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“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” I shouted.
“Hey, hey. I didn’t expect you to call me. Just the texts you’ve been hurtling at me asking if Blake is still alive. We both are, in case you’re interested.”
“I only care about him,” I said, deflating a little.
“Youareokay.”
I found myself fighting a smile. “Are you hungry?”
“Starved. I was about to send Gerard out to grab lunch whensomebodyso rudely interrupted me.”
“Get me something too.”
“What would you like?”
“Anything.”
“Uh-uh. You spend forever pouring over a menu every week at Dino’s. And then you order the same thing.”
“I might want something else.”
“Greek food work for you?”
I wrinkled my nose, but didn’t want to prove his point I was picky. “I’d love that.”
“Liar. You don’t do false cheer well.”
“A big salad would be okay. With lots of black olives, feta, dressing, oh and extra pita crisps.”
“Did you get that, Gerard?”
Someone repeated my order.
“This is a private conversation.”
“Some of us want to eat today. Hurry up. If he gets back before you’re here, we aren’t waiting.”
“Shithead asshole fucker,” I mumbled before I hung up.
“Mr. Whitley is expecting you.”
“I know that.” I marched past the reception desk to Patrick’s office.
Another chair was behind his desk, papers and laptop and phone pushed to the sides for the spread.
“Told you I wasn’t waiting,” he said around a bite of something.
“How, baby,” I cooed, picking up my son.
“How.”
Patrick pulled out the chair beside him, and I settled Blake on my lap.
“Can he eat a tomato?” He held up a grape one.
“Sure.”
Patrick held it up to his mouth, and Blake slapped at his hand. I pressed my lips together.
