Page 30 of This Means War

Lydia gives up trying to get them to stop and joins them, bending her legs carefully to avoid any fashion mishaps. My eyes inadvertently follow the curve of her hips. Out of the corner of my vision I notice Brian’s eyes do the same. Unexpected possessiveness rises inside me, and suddenly I’m striding towards them, a growl on my lips.

“Morris,” I snap, “Bates, Townsend!” I don’t know the last one’s name, so I just level him with my scariest senior associate stare. “You’re excused, I’ve got this from here.”

Lydia freezes as they all rush to their feet and scatter, nodding to me as they go. Her gaze rises to meet mine. “Oh, hi, babe.” She pastes on a smile.

“Hello.” I quirk a brow at her, discomfited by my body’s reaction to her use of the word “babe.” When did we start using terms of endearment with each other? I can think of quite a few for her I’d like to try out. Namely, I just really want to call her Lyddieagain. Stupid. I pull away from that thought.

“I brought you lunch,” she says brightly, gesturing to the food around her.

“I can see that.” I swoop down and help her retrieve the remaining items. I tuck the basket in the crook of my elbow and use my free arm to help her up.

“The thing is,” she says carefully as I lead her towards my office, “I think that fall probably ruined the food. Definitely our chicken salads anyway. Maybe we should order out.”

I scan the food, spotting the two containers of chicken salad nestled between a container of fruit.

“They look fine to me,” I tell her. “Some smeared on the lids, but the seal didn’t break.”

“Oh. Good,” her voice squeaks.

“You okay?” I ask as I swing the door to my office open.

“Oh yeah. Super good.” She nods, swinging her arms back and forth in front of her body and looking anywhere but me. Suspicion starts to rise in me.

“You know,” she continues, “you probably don’t even have time for lunch with me. I mean you’ve been so busy this week. I should just go.” She tugs the handle of the basket, but I don’t release my hold.

“I’m not too busy to have lunch with my wife,” I tell her, eager to get the truth out of her, and loving how flustered she looks right now.

“Are you sure?” She releases the basket, but then starts grabbing items from inside it, “because I could just go, leave you all this food to enjoy while I justtake this chicken salad,” she holds up the container she selected. That’s the second time she’s mentioned chicken salad.

“Lydia,” I say slowly, “what did you do to the chicken salad?”

“Hmm?” She squeaks again. “What do you mean what did I do to the chicken salad?” She emits a high-pitched laugh.

Still holding onto the basket handle, I sit in my chair and study her. “Let me guess, you made it with something gross, like vanilla yogurt instead of mayonnaise or olives instead of cherries.”

“Olives instead of cherries,” she sputters. “Actually, that sounds good.”

“No, it doesn’t,” I reply. “That’s just your pregnancy talking. Now stop avoiding the question. What did you do to my food?”

“Cole,” she holds up the chicken salad in her hand, “do you really think I did something to the chicken salad when I’m holding my own container of the stuff to eat? I wouldn’t poison myself, now would I?”

“First off,” I shake my head, “no one said anything about poison.” I eye the innocuous-looking container still in the basket and frown. “Oh my gosh, did you put something in my food? Like a laxative or something?”

“What? No!” Her lips curve up in the briefest of smiles before she wipes it away.

“Wow, Lydia.” I raise an eyebrow, trying to appear angry despite my amusement. “That’s really adult ofyou. And let me guess, when you dropped the food out in the hallway you lost track of which chicken salad was supposed to be mine, so now you’re trying to abort your plan so you don’t end up giving yourself a laxative.”

“What?” she says again, clutching her hand to her chest in offense.

“Lydia.” I stare unblinking at her.

“Cole,” she says placatingly, “I did not put a laxative in your chicken salad.” Her lips twitch, giving her away.

“Fine, you didn’t put a laxative in my chicken salad.” I shrug as I remove the container from the basket and set it in front of me. I stand and walk over to her, her wary eyes trained on me the whole time. “So then sit down,” I take her by the shoulders and push her gently into the seat across the desk usually reserved for clients. I pull the container of chicken salad from her grasp and set it in front of her. “And eat lunch with me.”

Across from me Lydia chews her lower lip. I refuse to let this distract me from the task at hand. Sure, she has lips. Everybody has lips, that doesn’t mean I want to kiss everybody.

“Here’s the thing,” Lydia snaps the container open then wrinkles her nose, “I don’t think this is going to sit well with me. I feel sick.”

---