Before I Melt Away. Isabel Sharpe

Day and the holiday, that’s a busy time for us, and I’m not sure…I mean I’m afraid…”

      Quinn’s lips tightened. “She can’t fire you.”

      “Oh, I know. But…well, I don’t know how she’ll manage. She once said she was glad I wasn’t planning to have children. I mean that’s what I told her in the interview and it was true then, but this happened by accident and Frank and I found we really want this baby, so here I am. And if I want to ask for maternity leave…well, it’s a mess.” She bit her lip. “I shouldn’t even be telling you all this.”

      “It won’t go further than me. But you need to tell Annabel.”

      “I know, I know.” Stefanie lifted one hand and let it drop hopelessly in her lap. “I just dread it.”

      “Tell you what.” He approached her desk and leaned his hands on its edge. “Wait until after the first of the year.”

      She lifted her head. “Why then?”

      He winked. “I have a few reasons, fairly personal.”

      “Oh.” An enormous grin lit up her tired face. “So maybe I wasn’t so wrong about the roses?”

      “Possibly not.” He smiled. He liked Stefanie. And she’d told him enough to confirm what John had said, and convince him that Annabel could use a little nudge in a calmer direction. “Tell me something, Stefanie.”

      “Yes?”

      “Does Annabel have anything important scheduled tomorrow, anything she can’t miss?”

      Stefanie chuckled and flipped a page of the calendar on her desk, drew her finger down the neatly made entries. “She would undoubtedly disagree, but from what I can see, no, nothing. Ted’s doing the Henkels, no parties for once.”

      “Excellent.”

      “So…” Stefanie looked up slyly. “Is it fair to assume Ms. Brightman won’t be in the office tomorrow?”

      “I think that’s a very fair assumption.”

      “Good.”

      “You approve?”

      “Definitely.” Stefanie leaned toward him over her desk and glanced into the hall as if she was afraid someone would overhear her next words. “Call me crazy, call me hormonal, call me whatever you want…but I think this time Annabel’s met her match.”

      ANNABEL BOLTED from her garage to the back door, racing the icy winds whipping down her driveway, which not only wanted to remove any and all moisture from her exposed skin, but also made her breath jump back down her throat and huddle there for warmth. The cold front had arrived right on schedule; the windchill must be down in negative Fahrenheit territory.

      Brrr.

      She fumbled with her keys, reluctantly snatching one sheepskin mitten from her hand so her fingers could select the proper one more easily. Hurry, hurry. Eleven-thirty—she only had half an hour to shower and dress, to wear whatever mood she was in.

      What mood was she in? Right now, jittery and frantic. She felt in her bones that Quinn would be precisely on time.

      But jittery and frantic would not make an attractive presentation.

      At all.

      She jammed the key in the lock, twisted, turned and burst through the door. Leaped up the back stairs and smacked her keys onto the tiny phone nook cut into the wall, then dashed into her office, already shrugging out of her parka, to hang—

      What was this?

      She flicked on the light, pushed her thoroughly blown hair off her face and stared. The most amazing assortment of roses. Yellow, pink, white, red, oh, my goodness. Hand to her chest, she moved toward the card, daring it to be signed by who she so wanted it to be signed by.

      Not a grateful client. Not a family member wishing her well. Not a friend sending joys of the season. Not that any of those had ever happened.

      But, please, one sexually amazing corporate giant? Maybe a little smitten with her? Enchanted at the very least? Maybe saying as much? Or how he could not wait to see her tonight?

      Maybe?

      She plucked the envelope from the plastic-pronged holder and pulled out the card, parka still dangling off one arm. Black ink. Strong masculine handwriting.

      To Annabel. So you can stop and smell them. Quinn.

      Huh?

      Damn and scowling disappointment. So you can stop and smell them? For crying out loud, he sounded like her brother.

      What was with men, particularly high-powered men? They couldn’t handle women who wanted to get places. Just like her father, who made her mom give up a promising career as a lawyer to be his full-time wife. Bet Quinn never told his male colleagues to take it easy. Bet he was never concerned about their mental health or their personal development. But oh, no! Women shouldn’t hurt their delicate little selves shooting for anything like the big time.

      God forbid. After all, what would men have to lord over them if women made success look as good as they did?

      She jerked the second half of her coat off and hung it in the closet at the back of the room. Whether they liked it or not, she’d been born to take her place among the leaders. When other girls had been playing dress-up or planning trips to the shopping mall, she’d been playing Risk, plotting to take over the world. While other girls had batted their eyes and played stupid, sat on the sidelines and cheered, Annabel had excelled at her studies with pride, taken the field and played ferociously.

      The closet door swung under the force of her shove, hit the jamb with a satisfying thud, then bounced back open slightly. She took a deep breath and turned to face the flowers again. They were beautiful. And unless she wanted to “wear her mood” and show up dressed for heavy combat, she’d better calm down.

      Granted, maybe, possibly, yes, okay, she had a teeny-weeny chip on her shoulder. Her father had made it clear that women weren’t ever going to take the place of men on the battlefield of life, and that those who tried somehow betrayed their gender. He’d encouraged her brother, applauded his achievements, and while Annabel was his special little girl and always would be, she got the sense that when John had chosen teaching instead of big business, he’d left a hole Dad never bothered hoping Annabel could fill. Certainly not with something as girly as food service.

      Was that what drove her? Partly, sure, that—and her own Dad-inherited need to do things in a big way. But the drive certainly fueled her irritation at the message on the flowers, which Quinn had bought to be supportive and thoughtful, so she should chill the heck out and…she glanced at her watch…yikes! Get dressed!

      She took the stairs two at a time, launched herself into her room and came to a stop in front of the closet. All day she’d been distracted by thoughts of this date—what would they do? what would she wear? where would they go? would they…mmm…or not?—and finally decided to take Quinn at his word, wait to see what mood she was in and dress accordingly.

      Now she wished she’d planned ahead, her usual strategy.

      So…

      Would they be going out? Staying in? There wasn’t much open now. Milwaukee was hardly the city that never slept. If they went out, she’d need something warm to combat the icy temperatures. But if they stayed in…she could get away with next-to-nothing.

      Gulp.

      Could she open the door to him in next-to-nothing?

      Her stomach growled. She was starving, so she hoped the evening involved food, though if they stayed here, she had almost nothing to offer him, which meant—

      Okay, Annabel, focus. Clothes first, the evening would decide itself.

      She scanned the contents of her closet and glanced at her watch. Twenty minutes. Ack!

      Pants?