Hard No: Secret Baby Enemies to Lovers Romance

by Hazel Parker

  “Can I offer you a drink for the road?” I ask her. “A toast to your safe travels as you depart?”

  She moves past me and makes a drink for herself and another one for me.

  “Cheers,” she salutes, clinking her glass against mine and drinking. I merely hold my glass and stare at her.

  “Jamie, why are you here?”

  “I told you—”

  “No, I know that. I mean, why did you feel compelled to drop by and say hello to me? Did it not occur to you that you might be very far down on the list of people I would like to see at the moment?”

  “You’re not still mad that I let it slip about your little kitchen switcheroo, are you?” she asks, sipping her drink.

  “Things would have been fine if you hadn’t butted in,” I tell her.

  “Oh? So what’s worse—that you did what you did or that you’re able to say you almost got away with it?”

  I start to reply, but then stop. The damnable thing is, she’s right. The enormity of my mistake is still becoming clear to me.

  “Don’t feel too bad,” Jamie says. “You were only doing what you know. It was just another case of wheeling and dealing.”

  Okay, that’s something I can be angry about. “You don’t know anything about me, other than what you hear on the gossip hotline and what little you learned during our three dates, which, if you don’t remember, weren’t exactly heavy with deep conversation.”

  She seats herself on one of the white couches and stares off through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the London night sky.

  “So,” I say, “one more time, Jamie—why are you here?”

  She shrugs. “Maybe I feel shortchanged. After all, our third date was cut short when your cook almost burned the whole place to the ground.” She looks at me. “You don’t think conversation with you is difficult? Look at who you are, the kind of settings you put yourself in. It’s not exactly conducive to small talk.”

  Steph managed just fine, I almost say, but don’t. I’m getting the impression that I shouldn’t give Jamie anything that she might be able to use as ammunition against me.

  “So if conversation is so hard, then why come looking for me?” I say instead.

  She crosses her legs and looks at me frankly. “Often,” she says, “actions speak louder than words. That’s one of the things you learn in my line of work.”

  She toys with the top button on her blouse, looking me in the eye the whole time. I can see the upper portion of her chest above the dark fabric, and her skin is lightly tanned. I am somehow sure that she is tanned all over. I am also suddenly aware that she is not wearing a bra.

  “We don’t have to discuss philosophy to enjoy each other’s company, do we?” she asks, and that button on her blouse comes undone. Her fingers drop to the next one. “And talking politics is overrated, I think.”

  Before I know it, the front of her blouse is open. She stands and shrugs out of it, now nude to the waist. She is a study in cosmetic and surgical perfection, like a beautiful mannequin brought to life. This living mannequin regards me with her green eyes and smiles, unsnapping and then unzipping her jeans.

  “Jamie—”

  “Shh,” she says softly. “Talking doesn’t work for us, remember? We have to find other ways to fill the time.”

  She kicks off her shoes and is out of her pants in a few yoga-like motions to stand before me, completely naked.

  “Now,” she says, holding out her thin arms. “Your turn.”

  A long moment goes by.

  “Yes,” I say, “It is.”

  I close the door behind myself on my way out.

  Even though the public pubs shut down at eleven o’clock, hotels like mine have taken full advantage of the loophole application that allows their on-premises bars to be open twenty-four hours a day. Thus, I’m able to find exactly what I’m looking for just off the hotel’s main lobby—an open pub that looks deserted.

  The bartender is a small young woman with red hair, Molly, according to her name badge. She greets me courteously and takes my order, just as courteously not inquiring what I was doing up and having a drink at this late hour.

  I wonder how long it will take before Jamie leaves. Probably not long. In my experience, fury lends a woman an uncanny speed. For now, though, I will just stay here in the hotel bar with my thoughts for a while.

  Jamie’s visit, as jarring as it has been, hasn’t been a throwaway experience for me. It helped to shine more light on what I had done wrong to botch things so badly between Steph and myself.

  I guess it could be said that my heart had been in the right place, but also that my head hadn’t thought it all the way through.

  My heart. Where had it been then, and where was it now?

  Now, here, between one sip of bourbon and the next, I realize where my heart is in this present moment.

  I think I love Steph.

  I had wanted to do anything in my power to help her, and that had led me to grossly overstep my bounds. Everything she had said had been true.

  But I loved her then, and I love her now. The question is, is that enough to sponge away the stain of my mistake?

  Only one way to find out.

  I reach for my phone. It isn’t there. Then I remember setting it down on the coffee table back up in my suite just before Jamie turned up. It must still be there. Hopefully, the same could not be said about her.

  “Molly?” I say to the bartender. “Is there any way I could borrow the house telephone to use for a few minutes?”

  “Of course, sir,” she replies. “Just a moment.”

  She places the phone on the bar between us. I have stared at my own so much over the past couple of weeks that I have the number I need committed to memory. I dial it with surety.

  It rings several times before going to voice mail. Damn. Is she working? Sleeping? Just not taking any calls?

  I try again, with the same result. I do not leave a voice message. I will not settle for anything less than talking with her at this point.

  I look at my watch. It is ridiculously late. Although Molly seems perfectly happy to be there and serving me, I myself feel almost completely wiped out. It’s time to return to my suite and hope that I’ll be coming back to an empty set of rooms.

  I am not disappointed. There is no overturned furniture, no angry message in lipstick written on the mirror in the hallway. Jamie is just gone.

  Well, at least there’s that, I think. That could have ended up so much worse than it has.

  My phone is on the bar. I briefly consider calling Steph again. After all, she might not have picked up earlier because I was calling from a strange number. But it’s getting pretty late on her end. I am almost brain-fried from the events of this evening. I will call her first thing in the morning, the Chicago morning.

  I have a long, hot shower to allow my exhausted body to concede defeat along with my mind and then fall into bed, where I sleep like a dead man.

  When I finally wake, it is full daylight. The rarity that is the London sunshine is streaming in through the windows. I look at the bedside clock. It’s already after noon. Perhaps I can still catch Steph before she gets busy with her morning work.

  I go out to the living room and take up my phone from the bar. When I bring up the call feature, I see that my last exchange was an incoming call from Steph the night before. I had missed it, obviously, when I was down in the hotel’s pub, waiting for Jamie to get fed up and leave.

  At first, I take this as a strongly encouraging sign—Steph had called me. She wanted to talk.

  Then I realize that my phone doesn’t register the call as having been a missed one. It had been received, and not by me. I check the time stamp. After it had been picked up, the call lasted ten seconds.

  Jamie had answered my phone, of course. What had she said to Steph in those ten seconds? I don’t know, but I am sure the words were bound to have had sharp points on them.

  Fuck, I think. Why hadn’t I just closed the door
in her face when she turned up last night? There’s no telling what kind of trouble she’s caused now.

  I hit the callback button, and it rings over to voicemail again. Not a good sign. She can tell it’s me this time, so there’s a good chance that she’s just not picking up.

  I am painfully aware that I am on the other side of the Atlantic at the moment. It’s not like I can just swing by her place and ask her if she wants to have a coffee and talk things through.

  In spite of my thoroughness, I still have a few appointments scheduled over the next couple of days. I loathe canceling business appointments. After much calling and apologizing, though, I reschedule all of them to one long series of sessions tomorrow.

  I will leave London immediately after and go back to America.

  I’m pacing the room, impatient for tomorrow, when my phone rings, an incoming international call.

  It’s Curtis. He speaks. I listen. Close my eyes. Hang up.

  It’s time to go home.

  Chapter 25 - Steph

  “So are you sure it was her?” Tira asks.

  “It was her, all right,” I reply tiredly. I’m sitting cross-legged on my couch, hugging one of the throw pillows to me with one hand and holding my phone with the other.

  “And what, exactly, did she say?” she demands.

  I take a deep breath. “She said that Trent was busy and couldn’t come to the phone. Then she hung up on me. That’s it.”

  “That bitch,” Tira snarls. “That reedy little, glossy-paged bitch. I’ll break her in half if I ever see her.”

  I smile a little at that, both because of Tira’s protectiveness and because it’s a pretty attractive image.

  “I can’t believe that Trent would get mixed up with that woman, though,” she goes on.

  “Why else would she be there, answering his phone?” I ask.

  “I still can’t believe it.”

  “Disbelieving in something doesn’t necessarily make it not true.”

  “Fortune-cookie wisdom,” she says. “I’m being serious.”

  “So am I.”

  “You really believe he was tangled up with her when you called?”

  I sigh. “I don’t know what to think, T.”

  “Exactly. You shouldn’t be thinking at all after all you’ve been through today. You should have your brain off the hook! Look at everything tomorrow with clear eyes.”

  “Good advice. Tough to do when you’ve just found out you’re going to be growing another human being inside you.”

  She pauses. “Does that mean—”

  “Yes,” I answer.

  Tira squeals. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m just so excited for you! You have to let me throw you a baby shower! I’ve never given a baby shower before.”

  “That’s okay,” I reply. “I’ve never had a baby shower before. But don’t rush. You’ve got plenty of time. I have plenty of other things to keep me occupied for the time being.”

  “Oh, right. Of course you do. What are you going to do? I mean, about work and all?”

  “I don’t know. For now, I’m going to keep going in, the same as always.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea? You hit the kitchens pretty hard.”

  “I can handle it. The little I’ve read up on it says that I can keep to my normal routine as long as I feel good.”

  “Most people could keep to their normal routine,” she counters. “Your routine would burn out most normal people, though. I just want you to be careful. Remember, you’re cooking for two now.”

  “For now, I need to stick to my routine,” I tell her. “I need a good routine, so my mind doesn’t wander to…other things.”

  I know that this last statement was a laugh. My mind is going to be all over the place. I have no idea how I’m ever going to be able to get to sleep tonight. I figure that the only way to go is total sensory deprivation. I turn off my phone, draw the curtains, turn off all the lights and crawl into bed in the silent pitch blackness.

  It takes a long time, with my brain hopping around like a monkey on a tree branch, but eventually, sleep comes.

  My first-restaurant assistant Andy has some good ideas for me when I clock in this morning. A sane person would trust his judgment and give his suggestions some serious consideration. He is even at the point now where he could implement these things on his own.

  It’s a matter of micromanaging. I’ve always been guilty of it, even when I only had one restaurant. Especially when I only had one restaurant, Andy would be the first to remind me. I really should let go of some of the creative control to my support staff. They’re all at the top of their games and can clearly keep things running smoothly when I’m not around.

  Part of me says that this is because I have everything laid out for them, down to the position of the forks on the tables. Another part of me says that this is crazy talk and I need to relax. A new part of me isn’t saying anything yet, but it will be eventually. Oh, yes, it will have a very large say in how I have to do things. The question will be how well I can handle that.

  So far, the morning sickness, which had begun only two weeks after my first missed period, hadn’t been too bad, mostly a mild queasiness that I could just grit my teeth and ignore. The unusual tiredness, though—that could rapidly become a real problem in my line of work. Also figure in that my mobility would only begin to decline as time went on, and you can see that I have a lot weighing on my mind.

  At least I hadn’t developed any weird food aversions; thank god for that. Imagine if I suddenly couldn’t stomach being around cooking vegetables or meats!

  As it is, this morning, I’m doing all right. I’m at the cutting board, rapidly dicing up onions, when all of a sudden, I feel like crying. It’s not the onion—we chefs know how to prepare one of those without falling prey to its tear-jerking effects. I am just suddenly overwhelmed by sadness. I put down the knife as my eyes get blurry.

  “Hey, boss,” Andy says, concerned. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” I tell him, taking a deep, shuddery breath. “I’m fine.”

  “Well, you look as white as a sheet,” he declares, still looking worried.

  “I’ll be fine,” I say, “how about that?”

  “Okay,” he answers grudgingly. “But if you need to step out for a minute or two—”

  “I don’t.” I take up my knife again and get back to work. “I’m all right now. Just a passing case of the weirds.”

  He looks at me doubtfully but goes back to his own work.

  I haven’t told Andy or anyone else in any of my restaurants what’s going on. So far, Tira is the only one who knows, and I feel like keeping it that way for a while. I don’t want to be treated any differently by anyone in my place of work.

  But you are different, my interior voice insists, and you’re only going to get more different from here on out!

  For today, though, I have a handle on things. The sadness passes, and I feel better. No, better than better—I feel terrific. I even start to hum to myself as I move on to the next onion.

  Now Andy’s really looking at me curiously. I’m always almost completely silent when I’m working, focusing solely on the task at hand. I don’t have sidebar conversations, I don’t whistle, and I don’t hum.

  I knock it off, and Andy, after watching me for another few beats, gives a little shrug and goes back to what he was doing.

  Why don’t you just start chain-eating pickles, I think. Really spell it out for everyone that you’re pregnant!

  I begin to seriously wonder how long I can keep my “condition” under wraps when my phone begins ringing.

  I look over at Andy, who gives his, “All’s good over here,” wave. I put down my knife again and answer the phone. When I pull it from my pocket, I have a brief moment of excitement, believing for some reason that it’s Trent calling from England.

  He’ll have a good explanation for what Jamie was doing answering his phone last night. It’ll be something simple, something so
oh-so-that’s-it simple that we’ll both be able to laugh about it and then we can start talking about other things—

  But it isn’t Trent. It’s Daniel, calling from restaurant number three. My internal caution light immediately switches on. Daniel would never call me when I was working somewhere else unless it was an emergency. It was like an unwritten law—you do not interrupt Stephanie when she’s cooking off-site.

  I thumb the answer button, thinking the worst. He’s hurt himself, badly, or someone else has. There’s been an accident. A customer has choked or had a heart attack or something.

  Daniel comes on the line, talking fast. I listen to him. I shut my eyes and have to steady myself with my free hand as the world becomes slightly gray around the edges.

  Don’t you faint, I tell myself. Don’t you dare faint. You’ve got things to do, and none of them include passing out onto the floor of your own kitchen!

  Now Andy is at my side. He has me under the elbow, and I’m appalled at how much I’m having to rely on him to hold me up.

  “Boss—” he says, but that’s as far as he gets.

  I don’t slap myself to clear the cobwebs, but it’s a close thing. Blinking hard, I tell Andy to hold down the fort; I have to go. He assures me that everything will be like clockwork, and I beat feet out of there.

  There’s never a cab around when you really need one, and I’ve struck out on foot after spending a few futile minutes trying to hail a ride. Every now and then, one will pass by and I will wave frantically at it, only to see it already has passengers and have it keep going.

  Finally, though, one does stop. I give the driver the destination and beg him not to spare the horsepower. The tires squeal a bit as the car moves quickly back out onto the roadway.

  As we go along, I feel sick in the pit of my stomach again, only this time it has nothing to do with a baby. We are getting close to the restaurant when I can begin to hear the faint whine of the sirens.

  Closer still, and I can make out the flash of red lights. A block away, and I can smell the smoke.

  My restaurant is in flames. The firefighters have trained their hoses on the shattered windows flanking either side of the front door and are jetting however many thousands of gallons of water in through the ragged holes in the glass. Black smoke is billowing out the windows and door, which has been knocked off its hinges.