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“Yes, baby?” she asks.
“I’m hungry.”
Natalie sighs. “Jamie, I told you to eat your snack in the car on the way here. Your Lunchable remember?”
“I wasn’t hungry then,” he says.
“That was less than fifteen minutes ago, Jamie,” she says, and I swear there’s a hint of a mom tone in there.
Why do I find that hot?
“I don’t like Lunchables,” he grumbles.
“Since when?” she asks.
“Since you bought the turkey instead of the ham,” he says matter-of-factly, and I almost smirk.
But Natalie lets out an exasperated sigh. “What’s wrong with turkey?” she asks.
“I don’t know. It smells funny. And the cheese tastes like rubber.”
I have to stifle a chuckle at that. The kid’s not wrong.
“Jamie, I told you Mommy has to do this meeting, and if you’re good, we can–”
“I have cookies,” I state, and Natalie looks shocked.
“Cookies!?” Jamie exclaims with newfound energy.
“Cookies?” Natalie echoes.
I push my chair back and walk over to the minibar in the corner of the room. I reach into one of the cabinets and pull out a package of shortbread cookies and bring them back to the table.
“Since when are there shortbread cookies in the boardroom?” Natalie asks. Then she does a double take back to the corner. “Also, since when is there a bar?”
“Since I started working here,” I say, and I hold the cookies out near the edge of the table. A moment later, the smallest of hands reaches out, grabs them and disappears again.
“What do you say?” Natalie asks.
“Thank you,” he mumbles, already munching.
Natalie shakes her head, and I crack a small smile.
“Where were we?” I ask.
“Oh yes. Tuscany in the bunker,” she goes on, and for a while she’s rattling off about decor, vibes, Italian food, and raw bar. Bartenders aren’t necessary because they have two guests who are world-renowned mixologists that want “clout”, whatever that is. But they will need alcohol, and lots of it.
I am doing my best to listen, nod, and offer mmhmms when necessary, but I am having a hard time ignoring the fact that there is a four-year-old child under the table. Not just because it’s unorthodox in a business setting. But because he is Natalie’s, and because he has black hair and olive skin, and because he is four. I’m no mathematician, but a small part of me wonders, and it does add up.
“If they decide to take the party off land, which they most likely will, they’re going to want servers and hors d’oeuvres there as well. Most likely something very charcuterie-ish though, and perhaps just wine. What do you think?” she asks. I snap my attention back to her, and she smiles brightly at me, waiting for my approval.
“Is Jamie’s father in the picture?” I blurt out and there goes that smile. It’s instantly replaced by a look of horror and panic. She instantly looks under the table to make sure Jamie isn’t listening.
“I’ll take that as a no…” I say, and her eyes dart back up to me.
Jamie has headphones on and is clearly distracted, so I don’t really know what the problem is. But Natalie still lowers her voice.
“He is not,” she says.
