Page 11 of Working For A Billionaire

“Good,” she nods.

“Any nausea?” I ask, mostly because I feel like it’s expected of me. But suddenly, a need to actually want to know the answer takes over. She is bearing the brunt of our mistake. I don’t want her to be in physical pain.

“Not today,” she shakes her head. “It’s been a pleasant two days.”

I chuckle. “Glad to hear that.”

“How was work?” she asks, closing the book.

An indication she wants to talk? I was just hoping to exchange a few words and then close myself in my study, hoping to actually do some work this time.

“Fine,” I say with a dismissive shrug. I don’t want to mention my mother’s visit. In fact, I don’t want to mention my mother at all.

She still doesn’t know about the baby, and I’d like to keep it that way. Some women are not meant to be mothers or grandmothers, and she is one of them. I know it sounds cruel, but the truth usually is. Not everyone can take it.

“The new assistant?” she wonders.

I know why she mentions her. She didn’t like the idea of not working for me anymore. And it took me an hour long conversation to convince her that because of her fainting spells, it’s not safe for her to work or be out of the house for too long. It’s for her own safety, as well as for the baby’s. When I said this, she finally agreed.

“Mrs. Thatcher?” I say her name. “She’s alright.”

“I feel bad just lying here, doing nothing,” she confesses, sounding sad. “I’m a burden.”

I sigh, walking over to her and sitting on the couch. “You’re not a burden. Your body is just… not adjusting easily to the pregnancy. The doctor said this should pass soon enough.”

“But you won’t get me my job back,” she pouts.

“No,” I admit.

“And Gloria does everything around here also, so what am I supposed to do?” She sounds like a spoiled child now.

“You take care of… the baby,” I say.

Saying our feels foreign. I can’t get it to roll off my tongue.

"As I already said, take it easy, Riley. “I don’t want to take any chances and Mrs. Thatcher can get a hold of me if you can’t get me on my cell for whatever."

"So, you're telling me to stay home and do nothing?"

I nod. "Yes, unless you feel up to something else. In this case, please call me first. Okay?"

"You want me to call you before leaving the house?"

"Exactly. I don't want you going anywhere alone. You have already fainted once. What if it happens again?'

"Well, I do want to go out for walks or something,” she tells me, and of course, she makes sense. “I can’t stay inside for days on end.”

“I’m not saying that you should stay inside all the time,” I clarify. “But because of your fainting spells or whatever it is they’re called, you should be careful. Imagine if you fell unconscious in the middle of the street and a car hit you?”

She doesn’t say anything to that. I don’t want her to think that I’m being possessive about her or anything like that. No. This is mere concern regarding her well-being. Hers and the baby’s, of course.

“Thank you,” she suddenly tells me, and I get the feeling that the conversation has taken a different direction.

“For what?” I ask, slightly confused.

“For this,” she gestures around her. “For allowing me to stay here with you, and for being so tentative.”

“That’s fine,” I reply a little awkwardly. I was never all that fluent in these conversations.

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