Page 31 of This Means War

I cross my arms across my chest. “Nice try, but I’m not buying it. I know you did something to one of these chicken salads, so now the question is, can you risk ending up the one with the doctoredchicken salad?” I slide a plastic fork from the basket across the desk to her, then select one for myself. Without breaking eye contact I pop the seal on my container, challenging her to this game of chicken with a quirk of my brow.

Lydia studies me for just a second then pops the seal on her own container. She stabs her fork into the salad and raises it up as if to clink it with my fork. A chicken salad toast.

In unison we move our forks to our mouths; I try to look nonchalant despite the fact that I’m nervous. What the heck did she do to the chicken salad? It can’t be too bad if she’s willing to eat some herself. Across from me Lydia doesn’t hesitate, just takes the bite in her mouth. I quickly do the same.

Tastes normal. Delicious actually. Did she get the bad one then?

Lydia sets her fork down and smiles, not giving anything away. Fine. She doesn’t want to back down? I’m certainly not going to. I stick my fork back in and take another bite. Lydia flinches ever so slightly but then quickly recovers, picking her own fork back up and mirroring my bite. Bite by bite we go until all of the chicken salad is gone. Our eyes never leave each other’s, and I can’t help but find this weirdly sensual.

We both set our forks down, and I wait for some sort of urge to rush to the bathroom, but none comes. Maybe she really didn’t put a laxative in the food. Or maybe she got the bad food.

“Wait a minute,” I break our silence, suddenlyconcerned, “you didn’t put something in the food that could hurt the babies, did you?”

“Cole, do you really think I would do that?” she says indignantly.

“I don’t know,” I say slowly, “I didn’t honestly think you would ever drug me, so–”

“Excuse me,” she interjects, “I did not drug you. Would you say the person who feeds you turkey on thanksgiving or a barista who makes you a cup of warm milk drugged you? No, you wouldn’t. All they did was make you pleasantly sleepy.”

Realization dawns. “You put a sleeping tablet in my food?”

“Technically, yes. But, as it worked out, it was more of a Russian roulette situation, since the sleeping tablet may have ended up in my chicken salad.” She looks at me defiantly as if daring me to call her crazy. She’s definitely crazy. I only wish I were less attracted to her crazy. This ten-minute lunch has been more fun than I’ve had since, well, since our impromptu food fight last weekend.

“Or perhaps,” she adds with a mischievous glint in her green eyes, “they were both poisoned. I’ve just spent the last two weeks building up immunity to Unisom powder.”

I can’t stop the bark of laughter that escapes me or ignore the rush of attraction her answering grin ignites in me. What is wrong with me? This woman just tried to drug me, I should want to run for the hills. Instead, I find I’m desperate to see what she does next. It’s got to be because she’s carrying mybabies. It’s just some sort of paternal instinct.

She’s still smirking at me, her eyes bright with humor. Maybe it’s the eyes that have me hooked on her. Or the fact that she just dropped aPrincess Bridereference into our conversation, and it totally applied. Whatever it is, all I know is that I feel lighter around her. Happier. I just wish I could tell her that. Wish there was ever a chance of her feeling the same way about me.

Lydia yawns, blinking rapidly. Triumph rises in my chest, and it’s my turn to smirk at her.

“That was just coincidental,” she asserts quickly. “Doesn’t mean I got the bad chicken salad.”

“Sure, it doesn’t.” I want to kiss her. I want to cross the room, take her in my arms, and spend the afternoon keeping her awake. “Lyddie,” momentary weakness pushes the pet name out. Maybe I can wave a white flag. Is it my imagination or does her face soften? I find myself leaning forward, locking eyes with her once more.

“Knock, knock.” My office door opens, and Ashley pokes her head in, her presence bringing me back to reality. I haven’t told anyone at the office about Lydia, least of all Ashley. It’s stupid not to, seeing that they’ll all find out soon enough, but every time I think about announcing it, I remember Ashley’s words when she said no to my proposal and embarrassment keeps me silent.

“Cole, do you have a minute?” Ashley steps inside, then her gaze finds Lydia, and her body stiffens in surprise.

Chapter 23

Lydia

ONE SECOND COLE is calling me Lyddie, and I’m wondering if I can convince him to play hooky from work so he can come home and spend the afternoon kissing me, and the next Ashley Allen is walking in, her presence hitting me like a cold bucket of water dumped over the head. Except instead of making me feel awake, I feel very, very tired. And I don’t think this is just because I’m pretty sure I got the chicken salad with the Unisom in it. No, it’s because seeing her here is a blatant reminder that these intimate moments Cole and I have been having lately are just a mirage. I’m fighting against her for his affections, just like I was all those years ago during that game of spin the bottle.

With alarming force, I realize that all of the juvenile pranks I’ve been playing on Cole have been in an effort to keep my heart from becoming his, but it’s too late. It’s already his. Has always been his, really.

Goodness. I’m in so much trouble.

“Oh.” Ashley spots me, and I’m slightly gratified to see a flicker of annoyance crease her features. At the wedding–sweaty and pale from having just thrown up–I wasn’t a threat, but here, all put together, apparently I am. It’s a little laughable really, considering that she’s gorgeous, and I’m about to be the size of a baby elephant. “I didn’t realize that you had a client here. I’ll come back later.” She makes no move to go though, clearly fishing for answers about who I am.

“Lydia isn’t a client.” Cole smiles at her. “Remember, she’s Josh’s sister? You met her at the wedding.”

“Oh.” All the tension eases out of Ashley’s shoulders. She must remember what I looked like post-vomiting. The death warmed over look is not one of my better ones. “Of course. Lydia.” Ashley offers her hand to me and I take it. I expected the hand of a seductress to be cold, but her grip is warm and soft as velvet. She clearly knows her way around a lotion bottle.

“Hi, it’s Amber, right?” I paste on a phony smile, that turns genuine when I see another flicker of irritation cross her face.

“Actually, it’s Ashley,” she corrects, her smile frozen in place. “So,” she presses on, “are you up here for a visit?”

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