Frosting Her Christmas Cookies - Alina Jacobs Page 0,131
I project, you could be looking at being in the big leagues in the next few years.”
I did my own mental math. She was getting a much bigger percentage than I was. “So could you,” I said.
She smirked. “Nothing like being a girl boss.”
I signed all the papers. As Belle placed them back in the folder, I shifted my weight restlessly.
“Need something else?” she asked. A knowing smile played on her face as if she knew what I wanted.
“What am I going to do about Morticia?”
Belle was thoughtful. “I’m going to be offering her some consulting work on the Hamilton Yards project in the New Year. Hopefully you will at least make a very sincere apology, since I assume we will all be working together in some capacity.”
“I need ideas,” I begged, trailing her out the door.
“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” she replied.
Fuck.
I paced around the condo. The clock was ticking. What could I do to tell Morticia I was sorry? I needed to assure her that I knew what I had done was wrong. I flipped through my phone to look at the pictures I had of her. I stopped on the last one we had taken of the two of us out in the snow. She had called it the minimalist portrait. I missed her.
I wanted to tell her I loved her—to write it out in the snow and take her up in a helicopter to look down on the words. However, she would probably see any declarations as being devious and underhanded.
Could I buy her a condo? Send her to Paris for Christmas? Whether she would even want to hear from me was the bigger question.
I checked my phone. She had not responded to my text. “She probably blocked you,” I told myself.
That meant whatever my grand gesture was, it had better be good. I needed to think.
I strapped Cindy Lou into her harness and took her outside. The cat was batting at snowflakes as they drifted down out of the sky. It was going to be a white Christmas. But I didn’t feel the holiday spirit.
What did Morticia want? She liked art. She was mad about the development. I had an idea bouncing in my head. I needed to refine it, though, and consult with Dorothy. Once I had my idea finalized, I would write a heartfelt note and have it delivered to Morticia on nice paper. Except my handwriting wasn’t pretty.
“Can you pay people to write calligraphy?” I took out my phone to check and saw that Morticia had written to me.
While I was trying to decipher the text, a car roared in the distance. It sounded like one of Owen’s fancy sports cars. But when the silver McLaren pulled up at the sidewalk, Morticia staggered out.
71
Morticia
“Hold on,” I told Jonathan, “I think I might puke.”
The driver’s-side window rolled down. “I’m not a bad driver!” Holly yelled out.
“You’re a terrible driver!” Lilith shot back.
I let them argue as I turned my attention to Jonathan. He was blinking at me in the snow.
“Did you get my messages?” I asked.
He nodded. He seemed dumbfounded. “I’m sorry, Morticia,” he said in a rush. “I was planning on having a whole presentation ready and making a grand gesture.”
“Do you need me to come back later?” I asked tentatively.
He shook his head.
“For what it’s worth,” I told him, “I’m sorry too. I should not have taken those pictures of you and used them in that art piece.”
We stared at each other with the falling snow a curtain between us.
Jonathan looked sad and smiled ruefully. “I know you still probably aren’t the type to forgive and forget. You’ll probably carry a grudge to your grave. But,” he said before I could protest, “I did have more than an apology to offer you. Since I ruined your internship at—oh shit!”
He tackled me into a snowbank. Cindy Lou jumped out of the drift, mewing furiously and shaking the snow off of the Christmas coat Jonathan had dressed her in.
The SUV that had almost run us over was stopped on the sidewalk, steam billowing out from under the hood. The passenger door opened, and Sarah jumped out.
“Jonathan!” she yelled, rushing into his arms.
“Wait now, wait a minute!” Trevor demanded over the hissing of the car. “That’s my wife!”
“Jonathan, you’re taking me back, right?” Sarah pleaded.
“No he’s not,” I said forcefully.
“Don’t tell me you want her,” Sarah said derisively. “She’s like the Ghost of Christmas Future, all spooky and a killjoy.”