Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 129084 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129084 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
“Well,” she says, looking over the baby’s shoulder. “Business or pleasure, I’m glad you’re getting out. This Friday or next?”
“This Friday.”
“I’m available. Next Friday, I’m going to the Hamptons for the weekend.”
I burst out laughing as I settle on the edge of the bed. Maxwell squirms, wanting his freedom. Too soon for me, but for him, I set him down so he can stand on his own. “Be careful. The last time I went to the Hamptons for the weekend, I came back with this guy.”
He drops to his knees and hurries across the floor toward my closet. He loves seeing himself in the mirror in there. I maneuver behind him, keeping enough distance for him to feel independent of me.
Cassandra looks down at her stomach before souring her face. “Yeah, I’m not sure what to say to that.”
“Don’t worry. Neither was I.”
We’re laughing as I get Maxwell dressed. We walk her to the door, and she waves before heading toward the elevator. “Thanks again. See you tomorrow.”
When I close the door, I rub noses with my cutie. “Looks like it’s you and me, kid.” I carry him to his room and get comfortable on a gingham-covered chair and ottoman. The pale creams are serene, and the chair is comfy enough to put me to sleep many times since he was born.
The routine of reading him a book before bed is my favorite part of the day to spend with him. Other than that first-thing-in-the-morning grin he always sports for me.
My contagious yawn catches on, and I watch him yawn before he leans against my chest. I chose a shorter book because we’re both too tired for something that will keep us up too long. I kiss his head before I start reading.
Not twenty minutes later, I’m laying him in his crib and tiptoeing out of the room.
Opening the fridge, I pull out a bowl of berries and then break off the end of a baguette to snack on. I’m too tired to make anything, much less even bother buttering the bread or grabbing the olive oil to dip. I’m not sure this will tide me over, but I’m too drained from the day.
I watch TV for a bit, hoping it takes my mind off things. So much from Chip to Noah to Friday night circles in my brain that even a sitcom can’t win my attention. I almost roll my eyes, but my apartment is an eye-roll-free safe zone. This is where I come to recover from the straining all day.
A giggle erupts as I pad into the bedroom. I’d be an Olympic Gold medal winner if it were a competition. It was my one rebellious act as a teenager. My dad hated it, so I leaned into it. I wasn’t perfect, but damn near close to it. I never stepped out of line, but it still didn’t matter. I could never live up to his expectations.
After slipping on my coziest pajamas, I take my time doing my skincare ritual. I don’t always have the time for it, but it seems like a good idea to while away a few minutes before crawling into bed.
My phone buzzes on the counter, so I look down at the screen:
Will the file have the breakdown of expenditures, including who approved the spend and who spent the money specifically? Or will it be an overall budget without details?
I get spam texts all the time, but this one is pretty dang specific and directed at me. I reply:
Who is this?
The three dots roll and then a reply pops up:
Noah.
In my surprise, I stare at the screen. His sudden ability to contact me takes me back to a time I used to pray to hear from him. He sure didn’t bother then, so I try not to get worked up now. But really . . . where was this text two years ago? Not the one about the numbers but hearing from him. I’m getting worked up, so my fingers fly across the screen:
How did you get my number?
His response comes just as swift:
The company directory.
I didn’t even know there was a directory. The serum I just dropped onto my face drips down my neck. Rubbing it in, I then glance back at the first message before I type again. Me:
Why?
Why what?
Why do you want to know about the expenditure approvals and details?
In their last email to me, the Torreses said that money was wasted. Some clients will consider money that doesn’t recoup the spend a waste. Others might not know where their money went.
I’m not sure if I can allow myself to be impressed that he’s working at this hour. It’s not late, but it’s hours after the workday ends.
Are you at work?
I’m out with a friend, and I was thinking about the details of this file.