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“Can we get Japanese?!” Jenni excitedly squeaks. “Ever since I read about Bryn not being able to eat it – pregnancy suck –”
“Pregnancy does suck,” I unhappily hiss at him.
“I’ve totally had a craving for sashimi.”
“You can dine wherever you like,” the male in the room informs. “And drink whatever you like. On me.”
“There is a particular champagne that the Charming Chef recommends to go with the multi-course dinner at Adachi’s,” Evie gushes to Jenni in an almost giddy tone. “I’ve been dying to go there ever since.”
“GetoutGreatOne, I’ve been dying to try that place!”
“Go,” Wes warmly encourages with a small nod. “Book a table with my name. Get dressed up. Eat and drink and tip freely.”
“That sounds so bardownsky!”
“I don’t know what the means,” our publicist sighs at the same time she stands. “However, I’m willing to learn over something that sparkles.” What appears to be an almost flirtatious smile shifts onto her face as she tips her head towards the door, “Shall we?”
“Let’s fuckin’ wheel!” exclaims her assistant during the jumping to her feet.
Their exit is accompanied by tiny finger waves and the man that’s keeping his distance asking, “How was your day off, Lauren?”
“I don’t know if I would label holding my daughter’s hair back while she pukes and fighting over takeout menus and celebrity word searches as a day off, but all things considered, I was happy to finally spend some time with her.” She offers me a sweet smile. “I think we both needed it.”
We did.
But we didn’t need for her to lecture me about the lack of nutrition in my diet.
Or vitamins.
Or why I should consider playing the baby a little more Beethoven and a little less Bon Jovi.
My suggestion to split the difference and play the tiny thing a bit of Biggie was not welcomed nor well received.
“I absolutely agree.” His head tilts slightly to the side. “I also agree with the notion of you spending the evening with your husband who happens to be waiting in a limo downstairs.” The corner of his lip kicks upward. “I think he mentioned something about Abuela’s Kitchen and salsa dancing?”
Seeing her blue eyes widen ten times their size narrows my stare.
Sneaky, slippery, bastard.
He’s a fucking horn shark!
Slow mover.
Only leaving the shelter to hunt.
And that’s exactly what he did.
Bit down on their shells with force and precision so powerful and accurate they didn’t see it coming.
“We haven’t been there in ages,” Mom swoons as she shifts to a standing position while I drop to a sitting one. “I don’t even know if I have heels for that anymore.”
“Buy some,” my more powerful opponent nonchalantly declares. “On me.”
Of course she doesn’t object.
Or argue.
Or insist otherwise.
