But, we're not compatible in a couple of ways that really matter. Ways that involve my father. That thought is enough to darken my mood and kill off that last bit of post-orgasmic bliss.
I quickly grab my panties off the top of my desk and slip them back on before I forget. That would be an embarrassing find for parents, I'm sure. Still, despite the sudden intrusion of reality in my fantasy, I find myself walking with more pep in my step. And, as I prepare for my meetings with parents, I'm humming to myself. I'm smiling too.
For the first time in days, I feel happy.
ooo000ooo
I walk into Lotus and have my mind made up that I'm going to tell him. Brayden has every right to know that I'm carrying his child. He should know. He needs to know. I take a deep breath and try to steel myself. To mentally prepare myself for what's to come. I keep telling myself that no matter what happens, good or bad, I'm going to be okay. Everything is going to be fine.
When I step through the doors of the restaurant though, I immediately feel out of place and overwhelmed. The restaurant Brayden chose is one that I have never been to, mainly because it's firmly outside of my price range. Although my father is well off – or at least, I thought he was – I never take money from him. I haven’t since I graduated from college and started teaching. I'm an independent woman and I earn my own way. The last thing I want is to be beholden to him. To anybody.
Which means, that Lotus isn't even a restaurant I can splurge on for a special occasion. It's not a place I even consider popping into for a quick bite. To be honest, I'm not even sure they let you in the door without proof you have at least one million in the bank. But somehow, I manage to walk through the large double doors without being accosted.
The place is small, extremely cozy and intimate. It's the exclusive kind of restaurant that only serves a handful of patrons at a time. The building is brick and used to house an old tire factory back in the day. Many of those features remain, including the interior brick walls, the exposed wood beams and the venting that used to heat and cool the place long before central heat was a thing.
The host barely looks up as I enter and doesn't even acknowledge me. I stand there for a moment and then clear my throat to let him know I'm still standing there waiting to be acknowledged. He's a younger man, maybe early twenties, but he obviously comes from money. I suspect he's the owner's son or nephew or someone important to the Lotus food chain. I can't tell you why, but there is somehow an air of smug self-importance around him that you don't pick up from typical employees.
“Yes, may I help you?” He sounds bored.
He stares down his nose at me, and gives me a once-over, his eyes roaming up and down my body. I'm wearing one of the dresses Brayden had given to me back in Vegas – a navy blue sheath style with white polka dots. It's Chanel, and from the look on the host's face and sudden change in demeanor, he approves of me as a person. I can't help but notice that he's also admiring my breasts, but I try not to focus too much on that. He's young enough that he could almost be one of my students.
“Brayden Anderson has reservations,” I say. “I'm his guest.”
“Yes, Mr. Anderson is already here,” the host says. “Right this way.”
I'll admit, when I picked out the dress I'm wearing, it was because I wanted to look nice for Brayden. I want him to find me attractive, and I don't know why. If we're annulling the marriage and going our separate ways – which we should since my dad is insisting I do right by my family and marry Armando – what does it matter? It's not like anything is going to come of it.
But it does matter. To me. Which is why I chose to wear one of the dresses he picked out for me. One of the dresses he said I'd look amazing in. I didn't have much time to get ready, so my hair is down, free from the twist, and wavy from being put up all day. It looks nice, and not nearly as crazy as it usually does. Thank God. I did have time to put on a touch of makeup, give myself a once-over in the mirror, and was good to go.
As I follow the host, my gaze falls on Brayden in the far corner booth. He looks up and I see the way he looks at me. His eyes widen slightly and even from halfway across the restaurant, I can hear his breath catch in his throat, and I know I've chosen well. He stands to greet me, his blue eyes drinking me in for a moment before he says anything.
“Wow, Holly,” he says, “you look absolutely ravishing.”
“Thank you,” I say and twirl around in the dress for him. “You obviously have exquisite taste.”
We stand there for a long while, staring at each other as if we're not sure what to do next. Brayden eventually moves forward, and I instinctively turn my face upward, so he can kiss me. Right on cue, he presses his lips and body to mine, and I melt like ice cream on a hot, summer day. I turn to goo right there in the middle of the restaurant. Hell, as his tongue swirled with mine, I forgot where we're at entirely for a while, thinking only of how his lips feel on mine.
But as good as it all feels, and as caught up in the moment as I am, I remind myself that this won’t last. And as I dose myself with that cold slap of reality, everything comes crashing back down to Earth once more. I step back and look down at the floor sheepishly.
Brayden senses the sudden change in me, cocking his head to the side and looks at me, a curious expression on his face as we sit down.
“Everything okay?” he asks. “You look like someone just told you your puppy died.”
“Maybe they did,” I tease, taking a drink from my water and trying to deflect the conversation. “No, really, I'm fine. Everything is just so weird right now.”
“Tell me about it,” he laughs.
Brayden leans back in the booth, stretching out and showing off that amazing body of his. It has only been a few hours since my last orgasm, and already, I'm craving more of him. Our server takes our drink orders and I notice a weird look on Brayden’s face when I just stick with my water. But the look passes as we make small talk. Brayden talks about work. I tell him about the conferences and how much I dread this time of year. We order our food and as soon as the server leaves again, we both grow quiet, the atmosphere in the booth taking a turn for the tense and awkward.
I stare at my chipped nail polish and wish that I had a chance to get a manicure done before our date. I pick at my thumbnail as I try to think of something to say – and come up empty. There's so much I want to say. I want to tell him how I feel. Tell him that I care about him and that what we have is real. I want to pour my heart out to him and beg him to feel the same way.
More than that, I want to tell him that I'm carrying his child. There is some small part of me that wants to tell him we can start a happy life together – just him, me, and our baby. I want to tell him how amazing this is and that it could be an amazing fresh start for the both of us. I don't know if even I believe the thoughts racing through my head, but there's a small voice in the back of my mind urging me to say it anyway.
In the end though, I say nothing. I just sit there, picking at my fucking chipped nail polish. The confidence I had earlier – confidence that I can tell him about our baby – has suddenly evaporated. Like a puff of smoke on the breeze, it's gone. I concentrate on my hands, trying to summon the courage to tell him what I came here to tell him, and find that I don't have it at all. My determination is gone.
“Talk to me, Holly,” he says, taking me by surprise.
Later. I'll tell him I'm pregnant later. Maybe over the phone so I don't have to look into his eyes. A couple of days from now, when he's back in Austin, I'll tell him everything. I swear it.
“About what?” I ask, turning my eyes up to look at him. “I'm pretty boring, all things considered.”