Page 62 of A Really Bad Idea

“Will you lower your voice?” I whisper-shout to her. These walls are thin.

She skips to her locker, opens it, and leans in. When she closes the door, she holds up a string of condoms.

I look toward the door to make sure no one is coming in. “You’re out of your mind.”

She puts them in my hand and grins. “Woman, listen. You have a gorgeous doctor who bought you a dress and is taking you to a gala at a Manhattan hotel. If he invites you up to his room and wants to ravage your body, you let him.”

I open my mouth to speak, to tell Angela she’s crazy and inappropriate, and that, if I were to have sex with a man, I would be more than prepared for the occasion. But I say nothing. The truth is, she might be wildly inappropriate, but she’s not crazy in the least. I blink at Angela, wondering if she has any idea just how close she is to the actual truth of what might happen after the gala.

And the other truth is, I’m nowhere near ready for a sexual encounter with a man. Let alone Christian.

The door to the break room opens, and Thomas comes in, giving us a friendly smile as he walks to the sink to wash his hands. Angela takes this as her cue to leave and get back to her desk.

It’s at this moment I realize that I’m holding a stack of condoms. Shit. I put my arm behind my back to hide the prophylactics. I don’t think he’s noticed them.

He has on his doctor’s coat and a gray tie. His hair is combed back, not looking like he spent the morning operating on patients and saving lives.

“Your mom looked good,” he states.

My shoulders relax at his statement. “She’s a force to be reckoned with.”

He laughs as he dries his hands. “You know what your mother said before we put her under?”

I tilt my head and wait.

“She told me that, if she dies, make sure George waits a mandatory five years before meeting someone else, and if he remarries, I’m to give them a twenty-four-by-thirty-six-inch oil canvas of her that must be hung over the mantel, above her ashes, so his new wife will have to look at me every time she walks out the front door.”

“That sounds like my mom.”

Thomas nods toward the flowers. “Those are pretty. Are they yours?”

“Christian sent them.”

He grins proudly as he just stands there, looking at me. I smile back at him. He looks away and then back, as if he wants to say something. He doesn’t.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve got a look about you. Kind of like … oh.” It dawns on me. We could only tell one person. I told Beth, and Christian told his dad. I clench the plastic package in my hand and point at him with the other. “You know.”

“I know.”

“We didn’t … you know. We haven’t—”

His hands rise in defense—or to shut me up. One or the other. “I don’t need details!”

I let out an exasperated sigh. “Good. Because I have none to give you. Even if I did, I wouldn’t … oh, this is awkward.”

With a hand on my forehead, I try to find the right words to let this man know that Christian and I have this under control. I can only imagine what this might look like to him—a family man who devoted his life to his wife and child. He must have opinions, criticisms—

“I think it’s a beautiful thing.”

His words shock me straight.

“You do?”

Thomas laughs, making his cleft chin, the one he gave to his son, dance with the smile. “I only have one son who is far more ambitious than I ever was. He’s all work and no future. The past few years, I’ve been trying to get him to settle down.”