Pregnant By The CEO

I'll never come back here, but I'm not finished with Casey Henderson. Not even a little bit.

7

Casey

I'm completely discombobulated at work today. Somehow, I arrived on time so my body’s here, but my mind is elsewhere. Honestly I could've stayed in bed all day today.

From the moment I got home last night, I've been going over and over the events of yesterday afternoon in my head on non-stop repeat. It was unlike anything I've experienced before.

Pierce Lane was just so commanding. From the way he charged down the sidewalk like a football player to the confidence with which he ordered his espresso, the man dripped self-assurance. How can a male like him be so hurt by something as small as my little advice column? I can’t imagine this is the first time he’s ruffled some feathers and got called out for his behavior.

But maybe it is. Maybe the mighty Pierce Lane has always been surrounded by yes men and never gotten the truth from anybody. Maybe he sorely needs a dose of straight talk, and I was the first woman to give it to him. But then again, this man is infuriating. The way he looked across the table at me when he told me the outrageous price of that bracelet sticks in my head. He had a bit of a smirk on his face with those bold blue eyes staring right into my own. And yet, I swore I could see a hint of something else behind the arrogance. Something softer and more vulnerable. There was a searching, sheepish flicker behind that intense gaze, and I suddenly realized what it was: He wanted my approval.

Of course, that’s ridiculous. Come on, Casey. He’s angry because he didn’t like what I said about him. He doesn’t care who said it or that it was me. He just can’t deal with his fragile little ego taking any blows, much less from a woman.

My God, I need to clear my head. Why am I still thinking about this selfish, pompous man?

With a huff, I open my emails and start reading through my latest arrival of letters. My first email is from a woman who is desperately in love with her professor. She thinks that he likes her too but she isn’t sure if it’s appropriate.

Sigh. We get stories like this all the time, believe it or not. The taboo romance theme is quite common these days, and I jot down a few notes on what I’ll say to her.

I open the next letter. This one’s from a man. He met a woman on vacation and never learned her last name, despite falling madly in love and having three free-wheeling days in paradise together.

I roll my eyes and delete that one. This is an advice column, not a missed connections page. Go to Craigslist for that one.

In another email, a father says that he’s worried that his son is falling too hard and too fast for a girl he just met. I star that one, knowing those types of stories tend to do well with our readers. An empathetic but progressive answer to a question like this is what my readers love about me.

Drawing my brows together, I try to respond to the father’s letter, but everything I write sounds glib and cliched. What happened to my sharp wit and compassionate voice? To warm myself up, I try and jot some notes down, but nothing comes out.

Damnit. Frustrated, I get up and clomp into the office kitchen for a cup of coffee. The little room is empty for once, which is nice. I feel so disconnected, and small talk feels like a big undertaking at the moment.

I sit at the table under the flicker of fluorescent lights, just staring at the flat surface of the table. For a minute, I see spots dancing, but then I pull myself up and head over to the counter. Of course, the sink is full of dishes. Normally, that makes me angry. Sometimes on a cold winter morning, the sight of those dirty dishes can make me feel physically ill because it’s just disgusting. Why don’t my co-workers clean up after themselves? It’s not our janitorial staff’s job to wash personal dishes, so the entitlement is misplaced.

But I let it go. There’s no sense in letting myself get tied up in a knot over this, and instead I do the dishes myself. A little bit of busy work might be just what I need.

I fill the sink with hot soapy water. I throw all the dishes in to soak, taking satisfaction in watching the empty glasses gurgle and sink to the bottom before attacking them in a frenzy. Then I make coffee, watching as the coffee percolates. The machine beeps loudly, and I pour myself a steaming mug before sitting down at the lonely kitchen table once more.