Page 12 of Drop the Mitts

André laughed out loud. “Yes, you’re practically geriatric.” He leaned against the car, his eyes sparkling as he watched her.

Grace swallowed hard. “While this has been a delight, I’m safely at my car.”

André ’s mouth quirked. “That you are. I apologize for keeping you out so far past your bedtime. Did you miss your nightly dose of Metamucil?”

Grace rolled her eyes. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” He straightened, then nodded once and sauntered off through the parking lot, keeping right to avoid the stream of cars waiting to exit. Grace slid into the driver’s seat, and it wasn’t until she set her bag down that she realized she was still wearing his coat.

Chapter

Four

Grace

Grace’s coffeemug sat on the desk in front of her. Full. It cooled in the ceramic mug that said, “None of your emails are finding me well”—a gift from her law school friend Alexis—while she stared at her laptop screen. No new messages from anyone but her regular contacts.

Grace drummed her fingers against the rim of the cup. The lawyer representing the birth mother still hadn’t responded. Over twenty-four hours. Which, fine. It was a legal matter, not a five-minute customer service request, and it was the weekend. But every hour of radio silence felt like a thousand.

She exhaled, finally lifting the cup to her lips and turning her focus back to work. She had a text from her assistant.

Sent you the contract notes. Let me know if you want to tweak the language before the call.

The text message blinked, but she could barely process it. Her brain felt like it was being dragged through molasses. She clicked into the document, scanning the flagged sections with the developer’s latest demands.

They wanted less liability, more loopholes, fewer guarantees. Classic. On a typical day, she could carve through this in ten minutes. Today, though?

Grace leaned back against the lumbar-supported office chair, blowing out a breath. What if this petition was legitimate? What if the birth mother had a case? She cycled between being pissed off that she hadn’t received any clarifying details and hopeful that the lack of information meant they were stalling.

Work. Right.

She spun in her chair and stretched, adjusting the waistband of her joggers. Normally she forced herself to dress for work even if she was remote. She couldn’t refute the research correlating productivity and uniforms, but that morning, she didn’t think a pencil skirt was going to magically lower her cortisol levels.

Grace stared up at the blank wall opposite her. She’d never meant to stay in Calgary long, but she was starting to regret not hanging something. Perhaps a canvas from Home Sense or a colour other than greige would’ve made her feel a little less desperate.

Her gaze flicked to the time on her laptop.

9:17 a.m., which meant it was 12:17 p.m. Eastern Standard.

Perfect. She tapped the call button before she could talk herself out of it. The phone barely rang twice before her mother answered.

“Well, hello, beautiful daughter of mine.”

Grace huffed a laugh. The sound of her mother’s voice was like a fluffy blanket in the middle of a snowstorm. “Hey, Mom.”

“What’s wrong?”

Grace blinked. “Who says something’s wrong?”

“You’re calling me in the middle of the day.”

“Maybe I just wanted to chat.”

Her mother hummed. ”Great, let’s chat.”

Grace pinched the bridge of her nose as her mind went blank. “Uh . . . okay. So there’s something wrong.”

“Spill.”

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