Baby Makes Three

As soon as I saw him waiting, hands tucked into the pockets of a sleek black slim-fit suit, face illuminated in the glow of a street lamp, I realized that it was, indeed, a date.

And I was screwed.

Caleb reserved a table for us in a dimly-lit corner of the NoMad Hotel’s restaurant. The restaurant was full of the chatter of fellow diners, but our little corner felt blissfully private. I was the sole object of Caleb’s attention.

And sitting there, under the intense scrutiny of his gaze, the memory that I had tried so hard to suppress all week -- the memory of our kiss -- was suddenly on the forefront of my mind.

“Are you nervous?” he asked me after the waiter pours our champagne and scurries away.

“Not at all, Mr. Preston,” I fibbed, hoping he doesn’t see the way my heart was pounding furiously against my rib cage.

“I insist you call me Caleb,” he said, almost sternly.

“Mr. Preston,” I repeated stubbornly, intent on holding my own in this conversation. “I prefer to keep things professional with the parents of my students.”

“Miss Wright,” Caleb said, trying out my name and smiling, like he was savoring the taste of it on his tongue. “Let’s drop this charade. We wouldn’t be sitting here if we hadn’t already crossed that line.”

“That was a mistake,” my cheeks turned hot pink. “A lapse of judgement.”

“Was it?” Caleb asked, raising a doubtful eyebrow. “The way your heart’s about to burst through your blouse suggests otherwise.”

I flicked my eyes down to the low neckline of my black silk blouse, an item I borrowed from Raven’s closet when my own wardrobe failed to provide anything suitable for my not-a-date with Caleb.

He took a coy sip of champagne, reveling in watching my nerves simmer.

“Why did you agree to meet me tonight?”

“I was under the impression that we could clear the air, Mr. Preston, share a professional meal and discuss how this transition is going to impact Emmy’s performance at Bellamy.”

I hated the sound of those words as they came out of my mouth. It was the same kind of canned, generic phrasing that the administration at Bellamy just loved to use when discussing a “problem child.” I hated that kind of talk, and it was obvious from the disdain on Caleb’s face that he hated it too.

“Drop the act, Daisy,” Caleb said sharply. “If I wanted a parent-teacher conference, I would have barged into the headmaster’s office already. We both know that I’m not here to play the role of whiney Upper East Side parent, alongside the fact that you’re not here to play the mousy little teacher.”

I gulped on my champagne, forcing myself to swallow and breathe. If anyone else spoke to me that way, I’d be furious. Growing up in Brooklyn, I learned early on to stand my ground. But I did not feel an ounce of anger then, simmering in the heat of Caleb’s stare. I felt wildly turned on, like my entire body was engulfed in the energy between us. And while every instinct I had told me to resist, my brain could not stop my panties from growing wetter or my heart from hammering harder.

Caleb Preston was different tonight. This was not the same Caleb that sat in my office a few days ago, or the one that served Ramen noodles and watched a Disney movie with his niece. He was in his element. Powerful.

“So why are we here?” I asked, forcing myself to match the intensity of his tone.

“You already know the answer to that, too.” He moistened his lips with a quick flick of his tongue, and I remembered how he tasted that night.

“You should know that I don’t date,” I said firmly.

“Good,” he smiled. “Neither do I.”

“And I don’t do,” I paused, struggling to find the right word, before finally settling on, “whatever this is.”

“This is just dinner,” Caleb said, flashing an innocent smile.

Before I had a chance to protest, the waiter intruded to take our order. I hadn’t even opened my menu yet, but Caleb ordered for us both, and my mind was racing with so many flustered, conflicting thoughts that I barely listened as he did.

“I’m surprised that you picked this place.”

“Why?” Even with one word, one syllable, his voice had a way of challenging me. Issuing an unspoken dare. He had made his point loud and clear. We were on his territory now, and he was the one in charge.

“It’s a hotel,” I said, taking a sip of champagne and making a mental note to pace myself. My body already feels drunk on Caleb’s presence. I did not need my head to go, too.

“Isn’t a hotel the perfect place for a d-” he paused, for dramatic effect, eyeing me coyly before finishing: “Dinner?”