I was back at my desk, sipping water from the giant jug I drank from all day when Elliot strode toward me.
I tucked my jug by my feet and straightened my spine. “Good morning, Elliot.”
“Catherine.” He breezed by me without looking up from his phone.
And Davida and Raymond wondered how it was he hadn’t noticed my pregnancy. He barely noticed me as long as I got the job done.
I followed him into his office with my notebook and handwritten schedule, which I slid to the middle of his desk. As always, he shifted it a fraction of an inch.
Probably used the lasers in his cyborg brain to find the exact center.
I took a seat across from him, holding my notebook in front of my stomach.
It was unnecessary since Elliott’s focus was on his computer screen. “You smell like coffee.”
I jerked in surprise. “Oh. Do I? I can chew some gum if it—”
“No. I don’t have time to wait for you to find gum, and I’m not a fan of the sound of chewing. I’m not sure anyone is.” His eyes flicked to mine. “I thought you’d quit.”
“I did, but that didn’t last long. I normally drink a cup during lunch, but I was tired, so I had my cup this morning. If it bothers you, it won’t happen again.”
“I didn’t say it bothered me. I made an observation.” The corners of his eyes pinched. “Why are you tired? Is this job too difficult for you, Catherine?”
My middle finger was absolutely itching to rise, but I curled it into my palm. Tomorrow’s postscript was going to be a doozy, cuss words and all.
“No, Elliot. I didn’t sleep well last night, but I’m fine now that I’ve had coffee.”
I hadn’t slept for so, so many reasons I could have written a list longer than Elliot’s schedule.
Because Liam had decided eleven p.m. was the perfect time to knock out tile in the bathroom.
Because I was racked with worry about how I was going to afford all the expenses that came along with having a baby if we didn’t sell this house.
Because Liam was headed back to Australia for a few weeks, and I was seven months pregnant and had never felt so alone.
Because Liam had hired a contractor to work in his absence, and I really couldn’t afford that.
If I dwelled on any of it, I’d lose my mind. And now was not the time for freaking out.
Eager to change the subject, I nodded toward the schedule on his desk. “Do you have questions about the meetings or anything you’d like to shift?”
“Being I’m the one who arranged the meetings, I neither have questions nor a need to shift any of them.” He clicked his mouse twice.
“Of course.”
For the last five months, this was how our morning meetings had gone. Elliot often asked if I was truly up to the tasks he gave me and corrected me with long-winded responses when a “yes” or “no” would have sufficed.
This was why I had my postscripts, since I couldn’t flip him off or tell him his cyborg was showing.
With a heavy sigh, he picked up the schedule I’d carefully written for him. “Luca and Weston will be here for lunch. Email them the menu to Donato’s, please.”
“Sure. Will you give me your order now or—?”
“I just emailed you my order.” Click, click.
“Very efficient.” I said this snarkily. More than I’d intended or would normally allow myself. Seemed the dancing baby on my bladder had absorbed some of my patience.
His brows rose. “There’s no point in wasting time when there’s so little of it.”
“It’s known to be a finite resource.” Again, more snark. I always saved this for my postscripts.
Elliot leaned forward, his narrow-eyed gaze assessing me. “Is there something wrong, Catherine?”
“No.” I shook my head. “Everything’s under control. How about you? Is everything under control on your end?”
“Always,” he answered crisply.
That was true. Elliot controlled his world like a conductor of a symphony. Each part moved at his command, including me. I allowed it because I had to. This job was vital to me. So, even though every single cell of my body screamed to walk around his desk, ruffle up his perfect hair, wrinkle his pristine shirt, maybe scatter some of his papers, I didn’t. I stayed in my seat, a polite smile curving the corners of my mouth.
“I’m very glad.”
He continued his intense stare for several more moments before sitting back in his chair. “Order yourself something to eat too, Catherine.”
“Thank you.”
Coming from anyone else, I would have thought he was making a nice gesture. But I knew Elliot Levy better than that.
Why let me go out to pick up my own lunch when it was much more efficient to have it delivered with his?
Around midday, Luca Rossi arrived for his meeting with Elliot. As far as I knew, Luca and Weston were Elliot’s only friends. Both were CEOs of their own companies, and Weston was in a relationship with Elliot’s sister, Elise, while Luca had recently gotten married.
Luca nodded toward Elliot’s closed office door. “How’s he doing today?”
I placed my hands on my desk. “I haven’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. Mr. Levy is always busy.”
Busy, abrupt, demanding, intolerable. I kept those adjectives between me and my postscripts.
Tapping the edge of my desk, he grinned. “I get it. I’ve known him since college. The guy never changes.”
Standing up, I turned toward Elliot’s office when Luca’s words stopped me in my tracks.
“Hey, congratulations.”
My brows rose, and I swiveled back around, momentarily confused. When his eyes landed on my stomach, I understood. “Oh. Thanks. I’m not used to people noticing yet. It only started happening this week.”
“I have a pregnant sister, so maybe I’m more attuned to it these days.”
This man really was charming and contrary to what I’d told Elliot, I wasn’t immune. It wasn’t that I wanted to jump his bones or anything—Luca was too slick and polished to be my type—but he had a way about him that made me comfortable. I shot him an easier smile. “Well, congratulations on becoming an uncle. I’ll let Mr. Levy know you’re here.”
My stomach churned, and it wasn’t due to Baby Girl this time. I had the distinct feeling my days of avoiding this conversation with Elliot were about to come to an end.
Chapter Four
Elliot
The old man in front of me had tears in his eyes.
It made me sick.
“You’re a bastard, you know that? An opportunistic bastard.” He swiped at his eyes with the cuff of his shirt. “Does it feel good to profit off my life’s work? Does it?”
I blinked at him, unimpressed by the show taking place in the lobby of LD’s newest acquisition and third-tallest skyscraper in Denver.
Donald Rockford was bad at business, and he was looking for someone to blame when he should have been looking at his own reflection.