Page 63 of The Housemaid
“Nina?” he barks at me. “Could you bring in the Grady data?”
“Yes, sir, right away!”
I get on my computer and load up the files he wants, then I hit print. It’s about fifty pages’ worth of data, and I sit there, tapping my toes against the ground, watching the printer spit out each page. When the final page finishes printing, I yank out the sheets of paper and hurry over to his office.
I crack open the door. “Mr. Lynch, sir?”
“Come in, Nina.”
I let the door swing the rest of the way open. Right away, I notice both men are staring at me. And not in that appreciative way I used to get at bars before I got knocked up and my whole life changed. They’re looking at me like I’ve got a giant spider hanging off my hair and I don’t even know it. I’m about to ask them what the hell both of them are staring at when I look down and figure it out.
I leaked.
And I didn’t just leak—I squirted milk out like the office cow. There are two huge circles around each of my nipples, and a few droplets of milk are trickling down my blouse. I want to crawl under a desk and die.
“Nina!” Stewart cries. “Get yourself cleaned up!”
“Right,” I say quickly. “I…I’m so sorry. I…”
I drop the papers on Stewart’s desk and hurry out of the office as fast as I can. I grab my coat to hide my blouse, all the while blinking back tears. I’m not even sure what I’m more upset about. The fact that my boss’s boss’s boss saw me lactating or all the milk I just wasted.
I take my pump to the bathroom, plug it in, and relieve the pressure in my breasts. Despite my embarrassment, it feelssogood to empty all that milk. Maybe better than sex. Not that I remember what sex feels like—the last time was that stupid, stupid one-night stand that got me into this situation to begin with. I fill two entire five-ounce bottles and stick them in my bag with an ice pack. I’ll put it in the refrigerator until it’s time to go home. Right now, I’ve got to get back to my desk. And leave my coat on for the rest of the afternoon, because I have recently discovered that even if it dries, milk leaves a stain.
When I crack open the door to the bathroom, I’m shocked to see someone standing there. And not just anyone. It’s Andrew Winchester. My boss’s boss’s boss. His fist is raised in the air, poised to knock on the door. His eyes widen when he sees me.
“Uh, hi?” I say. “The men’s room is, um, over there.”
I feel stupid saying that. I mean, this ishiscompany. Also, there’s a stencil of a woman with a dress on the door to the bathroom. He should realize this is the women’s room.
“Actually,” he says, “I was looking for you.”
“For me?”
He nods. “I wanted to see if you were okay.”
“I’m fine.” I try to smile, hiding my humiliation from earlier. “It’s just milk.”
“I know, but…” He frowns. “Stewart was a jerk to you. That was unacceptable.”
“Yeah, well…” I’m tempted to tell him of a hundred other instances when Stewart was a jerk to me. But it’s a bad idea to talk shit about my boss. “It’s fine. Anyway, I was just about to grab some lunch, so…”
“Me too.” He arches an eyebrow. “Care to join me?”
Of course I say yes. Even if he wasn’t my boss’s boss’s boss, I would’ve said yes. He’s gorgeous, for starters. I love his smile—the crinkling around his eyes and the hint of a cleft in his chin. But it’s not like he’s asking me out on a date. He just feels bad because of what happened before in Stewart’s office. Probably someone from HR told him to do it to smooth things over.
I follow Andrew Winchester downstairs to the lobby of the building that he owns. I assume he’s going to take me to one of the many fancy restaurants in the neighborhood, so I’m shocked when he leads me over to the hotdog cart right outside the building and joins the line.
“Best hotdogs in the city.” He winks at me. “What do you like on yours?”
“Um…mustard, I guess?”
When we get to the front of the line, he orders two hotdogs, both with mustard, and two bottles of water. He hands me a hotdog and a bottle of water, and he leads me to a brownstone down the block. He sits on the steps and I join him. It’s almost comical—this handsome man sitting on the steps of the brownstone in his expensive suit, holding a hotdog covered in mustard.
“Thank you for the hotdog, Mr. Winchester,” I say.
“Andy,” he corrects me.
“Andy,” I repeat. I take a bite of my hotdog. It’s pretty good. Best in the city? I’m not so sure about that. I mean, it’s bread and mystery meat.
