Page 104 of Bonus Daddy
“Yep. Got one specifically for you. Cal,” I said, narrowing my eyes on him, “the poppy seed is for Brian.” I set the bag on the conference table and headed toward his office.
He was standing with his headset on, pacing while speaking and holding what looked like a lumpy smoothie. I waved at him and he gave me a wink, which sent a spark through me. God, he was so handsome.
He turned, headed the other direction, and took a big sip. He winced, but he choked the smoothie down.
“Yes,” he said. “The discovery deadline is the nineteenth, and Judge Maxwell is not going to give you another extension.”
He took another big gulp, and with what I swore was a shudder, he set the cup on the desk.
“Okay. Interrogatories by Friday could wor—” He winced. “Sorry, Mark. I—” His face paled. “I’ll call you back.”
He looked up at me, his eyes wide, then dashed out of the room.
He ran down the hall and disappeared into the bathroom before I could get my wits about me. What was happening? Was he ill?
Slowly, I crept down the hall. The closer I got to the bathroom, the louder his retching got.
“Brian?” I asked gently. “Can I help you?”
Sully popped his head out of his office and gave me a concerned look, then hollered, “Are you sick?”
“Yes,” Brian groaned, his voice muffled through the closed door.
“Can I get you anything, water?” I rested a hand on the flimsy piece of wood between us. “A towel?”
“A priest?” Sully quipped, now standing next to me.
I glared at him and he shrugged.
In response, Brian retched some more. Eventually, he went quiet and flushed the toilet.
When he didn’t emerge, I worried that he’d passed out, so I slowly eased the door open.
Brian, sweaty and pale, stared up at me from the mustard yellow linoleum floor.
I helped him up and led him to the couch in the reception area, then scurried to the mini fridge and pulled out a bottle of water.
“Do you think you caught a bug?” I asked as I uncapped it and handed it to him.
He sipped tentatively. “It was the smoothie. Usually I chug them, but this one was off. Tasted like pickles, but I hadn’t eaten, and then all of a sudden…”
He ran his hands through his sweaty hair. Smoothie? Pickles? What the hell was he talking about?
I stalked back to his office and picked up the almost empty tumbler. It looked like a chocolate protein shake, but the liquid was lumpy and separated. Maybe he’d used expired milk by accident. I loosened the lid and was immediately hit with the distinct smell of brine.
Marching back toward him, cup in hand, I demanded, “Who made this?”
“Greta,” he said, head tipped back and eyes closed. “She makes them for me some days. When I haven’t had lunch.”
I squeezed my eyes shut and silently cursed. Had my nine-year-old put pickles in his smoothie?
“Sometimes they’re great. Sometimes she gets creative. But you know, she’s a kid. And?—”
I held up a hand, the pieces clicking into place.
“Drink a little more water. Take small sips. I need to talk to my kids.”
I stomped up the stairs, fuming. Greta liked to cook with me. She knew damn well pickles wouldn’t be appropriate for a chocolate protein shake. Was this a childish prank gone wrong? After all the kindness Brian had shown us?
