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“Pick up nothing. Just go home and take this bedrest seriously. I’ll be there at 3:30, if that works for you, so I can get this concoction ready in time for the vampires.” I pause. “IVF babies?”
She nods.
“I thought they had a checklist of criteria for the sperm donor’s genes. Surprised you went for something so … blood suckery.”
She gives me a full smile and I decide I want to see the entire grocery list of expressions that face can make.
“Vampires have nice skin. And I wanted my kids to avoid the whole teen acne trauma.”
“They’re very lucky you’re thinking ahead.”
“They’re very lucky to have met you. Thank you so much, Chef Cox.”
“It’s Stirling. And if you call me chef again, I will withdraw this offer.”
She laughs.
“Magdalena, I’m not kidding. Please don’t call me Chef. I’m just your friendly, neighborhood, smoothie sniffer.”
CHAPTER7
Magdalena
Idon’t know what I’m thinking, having the Uber drop me off at a chain hair salon instead of taking me home. I blame my messed-up hormones, but the zing I felt when Stirling’s fingers brushed against mine? That was next-level electricity and something I’d not experienced since I was a hopeless romantic in my twenties.
I rationalize that since it will be months before I’ll have a chance to get a trim, best do it now. But really, I’m only thinking of making an effort to look half-human when my spicy delivery man arrives with his version of my magic elixir. Not that I expect, or could even wish for anything to happen with him since bedrest means no orgasms, no sex, no fun. Definitely none of Stirling’s cock.
The fact that I’m even thinking about sex is ridiculous. I gave up on finding a man four years ago. Making the decision to have IVF on my own was a no-brainer, even though I know I’ll be out-numbered by my spawn.
Mom and I did fine, just the two of us, and with her as my role model and on-call back-up, I’m looking forward to being the chief cook and bottle washer for my mini-me’s.
Okay, that plural part freaks me out a little, but with Mom and friends all promising to pop over once the gremlins are out to give me time to do things like bathe and work a few hours a day, my plan will be just fine.
With my new, super-short, product-enhanced pixie cut looking pretty darned great, I snap a selfie and update my social media profile while I wait for the ride to take me back to my condo. The ‘likes’ and ‘hearts’ start pouring in immediately. And with them, one new follower: Stirling Cox.
My heart does a little leap when I see his name. I click over to see his feed and find that he hasn’t posted anything in six months, nothing until today. The post is a photo of what appears to be a half-eaten plate of linguini that he had for dinner. His comment reads, ‘Enter the kitchen with your whole heart or not at all.’
I check the timestamp to see if he’d posted it before or after we met. Definitely after.
What does it mean? Is he going to come to my kitchen with his whole heart? Or does he mean the food he’d just eaten had obviously been prepared by a chef who put their whole heart into the meal?
Why did he follow my feed? Had I led him to think I want more than just clam smoothies from him? Oh, god, what if he can read my mind? What if he knows I’d pictured him wearing nothing more than an apron while he pushed the buttons on my blender?
Should I like his post or pretend I didn’t see it? Should I comment on it and play it cool? I mean, the man is being so generous. I should acknowledge that, shouldn’t I?
My phone pings and a car horn honks simultaneously. Saved from having to decide by my Uber. Thank the goddess.
Back home I look around my condo as if I’m seeing it for the first time, the way Stirling will tomorrow. I don’t like what I see. A pile of junk mail sits on the table at the front door. Blankets and throw cushions are scattered in messy piles on the couch and armchairs. A pile of sandals and shoes block the coat closet from closing properly.
I don’t need to look in the kitchen to know it is not in a state to have a five star chef working his magic in it.
“Mom … ” I whine at my phone when she appears on the screen.
“Honey … ” she mimics my tone. “Cute haircut. What inspired that?”
“Can you come over and help me tidy tonight?”
“Early bedtime for me, but happy to come over after work tomorrow. I’m done at noon. I’ll bring lunch. Sound good?”
