With my last strength, I picked up the phone and texted Devon.
Belle: I know you said you want to be more involved. I’m thinking of booking an appointment with my OB-GYN.
Devon: ?
Belle: I can’t be farther than two feet from the bathroom at all times.
Devon: number 1 or 2?
Belle: three.
Belle: （puking）。
Devon: I’ll have Joanne book an appointment and send a cab for you.
Ah, his trusted secretary. Because when he said he wanted to get involved, what he really meant was he wanted to control me until I produced him a healthy, chubby baby.
Belle: it’s fine. I can do it myself.
Devon: keep me posted.
Belle: screw you.
But I didn’t actually send that last message. It reeked of emotions, and I didn’t do those.
Simmering in a pool of self-pity, I dragged my feet across my shoebox apartment, glancing dejectedly at the place and wondering where in the world I was going to fit an entire baby. The baby itself wouldn’t take too much space, but her stuff would need a room.
And babies this day and age had all sorts of stuff.
My sister and all my friends had kids, and their toys and furniture needed acres of land. Cribs, changing tables, dressers, highchairs, bassinets, toys. The list was never-ending, and I was currently struggling to find a place for my coffee cups.
Too exhausted to figure out the accommodations, I spent the first half of the day binge-watching true crime documentaries on Netflix （because nothing screams a nurturing mother-to-be like following the chronicles of a serial killer）。 A knock on the door jolted me.
I groaned, flinging my feet off the couch. I threw my door open, only realizing I should’ve asked who it was when the memory of my trip to the Boston Common and my stalker resurfaced.
Well, crap in a basket.
I’d been meaning to call Sam Brennan and ask him what he charges these days for a bodyguard to protect a bitch, but my pregnancy brain fog took over my life. Besides, things had been calm the last few days.
“Sweven?” A pimply guy in an upscale chain store uniform smiled at me, holding approximately a gazillion brown bags.
Phew. Not a serial killer.
“I seem to be answering to that nickname recently, yeah.” I looked left and right to make sure he was alone and didn’t happen to have a serial killer with him.
“I have a delivery for you. Clean juices, exotic fruit baskets, and ready-made meals for a week by OrganicU. Where should I put this?”
I motioned with my head toward the kitchen, leading the way.
My baby daddy was a prick, but at least he was a considerate one.
I got to work looking like I’d been dragged there by an angry beaver. Bloodshot eyes, knotty hair haphazardly gathered in a bun, and a dress I lovingly referred to as The Period Dress. For a reason.
Ambling into the club, I noticed Ross was standing with three people I did not recognize. My heart immediately jerked in my chest. I wasn’t a fan of strangers, in general, but especially after the incidents with the strange man at my club and the other man who’d chased me in the Common.
“Oh good. Sleeping beauty’s here.” Ross turned to beam at me, handing me my coffee. I placed it on the bar, the mere scent of it making me want to throw up every slice of pizza I’d ever consumed in my lifetime.
“I’m only three minutes late.” I dropped my clutch on the counter and not so gracefully plopped into a seat. “No offense, but, um, who the hell are these people?”
“Your new employees, hired by a third party. Charming, right?”
That third party, I guessed, was Devon Whitehall. The man who managed to be a helicopter parent before the baby was actually born.
The first employee was Morgan, a vertically-challenged spitfire with pixie hair, a nose ring, and enough attitude to light up Vegas. She introduced herself as a certified mixologist with five years’ experience at Troy and Sparrow Brennan’s Michelin-starred restaurant and explained to me assertively that she was specifically hired to work double shifts.
The second was Alice, a forty-something-year-old with twenty years of experience running a bar in New York. Alice’s rough hands implied she was well-versed in throwing creepers and troublemakers out of bars if need be.
The third employee was a man named Simon Diamond （stage name, anyone?）， who was approximately the size of a RAM truck. Simon eyed me the entire time like I was a prisoner he needed to keep from running away. When I asked about his work background, he offered a half-baked explanation. “Was a bouncer for a decade.”
“Oh. We don’t need any more bouncers.” I smiled politely, already planning to have Ross and Morgan teach him how to make cocktails.