Executive Engagement

What my dick wants is irrelevant right now. I ought to thank her husband or boyfriend or whoever the fuck for the privilege of seeing her like that at all.

And then I ought to stay the fuck away from her—because if I let myself fantasize any harder about this Botticelli hottie, I won’t have any other choice but to steal her away from the poor schmuck.

Still, there’s no denying it…she’s going to be a hot mom.

And she’ll be needing a maternity doctor.

I figure that’s the final step of my apology. I pull out my prescription pad and scrawl her a quick note:

Sabrina—

Sorry for the laundry mishap earlier. If you need recommendations for a good doctor, feel free to drop by.

—Rainier, Apt. 21A

If I knew where to take the laundry, I’d bring it to her doorstep…but maybe that’s for the best.

Because then I wouldn’t just be tempted to talk to her again.

Then, I’d want to steal her away in the fucking night.

Her husband or boyfriend or whoever the fuck probably doesn’t deserve her anyway.

Christ.

I grab my own basket of clean clothes and head back up to my place.

But while the clothes might be clean…there are nothing but dirty thoughts about that gorgeous blonde goddess in my mind.

Sabrina

I’ve got the maternity pants in one hand and Rainier’s note in the other, a blush on my cheeks and a swear on my lips.

“FUCK.” I crumble the note up and shove it in my pocket. “Fuck, fucking fuck fuck fuckity…fuck.”

Which sums this situation up pretty fucking perfectly, if you ask me.

Look, I’m super not pregnant, okay? I’m like, the total opposite of pregnant. If I wasn’t late for work already, I’d head up to 21A and bang down the door to tell him so myself.

I’m like, the opposite of pregnant.

I could be the poster girl for not fucking pregnant.

But now that he’s folded my fucking maternity pants—not to mention my entire collection of La Perlas—fat fucking chance that he’ll believe that.

I know how it looks. Like, why the hell would a very-not-pregnant woman my age be rocking around with a pair of maternity pants in her dirty laundry, right?

Never mind that I only wear them when I’m on my period and totally bloated and need them to hold a hot water bottle in while I sit at my desk all night.

Try explaining that to a dude, and you’d hear fucking crickets, man.

Which is exactly what I would hear from Paging-Doctor-Hottie…if I even had the time.

Which I don’t.

“Fuck!” I yell again as I toss the laundry basket onto my bed.

I dig around in it for a clean shirt, pull it on and race out the door.