Pregnant By The CEO by Cassandra Dee

7

Casey

I'm completely discombobulated at work today. Somehow, I arrived on time so my body’s here, but my mind is elsewhere. Honestly I could've stayed in bed all day today.

From the moment I got home last night, I've been going over and over the events of yesterday afternoon in my head on non-stop repeat. It was unlike anything I've experienced before.

Pierce Lane was just so commanding. From the way he charged down the sidewalk like a football player to the confidence with which he ordered his espresso, the man dripped self-assurance. How can a male like him be so hurt by something as small as my little advice column? I can’t imagine this is the first time he’s ruffled some feathers and got called out for his behavior.

But maybe it is. Maybe the mighty Pierce Lane has always been surrounded by yes men and never gotten the truth from anybody. Maybe he sorely needs a dose of straight talk, and I was the first woman to give it to him. But then again, this man is infuriating. The way he looked across the table at me when he told me the outrageous price of that bracelet sticks in my head. He had a bit of a smirk on his face with those bold blue eyes staring right into my own. And yet, I swore I could see a hint of something else behind the arrogance. Something softer and more vulnerable. There was a searching, sheepish flicker behind that intense gaze, and I suddenly realized what it was: He wanted my approval.

Of course, that’s ridiculous. Come on, Casey. He’s angry because he didn’t like what I said about him. He doesn’t care who said it or that it was me. He just can’t deal with his fragile little ego taking any blows, much less from a woman.

My God, I need to clear my head. Why am I still thinking about this selfish, pompous man?

With a huff, I open my emails and start reading through my latest arrival of letters. My first email is from a woman who is desperately in love with her professor. She thinks that he likes her too but she isn’t sure if it’s appropriate.

Sigh. We get stories like this all the time, believe it or not. The taboo romance theme is quite common these days, and I jot down a few notes on what I’ll say to her.

I open the next letter. This one’s from a man. He met a woman on vacation and never learned her last name, despite falling madly in love and having three free-wheeling days in paradise together.

I roll my eyes and delete that one. This is an advice column, not a missed connections page. Go to Craigslist for that one.

In another email, a father says that he’s worried that his son is falling too hard and too fast for a girl he just met. I star that one, knowing those types of stories tend to do well with our readers. An empathetic but progressive answer to a question like this is what my readers love about me.

Drawing my brows together, I try to respond to the father’s letter, but everything I write sounds glib and cliched. What happened to my sharp wit and compassionate voice? To warm myself up, I try and jot some notes down, but nothing comes out.

Damnit. Frustrated, I get up and clomp into the office kitchen for a cup of coffee. The little room is empty for once, which is nice. I feel so disconnected, and small talk feels like a big undertaking at the moment.

I sit at the table under the flicker of fluorescent lights, just staring at the flat surface of the table. For a minute, I see spots dancing, but then I pull myself up and head over to the counter. Of course, the sink is full of dishes. Normally, that makes me angry. Sometimes on a cold winter morning, the sight of those dirty dishes can make me feel physically ill because it’s just disgusting. Why don’t my co-workers clean up after themselves? It’s not our janitorial staff’s job to wash personal dishes, so the entitlement is misplaced.

But I let it go. There’s no sense in letting myself get tied up in a knot over this, and instead I do the dishes myself. A little bit of busy work might be just what I need.

I fill the sink with hot soapy water. I throw all the dishes in to soak, taking satisfaction in watching the empty glasses gurgle and sink to the bottom before attacking them in a frenzy. Then I make coffee, watching as the coffee percolates. The machine beeps loudly, and I pour myself a steaming mug before sitting down at the lonely kitchen table once more.

But nothing’s working. I can’t stop thinking about last night. Even the taste of coffee reminds me of my conversation with Pierce Lane at the cafe.

Against my will, my mind travels back once again to the shape of his muscles, bulging under his suit. The way he folded those big, strong hands at the table. His spicy, smoky musk. The distinguished look of his silver threaded black hair.

Again, I imagine smoothing my hands over his hard chest. What would it be like? My palms tingle in anticipation. I picture his big, rough hands all over me. I imagine his stoic, masculine face twisted into pleasure as I ride him like a stallion, his massive cock buried in my sweetest spot.

I feel my face flush, and a tell-tale tingle begins below. Oh god, is this really happening? At work, no less? Aroused, I stand up and head back to my office. This is ridiculous. He’s an ass, and I have to remind myself of that.

When I walk in, Nicole is sitting in my chair. She spins it around when she hears me enter. I narrow my eyes and she shoots me a cheeky grin.

“Um, hi,” I say. “What’s up?”

“Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for you in here for like, a half an hour.”

“I just had a coffee.” I gesture helplessly to the kitchen. I’m a terrible liar and she pounces on it instantly.

“What, did you have to harvest and roast the beans first?” She laughs at her own joke and winks at me. “I wanted to talk to you about covering that special gin tasting next month.”

“Ooooh. Yum. Okay. I’m on it.” I don’t always get to do food and wine, but when a prime opportunity comes along, there’s no reason to hesitate.

“Great, glad you can take it. We've covered that then, so onto the important stuff. What is with you today? Why are you blushing?”

“I’m not,” is my half-hearted protest.

“You are. Are you okay? Maybe you’re sick. You know Renata’s out today with a nasty flu. Have you felt dizzy at all? You’re actually really pink. C’mere.”

She leans forward to touch my forehead. Embarrassed, I shrug while batting her hands away.

“I’m not sick, Nicole! I promise!”

“Hmm, you’re right, you’re not hot at all.” My buddy throws me a look. “I know you, Casey. Is it a guy?”

I bite my lip and stare at her. I can see her excitement increase instantly. Her eyes widen and she puts a hand over her mouth.

“Oh my god, it’s a guy isn’t it!” she practically squeals. “Yippee!”

What’s the point of disseminating?

“Yes,” I sigh. “I kind of met somebody.”

“Oooh, kind of? How very intriguing. Tell me everything. Oh wow, today just got so much better.”

With a new sense of glee and purpose, Nicole jumps out of my chair before gesturing for me to sit down.

“It’s hot seat time, baby!”

I roll my eyes. Ever since we started working together, we’ve dished every detail of our dating lives to each other. Nicole, who views dating as a hobby, is a more frequent inhabitant of the hot seat, but I’ve spent my fair share of time in there too. Usually, we’re both bursting with excitement to tell all, but today doesn’t feel that way at all. I don’t know, there’s just something different about Pierce Lane. It’s weird, but I feel like somehow, my time with him was precious ? It’s hard to explain.

“Sorry, Nic. I just don’t know what to say really. I mean….”

“No?”

She looks at me, a mixture of confusion and excitement.

“Then you must really like him,” she says, flipping a long blonde lock away from her shoulder.

“It’s not that, I just don’t know what to call this. We’re not dating or anything even resembling that. Let’s just say, we had an unexpected encounter.”

Nicole’s glee skyrockets.

“An ‘unexpected encounter?’ Oh, the mystery!” she cries, grabbing my hands. “Tell me more!” I roll my eyes at the melodrama, but fortunately, a secretary pops into my office then and reminds me about a meeting. Saved by the bell.

But Nicole’s relentless. Around noon, she comes to grab me for lunch. We’ve been going to a Japanese place a block away that does a lunch special, and Nic claims it’s the best in town. She orders a few sushi rolls, and I opt for ramen. We share a plate of gyoza first, the dumplings hot and chewy.

“Shall we be cheeky and get some sake too?”

“Nah,” I say. “I already feel so weird today.”

“Are you going to tell me about this guy or what?”

I shake my head.

“Can I ask yes or no questions? How about Twenty Questions?” she pleads, big blue eyes begging.

I sigh. “Sure, Nicole. Go for it.”

Grinning, she cracks her knuckles like a prizefighter getting ready for the ring.

“Okay, let's see. Does he work at Two One Two?”

I cringe, thinking of the men in our office. There’s nothing to inspire fantasy because all our co-workers are pasty as hell with string-bean physiques.

“Ugh, what?” I shake my head, laughing. “No. Never. Who on earth would that even be? Ronald Smith?”

We both giggle, imagining my mystery man as our sixty-eight year old Sports editor.

“Nah, I pictured Harry Harlow. You know, the one who just started?”

A pot sticker almost flies out of my mouth. Harry is our acne-faced teenage intern. He’s in his first or second year of college and I hear him on the phone with his mother while he eats lunch most days.

I give her a look of unbridled disgust. Who does she think I am?

“My God, Nicole. Harry is like, nineteen. That’s just creepy, not to mention disgusting.”

She shrugs, grinning. “I was joking! I’m sorry for suggesting it, okay? But maybe Harry will grow up handsome,” she winks.

I shake my head.

“Um, maybe in five years. No, make that fifty years. Yeah, that’s about how long it’s going to take to turn Harry into a Prince Charming. But seriously Nic, the guy I’m talking about isn’t from work, trust me.”

My buddy goes back to thinking. “Hmmm. Well, do I know him?”

“No.”

“You met him on Tinder!” she squeals. “I knew those dating websites worked! I think even Prince Harry met Meghan Markle on Tinder, although they’re saying they met through friends.” I roll my eyes.

“No, it’s not Tinder. It’s more complicated than that, and how could Prince Harry be on Tinder? Wouldn’t everyone recognize him?”

“There are ways,” Nicole sniffs. “Trust me, there are ways. Maybe there’s an exclusive Tinder for royals.”

I roll my eyes again, but fortunately I’m saved from answering by the appearance of our food. Good thing this place has delicious ramen because Nicole gets distracted, and at last, I get to have five minutes of peace before the inquisition starts again.