Page 62 of Love in Training
“Well, I read the feature and it was phenomenal,” she finally says. “I’m still in shock that ColinVanderpoolis such a slime. He was a major donor to Colorado Humane. But I loved how you presented it from his wife’s perspective. I—I’m glad you wrote it.”
If anything could reaffirm for me that publishing the article was the right decision, it’s this. Because Lydia’s one of the people I wrote it for—one of the women who deserved better. And her voice matters to me more than any malicious email.
“Thanks, Lyd,” I say, quickly pivoting subjects. “Anyway, how are the birth classes going? Have they found a way to simulate childbirth pain for fathers? I’ve heard kidney stones are effective.”
Her bemused laugh tinkles in my ears, and I quietly treasure it. Because a year ago, I wasn’t sure I’d ever hear her laugh that way again.
“They’re going well,” she says, ignoring my barb. “We met a couple also expecting a little girl and sort of scheduled our first play date.”
“Uh... do you like, sit with your bellies next to each other, or wait till they’re actually born?”
“It won’t be until they’re like two months old.” She snorts, then quickly adds, “But I’m sure it’ll be adorable.”
My interest in babies is somewhere below my interest in dogs, but this is so bewildering, I have to ask. “What exactly happens at an infant playdate?”
“Um... I’m not actually sure.” She hesitates. “Maybe I’ll ask if they want to bring their dog to play with Heartthrob so it isn’t boring.”
I smile. It’s been hard to imagine Lydia with a baby in tow. I know things will change once her little girl is born, but hearing her focus this major life event around dogs the way she does everything else is somehow reassuring.
“Okay, well, you go get on Pinterest so you can plan your new mom charcuterie,” I say, approaching the doors ofMile High Observer. “I’m almost to work.”
“Sounds good,” she says, already distracted by an employee speaking in the background. “Keep me posted on everything—and my offer still stands to chaperone you and Drew!”
Randall meets me at the reception desk as soon as I walk in, and my mood immediately falters. The full cup of coffee he puts in my hand does nothing to distract me from the grim look in his eyes.
“Caprice. Can we chat?”
My stomach drops further when he doesn’t even greet Rufus.
I bypass my desk, following him directly to his office, where he closes the door. For a moment, we just look at each other in silence.
“I got an anonymous call early this morning,” he says. “A woman who wanted to warn you that Colin Vanderpool isn’t the only guy behind Unmatched.”
I have the wherewithal to set the coffee on his desk before my butt hits one of the chairs. He takes in my facial expression and continues.
“She said there’s at least one more person she knows of.” He swallows. “And suggested you be very careful.”
My pulse roars through my ears. Randall’s mouth is still moving, but I don’t hear what he says. The room feels like it’s full of water. I can’t breathe. I manage a slow blink, but struggle to form words. Finally, I choke out one very stupid question.
“Who was it?”
He just looks at me. And if I could erase the look in his eyes permanently from my memory, I would, because it’s pure disappointment. He takes his seat behind the desk and runs ahand over his face. And somehow, this mortifies me enough to kick me back into action.
“Mimi Vanderpool never mentioned anyone else,” I say. “Never even hinted.”
“She might not have known.”
My boss’s lips are a thin line. He doesn’t even have to say what we’re both thinking.I should have checked.I took her at her word; I wasn’t careful. A rookie mistake when, as a woman of color, I have even less room for error than everyone else. And now I not only look like a fool, but I might have put myself at additional risk.
“Caprice?” Randall says from far away.
My face burns so hot I can’t bring myself to look at him. I pick up one of the stuffed toys he now leaves in his office for Rufus. This one’s a squeaky coffee cup with an idiotic smiling face.
“Told you I’d be better off as a barista.”
Randall lets out an impatient snort. “You know my opinion on latte art.”
My vision darkens. “Yeah. You said it would be a waste of my ‘talent.’ But now we know I never had any in the first place.” I hurl the stuffed toy across the room, where it bounces off a picture frame, knocking it askew. The heat instantly drains from my face as my actions catch up with my brain. “Sorry, that was?—”
