Page 20 of Always Be My Baby

“Ready?” he asked, then he smacked a quick kiss to my forehead. A quick kiss? It used to be when Girard got me alone in this office, he turned our kisses into soft-core porn with the intensity of our make-out sessions.

“Yep,” I answered with a forced chirpy voice. He dropped down in the chair next to mine with his tablet and special pen to take notes on the tablet in hand.

I wished I could figure out the root of our problem so I could fix it. Did it have something to do with me getting rid of my apartment and officially changing my address? Because he was the one who insisted I ‘move in officially.’ Maybe it ended up being too much of a commitment? This right here… I said it. Bad idea. But would he listen?Nooo.

It won’t be too much, Lee.

We hardly see each other during the workday, Lee.

Right. Apparently one of us was right and he was wrong.

Head in the game. I needed to get my head in the game because no matter what, we still had work to get done. Important work. Time to shove all the other crap out of my mind and get down to it.Easier said than done, I thought and immediately berated myself. I hated when my inner Lee tried to appear sensible by giving unsolicited advice. Sometimes inner Lee was such a Negative Nancy. I could do this.

“I’m thinking that with the volume of customers… It’s even more than last year. We’re booked up tight in both dining rooms, so I think we should do the Prix Fixe menu again.”

“Agreed,” he answered.

“Two or three options per course?”

“That’ll work. For what we’re charging, I suggest going with the three.”

“It won’t be too much for the kitchen to handle?”

He chuckled. “No. The kitchen can tackle anything you throw at them. Not sure where that question is coming from. We’ve yet to drop the ball.”

“This is just an important service,” I said tightly.

“I’m aware,” he answered back, smiling.

Dammit. Stop smiling. I huffed out a hard, irritated breath because I wanted him in a shitty mood right along with me, but he wasn’t taking the bait. “I think we should do a prime rib, some sort of chicken and that teriyaki-glazed broccoli with those vegetable fritters.”

“That recipe you came up with?” he asked. “Sounds good.”

“Don’t you have an opinion? You always have an opinion.”

He shrugged. “We can make it fancy—I’m sure of it.”

“You don’t care what we serve?” Yes, I began to raise my voice. Why wasn’t he taking the bait?

“Let me get this straight,” Girard started. “You want Prix Fixe, I agreed. You told me the dishes you wanted to serve, and I agreed.”

“Yes,” I spat.

“I don’t understand the problem. You want to fight over menotfighting?”

“Apparently.”

“Right, so I’m going to presspausefor a minute, then.”

He stood from the chair, bent in to press a kiss to my cheek, then retreated into the kitchen.

Elbows to desk, I pressed the palms of my hands to my eyes and sighed one of those long, loud, frustrated sighs. The kind that came on because it was either that or cry, and I refused to cry. But at the same time, I didn’t want to bethatperson with Girard, the everything-bothered-me, picking-irrational-fights sort. I only wanted him to open up to me. Let me in on what was bothering him, whether he admitted to there being something or not.

A few moments later, I heard someone enter my office and looked up to see Girard back. He smiled again, handing off a mug of hot cocoa with espresso, marshmallows, and whipped cream.

My favorite.

“Thank you.” I had to choke back the urge to cry again, then took a sip.

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