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So why couldn’t having a baby be a group effort as well?
“No!” I growl out loud, trying to shake the memories out of my head. “No, I’m not going down that rabbit hole again.”
I swipe back to my texts and start angrily typing into the empty conversation thread I’m about to start.
WREN: I’ve been trapped in this gilded cage for almost three freaking days! I want OUT!!!
I stare at the text message. Are the two extra exclamation points a little too much? I don’t want to come off as unhinged.
You know what? Fuck that. He locked me in this pretty prison and I’m worried about coming off unhinged? I should be unhinged, the way he’s treating me. Being hinged would be the unreasonable option.
I smash Send with a vengeance and my message swoops away, out of my control. Then I set my phone down on the table, prop my head up on my fist, and stare broodily at the screen, waiting for three little dots to pop up so I can start directing psychic hatred in Dmitri’s direction.
But nothing happens for a long time.
I see Delivered underneath my message. Somewhere out there in the city, Dmitri’s phone is lighting up with my words.
“Come on,” I mutter, gnawing at the inside of my cheek. “Come on…”
Three dots. They dance and dance and dance, and then…
DMITRI: I’m in the middle of a meeting.
WREN: you’re the boss. no one’s gonna care if you’re on your phone. also, I should be at that meeting too. is this the one with Belgium?
DMITRI: It’s nothing to concern yourself with. Don’t stress.
WREN: “don’t stress”? how about “don’t be an asshole!” i need something to do! i need a job!
DMITRI: The penthouse could use a good clean.
WREN: *Middle finger emoji*
DMITRI: I’ll take that as a no.
WREN: i want my job back.
DMITRI: We’ll discuss it when I get home.
I can feel his absence like a sudden cold front ripping through the apartment. I hate how much it bothers me.
Grimacing, I resist the urge to go back to my photo library. All that’ll do is bum me out further. So instead, I spend the rest of the day napping, snacking, and watching Old Hollywood movies in the theater room.
I emerge from my little dungeon only when it’s dark outside and my body is craving food. The cupboards are stocked like something out of my dream. The selection is almost suspiciously good, like Dmitri scraped the inside of my head for ideas and pasted it all onto a grocery list.
But, c’mon, no freaking way. There’s no chance on earth he took the time to figure out what kind of snacks I like to eat. I’m just being pathetically swoony. An extended dose of Cary Grant does that to a girl, I guess.
I’m rooting around in the fridge when I hear the distant voice of the sexy elevator robot sound out.
“Doors closing.”
The heavy thump of his footsteps has me straightening up fast and closing the refrigerator door. I’m still fixing my crusty pajamas and rat’s nest hair when he sweeps into the kitchen in one of his dark navy Burberry suits and a brown leather satchel. The navy draws out the bright silver in his eyes—not that I’m about to let that distract me.
“You came home.”
He grabs a glass and pours himself some water. “I said I would.”
“Men say they’ll do a lot of things. In my experience, most don’t get done.”
