Searching For His Omega - Harper B. Cole Page 0,25

I could make my homebase there and be close to him and our baby. Which gave me an idea. It wasn’t a solution, but it was the spark of an idea that might lead to one.

We watched the rest of the show in almost silence and at the end we said our good-byes with the promise of talking soon. I wasn’t joyed with how we said our good-byes, but I had plans to make.

Which was why at 1 a.m. I was calling Glenn. Fuck it. He’d be awake. The man never slept, and I wasn’t going to be able to either without at least setting some of my plan into place.

“Who’s dead.” Glenn answered the phone all grumbly.

“Like you weren’t watching some Indian Soap Opera.”

“For your information I was not.” I didn’t respond. He’d give himself up. He always did. “Tonight I was watching a telenovela.”

“You and your soaps,” I teased. “But I’m calling for work.”

“The show was fine—better than,” he reassured me, assuming I’d been calling about the premiere.

“It was exactly what our viewers want,” I agreed. And it was true. My viewership loved small towns with big hearts, and Café Om was centered smack dab in the middle of one. “But that wasn’t why I was calling.”

“I’m not going to like this, am I?” Probably not.

“It’s nothing horrid. I just wanted to tell you I need some solid downtime, so I’m not going to be booking any appearances or cookbook signings or pretty much anything until we go back to filming.”

“But you’ll do the big stuff, right?” I had no idea what big stuff he had been working on, but I had a feeling he was going to hate my answer. Glenn was more than just my producer...he’d been in this industry far longer than I had, and he was almost like a manager/producer/big brother combo and I appreciated it more than he could ever know. It just wasn't my focus now. Not that I could tell him the entire story.

I wanted to shout it from the rooftops, but until Stan gave me the go-ahead, I was going to be tight-lipped.

“No. I’m working to contract. Done.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry Glenn. I need this.” My baby needs this.

“I don’t like it.”

“I know.” But his likes, or mine for that matter, weren’t what was important anymore.

I needed to make things easier for Stan and get things in place for when our child entered into this world. I was not going to be my father.

No kid deserved that.

Seventeen

Stan

The phone beeped in my pocket as I was talking to Sandy, the head of the local historical society about her charity fundraiser the following week. It was scheduled for mid-morning, and she and I were calculating the amount and what types of cakes and pastries to provide.

After apologizing, I muted the device. It was Chet. We’d gone from hardly speaking, to him messaging me every hour. I loved being in contact and chatting about the baby, but he was on a filming break, whereas I worked a regular job. He was probably in his PJs watching TV or listening to a podcast. Lucky him!

Once Sandy had left it was almost closing time. I was giving the staff more responsibility and they’d be closing the café. While I hadn’t told them about the baby, this was good practice for when I was on paternity leave. And that was another thing I had to add to my to-do list. We’d need a temp manager to take my place.

As I walked into my apartment, the phone buzzed. Not a message but a video call. “I need to pee,” I gasped as I tossed off my shoes and headed for the bathroom.

“I’ll wait.”

“You’re not coming in with me.” I threw the phone on the couch, and when I was done and changed into an old tracksuit, I wandered into the kitchen and peered into the freezer.

“I spy leftover lasagna,” Chet said as he squinted at the phone.

“That brings back memories,” I told him as I turned on the oven. We’d made a huge batch of food that night and had barely made a dent in the lasagna. Chet had made me freeze it in individual portions for when I was too tired to cook. Like tonight.

“Oh yeah. Dancing, baby.” He made that stupid disco pose, and I groaned even though he looked hot doing it.

“What is it about you and disco? And that’s what you remember from that night?”

He closed one eye. “Ummm, three types of cheese? Water almost