Mom insisted on staying home with me all afternoon while I rested. The longer I sat, the tighter my back and neck got. She sent me to bed over an hour ago with Ibuprofen and strict orders to rest up. Yet, I’m unable to relax enough to fall asleep. My mind keeps wandering back to work and whether Reid is managing without me today. I know that he’ll request a temp from another department to fill in during my absence, but the thought of someone else messing with my filing or scheduling system always leaves me feeling uneasy. It’s part of the reason why I never take days off.
What’s more cause of uneasiness is my thoughts that turn to Blake. I can imagine his rugged, handsome face as if I had met him yesterday. His large body and even larger erection showed me more pleasure and joy than I’ve ever experienced in my entire life. He was tender and rough, slow and fast. He set the bar so damn high, that no man will ever even come close to topping it. Not that I want anyone to try.
At six, Mom wakes me up from my afternoon nap. Apparently, I was able to calm my mind enough to nod off for a few hours. My body is still tense and getting up is quite the chore.
“The body shop called and is going to start your repairs. They want you to stop by in the morning and fill out their paperwork. They said it’ll be ready at the end of the week.”
“That’s good. I really don’t want to have to ask Reid to borrow one of his cars,” I tell my mom as I take a seat at my kitchen table next to Natalia’s highchair.
“Steven brought up a set of keys this afternoon, honey. He said he was advised to give you the Mercedes M-Class something or other. The keys are on the counter,” Mom says as she dishes up two bowls of soup from the stovetop.
“Chicken noodle?” I ask as my stomach growls loudly.
“Of course. It was what you always wanted when you were younger and didn’t feel good.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say as I take a drink of the warm, soothing broth. I feed Natalia in between bites of juicy chicken, happily watching as she smears sweet potatoes in her dark hair. Her green eyes are bright and shining like diamonds. It’s moments like these, where she’s happy and content, that I really see the image of her father within those green eyes. A ping of sadness hits me full force right between my breasts. I always feel it when I think of him. It’s a physical ache that doesn’t seem to be ebbing any.
Mom asked one time about Nat’s father. When I confessed that I was pregnant, she questioned me without judgment. Telling her that the father was someone I didn’t even know was the hardest part. I waited for the lectures, for the disappointment to settle in, but it never did. Mom just accepted my fate and has helped me every step of the way as best she can.
I’m thankful that Natalia drifts off to sleep easier tonight than she has since her birth. I hate to jinx myself by saying it out loud–let alone thinking it–but maybe this is the start of a new phase where she sleeps better at night. Fingers crossed.
I take more Ibuprofen before sliding underneath my warm, inviting blankets. The discomfort in my neck intensified as I hovered over Natalia while giving her a bath. If I never have to bend over again tonight, I’ll be a happy woman. As I slowly start to succumb to sleep, my mind fills with those deep green eyes. The ones that mirror the child I care for everyday.
Our night together may have happened over two years ago, but it’s a night I will carry with me for the rest of my life.
* * *
“Can I help you?” the man behind the counter asks.
“Yes, my name is Carly Mathewson. My Jaguar was brought in yesterday morning following an accident,” I tell the older gentleman.
“Oh, sure. I remember that one. It’s up on the lift right now. Fill this out,” he says, handing me a clipboard with a document attached. “I’ll go get the shop foreman and have him come up and explain everything to you,” he adds before exiting through the door behind the counter, the sound of impact drills and electric sanders filling the space.
I just finish signing my name when the door opens. “He’s unavailable right now, but I grabbed the technician who is working on your car,” the older gentleman says, leaving me alone with a guy in his mid-thirties. The tattoos he sports cover his neck and both arms with sinister skulls and images of death, but his eyes are warm and friendly as he smiles at me.
“Hey, I’m Gage. Your Jag isn’t in too bad of shape. You have an excellent, top of the line safety package on it and the reinforcements made to the bumper welds and framing is top notch. We’ll have to replace the cosmetic parts of the rear end and the bumper, smooth out the car, and repaint the entire rear end, but it should be ready for you by Friday.”