meet all of you,” he says, shooting the girls a friendly smile. “I need to get my supplies from the car. I will be back.”
Gwen stares at me with a cocked brow, delighted confusion written all over her face.
“That’s the guy Weston was telling me about, the personal chef.”
She bites a mischievous smile back. “The personal chef is hot,” she whispers.
I laugh out loud. “You are not ogling my chef. I’ll have to send you home if you don’t behave.”
“What?” she says. “He’s very handsome, has a sexy accent and cooks too.”
I smile. “And the last time I checked…you were very married.”
“Well, didn’t stop you, did it?”
I smile at her. “Touché.”
I know she’s kidding. Although Gwen is quite man-crazy and loves to flirt, she’s completely devoted to her man. She’s a beautiful woman who knows what effect she has on the male species, and doesn’t automatically fall to pieces when an attractive man happens to pay her a little attention. No, that seems to be more my modus operandi.
Manny comes back with a rolling cart and a cooling unit, a crate of sauces and a myriad of other ingredients and spices. He also brings in a box of kitchen tools, some I don’t even recognize, and I do consider myself pretty seasoned when it comes to cooking.
Gwen follows his every move, her tongue practically hanging. Damn her. I specifically told her not to ogle. She makes chit-chat and he answers all her questions, just to be polite, I’m sure. He tells us we’re having Boeuf Bourignon tonight. “A good source of iron, he says, rolling the R. “Mr. Hanson says you need to keep your iron up.”
I quietly seethe. Who does Weston think he is? He’s so controlling. I understand this is his child, but come on.
Gwen sits up straight at the kitchen table, her generous breasts jutting out a little too enthusiastically. “I’m definitely staying for dinner.”
I smirk at her. “Of course you are.”
Five nights this week, Manny makes us dinner. Of course, his specialty is French food, which is not my favorite. If I could have had a choice, I would have chosen an Italian chef, but beggars can’t be choosers, as they say. But I must say, he has been mixing it up a bit, introducing some exotic flavors. It’s all very good. He is a truly gifted chef. His menu has been quite varied: roast chicken, quiches, veal scallops, roast pork, and a little too much cabbage for my liking. And sauces. So many sauces. A different one every night. I will get so fat. And every meal consists of the four food groups; a meat, vegetables, and a side of grain; usually quinoa, a whole-grain pasta or rice, or couscous. He serves us ‘amuse-bouches’ in adorable tiny bowls; mousses and sorbets and the like. And indeed, Gwen and the girls seem quite amused.
The girls are intrigued by this new chef. I tell them a friend has sent him over to help out. Too fascinated to care, they don’t ask too many questions.
Of course, Gwen has eaten dinner at our house practically every night this week. I think that little tidbit goes without saying. I asked her what Greg has been eating. She tells me Greg is fine. And I start to feel a little guilty for hogging his beautiful sweet wife.
During the day, I take the girls to the library, and Hanna’s Books & Treasures for story time and ice cream. The memories of my youth I associated with the place have officially been replaced with those of Weston and I pressed against the bookcases and being naughty at the back of the café.
We also enjoy Gwen’s pool a few times. I ask her why she’s not playing golf, like she usually does. She says she can’t leave me by myself, pregnant and alone with the girls. I almost cry when she tells me this.
“You don’t have to. I’ll be fine. I’m stronger than you think,” I insist.
“I know,” she says, but I can tell she doesn’t believe it.
Gwen looks after the girls when I go for my first official ultrasound. The ultrasound technician is a kind woman with a big toothy smile. When I see the shape on the screen and I hear the heart beating, my own heart beats a little faster. She taps away on her system, focused, taking measurements, I assume.
“Would you like to know the sex?” she asks.
Her question takes me by surprise. Do I want to know the sex?