The Sister (The Boss 6)

She blanched. “Or one who’s like, ‘I know you just got your degree in nuclear psychology or whatever, but wait until you have a kid, that’s so much more fulfilling.’”

“I. Hate. That.” I punctuated each word with a slap on the table. “I posted a picture of Olivia on Facebook and wrote ‘love this little girl’. One of my friends from high school comments that she’s happy for me now that I ‘really’ know what love means, and she always knew I would change my mind.”

“Change your mind?” Holli frowned. “You didn’t choose to take care of Olivia.”

“I know!”

“People are ridiculous,” Holli said, taking a sip of her drink. “I really hope you don’t mind, though, if I ask you for advice all the time. I promise that’s not all our friendship is going to become.”

“I’m not worried about that at all.” The impact of our conversation finally hit me. “Oh, my god. You’re going to be a mom.”

Her face lit up. “I’m going to be a mom. I never in a million years thought I would say that.”

“I can’t wait to see what you dress her in.” There was no doubt in my mind that Holli would go absolutely berserk in the baby clothes store.

“Deja wants to find a little baby leather jacket.” Holli laughed then turned serious. “Don’t tell anybody, okay? Not even Neil. We don’t know if this is even going to work, and we don’t want to have to explain if…”

“If it doesn’t.” Our old office assistant—who’d married one of Neil’s friends and wormed her sunny, adorable way into our inner circle—had been pregnant and lost her baby, and it had been heartbreaking for her to tell us after it had happened. I could see why Holli wouldn’t want that same experience.

“Your secret is fully safe with me.” I crossed my heart. Then, I perked up. “Can you imagine how great Deja is going to be at maternity fashion?”

Holli laughed. “Leave it to you to focus on the really important stuff.”

****

That night, after Mariposa had put Olivia to bed and turned in, herself, Neil and I settled in on the sofa in the den and turned on the television.

“We are not watching that stupid vampire show.” He cradled my bare feet in his lap, holding them together in one big hand. Probably waiting for the perfect moment to hold me hostage with the promise of a foot rub. “Or any other show with a mildly paternal British father figure in it.”

“Okay, one, it’s not ‘that stupid vampire show’. Two, you will show Buffy the Vampire Slayer respect in this house. And three, you wish you could be as hot as Giles.” I sighed. “If you’re going to be Mr. Picky, you find something. Something that won’t threaten you as a man.”

“I am not threatened by men in tweed.” He lifted my feet out of his way to stand. “But you reminded me. I did find something.”

“Oh?” I put my feet flat on the couch cushion he’d just vacated. “Interest piqued. What is it?”

“I’ll show you.” He left me alone, and since I didn’t know how long he would be gone, I flipped through channels until he returned.

In his hand, he held something like a miniature rake, with very wobbly wire tines. There were long ones and short ones, all sprouting from a thin wooden handle. White plastic drops coated the tips, like the kind I loved to pull off hairbrushes.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” I said, hitting the power button on the television.

Neil beamed proudly at his weird find. “It’s a ‘massage tingler’. I found it at the health food store, and I thought it looked interesting.”

“So, it’s a massage tool?” I perked up at that. “Are you going to give me a massage?”

He sat beside me and said, “Give me your arm,” while he took hold of my wrist, anyway. He turned it palm-side up and trailed the metal tines over my skin.

“Holy—” I jerked my arm away, laughing. It was like being tickled. If tickling made you feel like you just had a strangely located orgasm.

“Isn’t it bizarre?” He did it again. “I thought you might like it.”

“I think I do?” I watched as he dragged it from my wrist to my inner elbow then lifted it and started all over. “I can’t tell if it’s tickling me, or…”

“Shall we test it, then?” he suggested, leaning forward to brush my ponytail away from my neck. He leaned in to kiss my neck and said low, “Stand up.”

My nipples tightened, making dark, obvious points against my pale pink T-shirt. I straightened it as I stood and turned to face him.

“Undress for me.”

I pulled my shirt over my head, baring my breasts. Sometimes, I wowed him with racy lingerie. Most of the time, it was just this. But even in my after-work “fuck it” clothes, he made me feel sexy. When I pushed my yoga pants down, my underwear went with them.