I need to keep my home clean and my fridge full of easy-to-prepare snacks. And she agreed to pop by once a day to make me a warm meal.
Not much will change on the work front since I’ve been fulfilling my copywriting contracts from the comfort of my adjustable bed for weeks. The bed was a splurge I made with the money I I’d saved for the backup IVF treatment I didn’t need.
Mr. Handsome is looking at the ground on his way back to the table. If I didn’t know he was a chef, I’d have assumed professional hockey player given his height and breadth of his shoulders. He looks like a man who whipped pucks into nets, not cream into soft peaks.
The thought of a man who looks like Stirling Cox doing anything with my cream turns my peaks as hard as the metal straw I’m still mindlessly sucking.
The manager steps out and blocks him. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but she’s shaking her head, and he’s nodding his, though he looks kind of pissed off with her.
My hopes sink.
He slides himself back into his seat beside me. “So, Magdalena.”
“Good news?” I say with over-enthusiasm.
“The restaurant industry is not the most generous when it comes to special recipes. And what you have here,” he taps my now empty glass, “is most certainly a unique recipe.”
“But you figured it out, so doesn’t that mean you can share it?”
He shakes his head. “No. I mean, I suppose I could recreate it with a minor adjustment, but my reputation would never recover if I stole a recipe and shared it.”
“So, you won’t tell me.”
“I will not.”
“Basically then, I’ll be left to starve until I give birth.”
Okay, I’m being dramatic but honestly, so is he, thinking that if he shares one tiny recipe with me it will be the end of his life as a chef. Sheesh.
“I expected your drink was something a bartender could find on the back of a Clamato juice container. That’s just not the case.”
“The policy that they won’t do takeout is ridiculous.” I throw my head back and whine like a three-year-old.
“It’s to protect the brand. If a meal—or even your drink—leaves the restaurant, the chef can’t control the temperature, the freshness, or the presentation when you get it. I have to agree with that policy, actually.”
Mr. Sexy is losing several desirability points, even though I understand the need to manage a brand. My anchor client, Will Power & Bros., has more brand use rules than Disney.
“Well, thanks for trying, I guess.” I push myself to standing without even being embarrassed about the grunt I make. “When you read about my corpse being found in my apartment, you’ll be able to say, ‘I’m the morally upstanding chef who could have saved her from being eaten alive from the inside out by her voracious vampire babies but didn’t since I believe in protecting the sanctity of the secret recipe.’”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” he says, staring at my giant belly.
“Please make sure my waiter gets this.” I drop a twenty on the table and slowly make my way toward the exit, planning how to beat their dumb rule.
Before I reach the door, I feel a large hand on my shoulder. It sends a warm rush of energy through my body. The kids kick. I gasp. Stirling Cox covers my other shoulder with his giant paw.
“You okay?”
I turn to face him. “Apparently, if my clam-addicted kids could kick you in the shin, they would.” I crumple as they continue to make my belly look like I’m about to become the next victim in an Alien movie. I twist to get out from Stirling’s grasp and, I hope, settle the monsters.
