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Wes pushes his shoulders slightly back, the same direction his hands appear to be folded. “May I please come in?”
Retreating occurs in tandem with emotionlessly retorting, “Your name’s on the lease too, so do whatever you want.”
“Yes; however, it’s your name on the building.”
“Wait,” abruptly stopping precedes a quirked eyebrow, “we own the building?”
“You.” He remains in place. “You own the building.”
“Since when?!”
“Since yesterday.”
“What?!”
“This is your home and the home of our child regardless of whatever happens between us.”
Conflicting emotions don’t hesitate to go to war, and the strife leaves me speechless.
And anxious.
And annoyed.
And wishing there were no consequences to have a shot or four while pregnant.
After clearing his throat, Wes repeats his question, “May I please come in?”
I opt out of verbally answering with a wave of my hand once I’m stationed back in the middle of the room near the coffee table.
“Why aren’t you appropriately dressed?” Our favorite redhead unhappily grumbles as he enters the penthouse, shutting the door behind him. “You know better. You are not my headache without a cause to deal with.”
“I have causes,” playfully leaves me in the middle of her tangent.
“You – may derive pleasure from my irritation over you not wearing a color – but you know the difference between black tie and formal. Formal and business casual. Business casual and business pleasure. Business pleasure and recreational.”
“There cannot possibly be that many different options,” I whisper to my mom.
“Right?” she quietly replies.
“You know your attire doesn’t have enough buttons but too few stitches to make a public appearance at the type of event you’re attending tonight, so explain to me – in the least amount of words possible because we clearly do not have time to spare – why on Desiree Gruber’s green earth you are not dressed for the press.”
“You will have your answer in three…” he travels into the room but wisely not closer to me, “two…” his figure stops near the couch, “one…”
Evie’s cell suddenly rings prompting all of us to redirect our attention to her.
Her lack of answering isn’t surprising nor are the hums of agreement she repeatedly makes.
Woman is few of words on the phone.
Likely because she saves them all for when she’s seen in person.
The conversation lasts about a minute before she ends the call to announce, “The Pathological Outliers Gala is being rescheduled due to unforeseen security concerns.” Her suspicious glare swiftly finds her boss’s. “They will be in contact within a week with a rescheduled date.”
Wes’s expression remains stoic. “Sounds like you’re now free for the evening.”
“It does.”
“Why don’t you and your lovely assistant go enjoy dinner on the company?” A tiny flicker of mirth flashes in his gaze. “You’ve put in so many long and hard hours lately, you certainly deserve a bit of downtime.”
