Page 7 of Worth the Wait

“Per her contract, while she’s here, she’s in the weekend rotation.”

“Next then. I’ll make dinner.”

“If we eat after the interrogation, she’ll have nothing in her system to make her nauseous during it.”

“I’m not that bad,” Dad scoffs. I raise a brow at this. “You care about her. That’s all I need to know.”

“You’re not going to ask her intentions?” I joke.

He fingers combs his full head of hair, the sun shining through the window to his right seeming to highlight the few strands of silver woven through the dark brown as if showcasing the innocence he’s trying to portray. “I reckon it’s too soon to petition for a promotion in my status.” What is he getting at? “From dad to granddad.” He’s so eager, his arms curl as if he’s holding his granddaughter or grandson already, and he begins the slight bouncing that all babies seem to love. I hate that my mom won’t be here for that. I know she’d be just as excited as he is.

I stay a while longer, enjoying the time with my dad, and the lunch he invites me to have with him, then head home.

Bellamy works two ten hour shifts when it’s her turn on weekends. I know she’ll be hungry, and probably too tired to do anything about it, when she’s done, so I plan to take care of that for her.

As much as I’d prefer to be there while she eats, what she needs is more important.

Always.

**Bellamy**

I’m dragging, barely having the energy to get out of my car, the idea of sleeping in it sounding better by the minute. With the lack of slumber last night, and the long and hectic shift today, I am existing on fumes.

Food, while a necessity, seems to be losing the battle of priority. I could nap for a couple hours, then eat and go back to bed.

Having decided on that brilliant strategy, I find the strength to stand up, grab my purse, and shut my car door. When a strange man calls my name, I tense, all traces of lethargy fleeing as scenarios go through my mind, none of them good.

“Shit. Did I startle you?” He appears very upset by this possibility. “Peter said if I did that, he’d be ticked.”

At the mention of who sent him, I relax. “Peter sent you?”

The guy nods. “Said to tell you fiddlesticks.”

Having no clue what that’s supposed to mean, I reach for my cell to find out, thankful we exchanged numbers before parting this morning. There’s a text from him waiting for me.

Peter: I wish I could be there with you, but you need food and sleep. In that order. I sent a driver to you with dinner. The code word is fiddlesticks.

Me: You’re the best.

“Thank you,” I tell the delivery fellow, digging in my purse for a tip.

“You’re welcome,” he replies, waving off my action. “Mr. Hawkins took care of everything.” Then he leaves and I’m left holding the bag. Literally.

Peter: Only the best for you. ;-)

Me: I’m beginning to think that’s you.

Peter: You make me that way.

Me: Maybe we do that for each other.

Peter: I like that.

Me: I like you.

Peter: I like you, too. Go eat, sweetheart. Then get some rest. I’m not going anywhere.

Getting inside my room, I don’t even bother removing my jacket or purse. I just plop on one of the chairs at the small table off to the side, remove the items he ordered, and dig in.

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