A Really Bad Idea Page 15

  I’m putting my hair in a ponytail when the door swings open, and Angela comes in, holding a large display of sunflowers that are obstructing her face.

  “Heard everything went well this morning!” she chimes as she puts the flowers on the table. This room is so sterile-looking, and flowers brighten it up.

  “So far, so good.” I motion toward the glass vase filled with vibrant golden flowers. “Looks like someone is getting romanced. Denny is upping his game.”

  Angela scrunches her face. “Those are not for me.”

  It’s a rather expressive bouquet. Whoever they’re for is a very lucky individual.

  “They’re for you,” she says matter-of-factly.

  “Me?”

  “There’s a card in there,” she says.

  I walk over and look through the petals for the small card that comes with such an arrangement, but I stop when Angela adds, “They’re from Christian.”

  “Snoop much?” I reprimand.

  She shrugs. “I had to see who they were for.”

  With my hands on my hips, I tap a foot.

  She doesn’t seem fazed as she twirls her silky hair and sings, “Looks like someone is getting romanced.”

  Romanced. What a word. I used it before when I thought they were for Angela. Now, the word makes my stomach go wild with butterflies.

  I turn back to my locker. “My mom had her procedure today. He sent them as a friendly gesture.”

  “Yeah, I get sent large displays of flowers from my friends all the time.” She’s being sarcastic.

  “They’re sunflowers. They’re the epitome of friendship. In fact, they’re the least romantic plant on the entire planet,” I defend.

  “That’s not true. Gladiolas remind me of funerals. And carnations are cheap.”

  “I’ll make sure Denny never buys you carnations.”

  “Oh, he’d never buy me flowers, period. Something about paying money for a thing that’s ripped from the ground, guaranteeing its impending death, is bad for his soul.”

  I tilt my head. “Isn’t he an avid cannabis user? Is the pot plant not a living, breathing thing?”

  The question seems to stump Angela. “You’re getting off topic. You. Christian. Flowers.”

  “I told him I’d go to the gala with him.” I feign nonchalance.

  She squeals with a jump to her step. “What are you going to wear? We should go shopping! Tomorrow, during lunch, let’s go out—”

  “I already have a dress,” I state as I take out my white coat. “Christian bought me a dress.”

  I adjust my hair from under the collar and lace a stethoscope around my neck. When I close the door and turn around, Angela is standing there with a raised brow and a devilish grin.

  “What?” I ask.

  She moves her shoulders in a shimmy. “You two are so going to get it on!”

  “Will you lower your voice?” I whisper-shout to her. These walls are thin.

  She skips to her locker, opens it, and leans in. When she closes the door, she holds up a string of condoms.

  I look toward the door to make sure no one is coming in. “You’re out of your mind.”

  She puts them in my hand and grins. “Woman, listen. You have a gorgeous doctor who bought you a dress and is taking you to a gala at a Manhattan hotel. If he invites you up to his room and wants to ravage your body, you let him.”

  I open my mouth to speak, to tell Angela she’s crazy and inappropriate, and that, if I were to have sex with a man, I would be more than prepared for the occasion. But I say nothing. The truth is, she might be wildly inappropriate, but she’s not crazy in the least. I blink at Angela, wondering if she has any idea just how close she is to the actual truth of what might happen after the gala.

  And the other truth is, I’m nowhere near ready for a sexual encounter with a man. Let alone Christian.

  The door to the break room opens, and Thomas comes in, giving us a friendly smile as he walks to the sink to wash his hands. Angela takes this as her cue to leave and get back to her desk.

  It’s at this moment I realize that I’m holding a stack of condoms. Shit. I put my arm behind my back to hide the prophylactics. I don’t think he’s noticed them.

  He has on his doctor’s coat and a gray tie. His hair is combed back, not looking like he spent the morning operating on patients and saving lives.

  “Your mom looked good,” he states.

  My shoulders relax at his statement. “She’s a force to be reckoned with.”

  He laughs as he dries his hands. “You know what your mother said before we put her under?”

  I tilt my head and wait.

  “She told me that, if she dies, make sure George waits a mandatory five years before meeting someone else, and if he remarries, I’m to give them a twenty-four-by-thirty-six-inch oil canvas of her that must be hung over the mantel, above her ashes, so his new wife will have to look at me every time she walks out the front door.”

  “That sounds like my mom.”

  Thomas nods toward the flowers. “Those are pretty. Are they yours?”

  “Christian sent them.”

  He grins proudly as he just stands there, looking at me. I smile back at him. He looks away and then back, as if he wants to say something. He doesn’t.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve got a look about you. Kind of like … oh.” It dawns on me. We could only tell one person. I told Beth, and Christian told his dad. I clench the plastic package in my hand and point at him with the other. “You know.”

  “I know.”

  “We didn’t … you know. We haven’t—”

  His hands rise in defense—or to shut me up. One or the other. “I don’t need details!”

  I let out an exasperated sigh. “Good. Because I have none to give you. Even if I did, I wouldn’t … oh, this is awkward.”

  With a hand on my forehead, I try to find the right words to let this man know that Christian and I have this under control. I can only imagine what this might look like to him—a family man who devoted his life to his wife and child. He must have opinions, criticisms—

  “I think it’s a beautiful thing.”

  His words shock me straight.

  “You do?”

  Thomas laughs, making his cleft chin, the one he gave to his son, dance with the smile. “I only have one son who is far more ambitious than I ever was. He’s all work and no future. The past few years, I’ve been trying to get him to settle down.”

  “We’re not settling down.”

  “I want Christian to experience fatherhood, and I want to be a grandpa in the worst way.”

  Wow. This is optimistic. Far easier than I thought it would be.

  No wonder Christian has such a carefree attitude about us having a baby together. His dad is incredibly supportive.

  The elated look on his face morphs into sadness. I know there’s a heavier thought on his mind, something he wants to say yet knows it could be devastating.

  “You have concerns,” I state.

  He folds his arms and looks down for a moment. It’s the same look he has when he’s letting our patients know the risks before surgery. “Two friends having a baby is unconventional. Even the strongest couples who are in love fall apart when it comes to the pressures of raising a child.”

  “We could fall apart,” I sigh.

  He places his hands on my shoulders. I look up into his wisdom-filled gaze. “No matter what happens between the two of you, I can guarantee you this. You’ll never regret it. One look at that child, and you’ll be so in love, so fulfilled, that you’ll know it was the right thing to do.”

  A cry-like breath escapes my lips. That is a scary and beautiful thing to hear.

  “Thank you.”

  “For everyone’s sake, I’m going to go on as if I know nothing about this. If Lucille finds out I knew and didn’t tell her, I’ll be sleeping on the couch for a year.�
��

  He walks out of the break room, leaving me alone. It’s not even noon, and I’ve already had the craziest day. I look down at the packets in my hand and find myself overwhelmed with another sensation.

  Expectation.

  We won’t need these at all.

  “The silver peep-toe or gold strapless?” I’m standing in the middle of my bedroom, holding up the bottom of my sapphire dress as I show my shoe options to Beth over FaceTime.

  “Gold,” she says. She’s sitting at her kitchen island, sipping a cup of tea. “And what about a clutch? What are you using?”

  I walk over to my dresser and hold up the three evening bags I own.

  She leans back with her mouth twisted. “That’s all you have?” I lower my shoulders and make a face. “The one with the snap on top will do, which means you have to wear the silver shoes.”

  “The gown is so long. No one will notice if my shoes don’t match my clutch.”

  “Do you want my help or not?”

  “Fine.” I toss the bags back on my dresser and sit on the bed to slide the silver shoes on my feet. When I rise, I straighten my dress, adjust my cleavage, and pose for her. “Silver shoes. Snappy clutch. How’s the hair?”

  “Killer. I like the old Hollywood thing you have going on. The tumbling waves make your hair extra golden and shiny.”

  “Thanks.” I glance in the mirror and push on the comb that is holding the hair back on one side of my head, making sure it’s as tight as can be. My lashes are long, and I gloss my lips. I appear posh, poised, and put together. Appear being the operative word because, inside, I’m a pile of mush.

  “Final verdict?”

  “Gorgeous. Let me see the back,” she says, and I do a turn, listening as Beth whistles in approval. “Damn. Your waist looks extra tiny, and your ass is like Jessica Rabbit in that thing. He really picked it out on his own?”

  “I assumed you had a hand in it.”

  “Me? No. I would have put you in red and maybe a drop waist, but that dress fits you like a glove, and the color is vibrant. He chose well.”

  I run a hand over the silky material of the dress and clutch my belly. “I’m nervous.”

  “You should be.”

  “Do I bring anything? Like an overnight bag? I mean, will we be going back to a hotel room after? He mentioned a room. Or maybe I mentioned a room. We could end up here. Shoot. I should straighten up.” I turn to fix the duvet on my bed.

  Beth calls out, “You’re panicking.”

  I continue to fix the bed. “I don’t want to look like a slob or too presumptuous.”

  “In this scenario, you are absolutely allowed to. Look presumptuous, I mean. Sex is a given.”

  “He said nothing has to happen.”

  “And if it does?” she asks with a raised brow.

  I fluff the pillows.

  “Toothbrush,” she states. “And a clean pair of panties. Do you have those little pack-away ballet flats I gave you for Christmas? The kind that roll up and fit in your purse?”

  Ballet flats? Let me see …

  I rifle through my drawer for the gift she gave me months ago. They were the slip-on flats, rolled up in a beige package. I dig through the nighties and undergarments and find the package.

  I hold it up. “These?”

  “Glad to see you liked them.” She’s commenting on the fact that it hasn’t been opened.

  I lift the top flap. “I have had nowhere to use them. I’m not entirely sure what they’re for.”

  “They’re for your ho bag.”

  “Ho what?” I pull them out and unravel the shoes. They have a thin bottom. I wouldn’t walk more than a block in them, but a quick skip to catch a cab in these will be fine.

  “Toothbrush, panties, flats. That’s all you need if you spend the night with a man.”

  “You bought me morning-after shoes for Christmas?”

  “And heaven and nature sing.” Her ponytail sways with the words.

  “That seems blasphemous.”

  “I remember sneaking out of Brian’s dorm room back in the day.” She gives a wistful stare to the sky and then snaps back to attention. “Now, mascara and lipstick.”

  I prance around my bathroom and put all the items into my clutch. When I come back into her view, I announce, “Got it.”

  “What kind of bra are you wearing?”

  “None of your business!”

  “It’d better be pretty. Hold on. Aiden wants to say hi.”

  I grab my phone off the dresser and hold it up close. “Has he been listening in on this entire conversation?”

  “Of course not. He just came up from the basement. Hold, please.”

  She passes the iPad to my nephew. He’s wearing his pajamas already and sipping on a juice box of Honest Kids. “Hi, Aunt Meadow. Wow, you’re a princess!”

  The six-year-old’s compliment makes my heart sing. “Thanks, bud.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “A fancy party.” I walk down the hallway with my phone and clutch in hand.

  “Cool. Can I come? I have a lot of fancy clothes. Mom makes us dress up for everything.” The last word comes out with disdain. “I went to a birthday party at a trampoline park, wearing dress pants and a button-down. She tried to make me wear a tie!”

  I laugh. “At least you were the handsomest guy at the party. I can’t take you with me tonight, but how about I come over next weekend for a Wii challenge?”

  “Heck yeah!” he says, followed by the distinct yell of Beth scolding for him using a “bad” word. “Heck is not a bad word. Grandpa uses it all the time,” he says to his mother and then turns back. “It’s a date, Aunt Meadow. Dylan has been kicking my butt at Mario Kart, so I need you to show him who’s boss.”

  I laugh as I put my wallet and keys in my bag. “Good. I’ll kick his butt next.”

  “I love you.”

  I smile. “I love you, too, buddy.”

  Beth’s porcelain face reappears. “He drives me nuts, but he’s so damn sweet sometimes that I want to eat him.”

  “You said a bad word!” Aiden shouts off camera.

  Beth ignores him and focuses on me.

  “You ready?” she asks me, and I nod my head. “Good. Because you’re late.”

  “Shit.” The neon light of my clock puts a pep in my step.

  “You said a bad word, too, Aunt Meadow!” Aiden chimes.

  “Time to end this call. I told Christian I’d meet him there at eight,” I state. “Wish me luck.”

  Beth grins. “You don’t need luck. Just have fun.”

  The drive to The Plaza passes by quickly. I play with the gem design on my clutch and open and close the snaps the entire trip. When the marquee for the iconic hotel comes into view, I get butterflies in my stomach. As we pull up to the red-carpeted outdoor steps, it only heightens my anticipation.

  Heightened because of a man.

  Christian is standing on the staircase, leaning against the gold railing. He’s wearing a black tuxedo with a traditional bow tie. It’s a look I don’t care for on most men, as it sometimes comes off as dorky. Not on Christian. He looks debonair. Sinful even.

  With his broad shoulders and a tapered waist, the tuxedo shows off his athletic physique, and the tailored pants make him appear even taller, larger. His hair is combed back, and his lips are pursed as he adjusts his cuff links. I take a beat before exiting the car.

  He is a beautiful man. I know you’re not supposed to say that about men. They’re roguish or brawny, bullish and even herculean. He is those things but so much more.

  Maybe it’s the way his dark brows accentuate his emerald-green eyes, the sun-kissed skin he has year-round, or even the perfect bow of his mouth, but he is just beautiful to look at. He’s manly for sure with his thick build and square jaw. Yet he has a kindness to his face. I don’t quite know what it is, but lately, when I look at him, I find I don’t want to stop.

  When I open my car door and step out, he stands up s
traight and comes jogging down the stairs toward me.

  Taking his hand, I follow him off the curb and to the base of the stairs. I adjust my dress to make sure the bottom is smooth.

  “You’re gorgeous.” His eyes are steady as his hand rises to his chest.

  “You have good taste in women’s apparel.”

  He leans forward and speaks softly, “I have good taste in women.”

  I laugh. All the worry I had when thinking about tonight eases with the way his lips curve up to one side.

  He motions toward the gold doors. “Shall we?”

  As we walk inside, my neck cranes, so I can admire the crystal chandeliers. I went to the tearoom once when I was fourteen and was too young to appreciate the regality of the gold trim work, marble pillars, and artwork that speaks to its history.

  We’re followed into the elevator by a larger group of people, all dressed elegantly. Christian steps to the back of the car. I take a spot in front of him. As the doors are about to close, another couple appears, and someone puts their hand in the doors’ path to make it reopen. They’re laughing and breathless, expressing thanks.

  As we all take another step back to allow the couple to enter, my body collides with Christian’s. He laces a hand on my hip, and I inhale deeply. The heat of his hand burns through the silk of my dress. It electrifies my body.

  The doors open, and we exit. He doesn’t offer me his hand as we walk through the foyer toward the Grand Ballroom where New York opulence is at its finest. Grandeur chandeliers adorn the gold-filigree-laced ceilings. The woodwork and carvings on each column cascading down the walls is exquisite in its detail. There’s a nine-piece band at the far end of the room with round tables around a large dance floor. Tall centerpieces of white roses overflowing from the vases beautify every table with lit candlesticks illuminating the room.