Page 35 of The Surrogate Mother
Well, that’s true. But he’s averse to most social interactions, except with his closest friends. He’s okay with having dinner with his mother, but he’s thrilled with the arrangement where we only get together with my parents a couple of times a year.
“I’ll be home by a quarter to six, okay?” I say to him. “Just… please try to be good.”
“I’ll try to try.”
I don’t know what he’s so worked up about. He seemed to like Monica enough when we gave her a ride home that other night. Although I have to admit, there’s a small part of me that’s glad he isn’t all that excited about having dinner with the twenty-three-year-old girl who’s pregnant with his child.
I’ve got a few letters on my desk that Monica brought for me this morning that I never got around to opening. I grab my ABBY letter opener that Sam got me and slice open the first letter. But before I get it open, the letter opener nicks my finger, which immediately starts bleeding.
Damn. That thing is sharp. It’s supposed to open letters, not perform surgery.
“Abby?”
I look up from my wounded finger and see Monica standing at the doorway of my office. She’s got on another of her outfits of black slacks paired with a white shapeless blouse buttoned up to her throat. In the last week or so, I’venoticed a tiny bulge in her midsection, but she’s still probably got a smaller waist circumference than I do.
“Hey.” She beams at me. “I’m so excited about tonight. Six, right?”
I grab a tissue off my desk to ease the flow of blood from my finger. “That’s right.”
“Are you sure I can’t bring anything?”
“Just yourself.”
She nods happily. “Would it be all right if I head out now? I need to go home first.”
I glance at my watch—five o’clock. “Sure, sounds good! I’ll see you at six.”
She claps her hands together. “This will be so much fun! I can’t wait!”
As Monica races off down the hallway, I smile to myself. As long as Sam isn’t too cranky, this should be a nice night. I’m glad I invited her.
My finger seems to have stopped bleeding—guess I don’t need stitches or even a Band-Aid. I spend the next fifteen minutes answering emails, then I shut down my computer. I’m about to head out of my office when I practically slam right into Denise. Even though it’s the very end of the day, Denise’s suit is as crisp as it was this morning and she doesn’t have a hair out of place. How does she do that? She must spritz herself with some sort of glaze every morning.
“Abigail.” Her cool, calculating blue eyes look me over. I’m sure I look as rumpled as I feel. “You never sent me the new website copy for Cuddles.”
“Oh.” I frown. “Sorry, I thought I did.”
“You did not.” She frowns at me. “I’d like to see it now. A printed copy, if you can.”
“Um…” I glance at my idle computer. “Can it wait until the morning? I’ve sort of… got to be somewhere…”
“It absolutelycannotwait until the morning.” She folds her arms across her chest. “Our meeting with the executives from Cuddles is tomorrow at eight!”
It is?
I’m usually so on top of these meetings, but I’ve had a lot on my mind lately. How could I not have realized I’ve got a meeting tomorrow morning?
“Any time now, Abigail,” Denise sighs.
“Right.” I go over to the computer to turn it back on. I glance at my watch—five-twenty. Plenty of time to get back for dinner with Monica. “Let me get this printed for you.”
While I’m waiting for the computer to boot up, I slip my phone out of my purse and check my calendar. And there’s the meeting: eight in the morning, just like Denise said. How did I miss that?
It takes several minutes to boot up and load the document Denise wants. I send it to my printer as I feel a vein throbbing in my temple.
“It’s not printing,” Denise observes.
Damn it. Monica’s the one who knows how to troubleshoot the printer. I don’t know what to do now. I try printing again, but nothing happens. I flash Denise an apologetic look, and she simply sighs loudly.
