Page 25 of Expecting an Argument
“Gotta go, Chuck. Try not to have a heart attack when you move the funds over. It would be a real pain in the ass to replace you.”
I ended the call and my feet softly padded across the wooden floor of the wing where the family bedrooms were. Though the hall was quiet, the usual morning silence was less hollow with another person occupying the house. The unease in my stomach from her sleeping across the hall might go away after a few days…but I wasn’t that lucky.
I knocked on Olivia’s bedroom door. “Room service, Adams.”
A noise between a whine and a groan filtered through the door. I took that as permission to come in.
I opened the door to find that Olivia had wasted no time settling in. Every single one of her suitcases were on the floor with their maws open, their contents spewed about the room. A white fluffy throw blanket was draped over Grandma’s green armchair. Photos littered the nightstands. A fat candle on the dresser was likely responsible for making the room smell like...gardenias, I think.
Just as I was about to question if the princess had made herself comfortable enough, she decided to wake up. With a very unladylike groan, she slowly lifted herself from the tangle of ivory sheets and the emerald down comforter.
Seeing someone after just waking up was an under-appreciated kind of intimacy. It wasn’t like the intensity of fucking her raw in an attic or the overlit exposure of her doctor’s appointment, but a quiet level of vulnerability that carried its own truths.
Despite being horrendously uptight when fully conscious, Oliviaclearlywasn’t the type to wear a bra to bed. Instead of normal pajamas, she wore a faded pink college shirt over her baby bump and a pair of shorts with a pattern of little white cats. She didn’t even bother to brush away the wisps of chocolatebrown hair stuck to her forehead as she pawed at the nightstand for her glasses.
I could almost admit she was cute. Almost.
I walked across the room and set the forty-ounce cup on the nightstand. “Drink up, buttercup.”
She slid her glasses onto her face and blinked in surprise at the lemon yellow cup I had just placed in front of her. “The hell is this?”
Therewas the Olivia I had expected.
I folded my arms across my chest, preparing for the fight that was surely coming. “You have to drink at least a gallon of water a day—doctor’s orders. You can’t rely on the lawyer diet of black coffee and bourbon anymore, so now you have to actually hydrate.”
She picked up the cup but tossed me a dirty look. “I never drank bourbon.”
I held down a smile as she took a sip—the first of many small victories. Maybe pregnancy would make her less of an argumentative pain in the ass.
Olivia’s eyebrows knitted and she pulled her lips off the straw. “What’s in this?”
“That’s your ‘wake-up water,’” I explained, “infused with oranges so the citric acid helps with nausea. It’s in the yellow cup so you know to drink it first thing in the morning.”
She blinked once, glanced at the crown logo on the side of her cup, and looked back up at me.
What wasn’t she understanding? “You know—yellow, like the risen sun.”
“I know what color the sun is!” She shook the cup, making the ice rattle against the steel. “If this one is yellow, how many others are there?”
I let myself smile that time, proud to show off my hard work. “The pink cup is for mid-morning and it’s infused withraspberries for a vitamin boost. The green cup is for early afternoon—it’s a fun mix of cucumber, lime, and coconut water to restore potassium. Your last water of the day is in the blue cup, infused with camomile and a bit of powdered fiber.”
Her mouth hung open, as if she had to process information by looking like a catfish.
I gestured to her yellow tumbler. “The powdered fiber is to help with the consti—”
“Damnit, Beau, I know what fiber is for!” she snapped. “This tumbler brand costs fifty dollars a piece, and you boughtfourof them? Are you too stuck-up to know that a dishwasher exists?”
I scrubbed my hand across my face. I did not go on a late-night grocery run in town for her to be this much of a bitch over a fucking cup.
Butresearch had also told me that Olivia was just under the influence of pregnancy hormones, and with twins it was worse. Double the babies, double the crazy.
“The cups are for your convenience, Adams,” I replied with the calmness of a pot of water that wasjustunder boiling. “The articles I read last night said that drinking a daily gallon of water can get boring, so I wanted to make the water a little fun—”
“You really think I would beboredof clean water?” She swung her legs to the edge of the mattress and stood up. “Do you have any idea how disgustingly privileged you sound?”
I bit my tongue to stop myself from asking her if she had any idea how insufferablyungratefulshe sounded. There was no winning against the hormones, so I had to switch tactics.
Back in college, I read a book that challenged the idea of any retreat being a surrender. Like leading in a waltz, taking a step backward was the ideal way to force your opponent in the right direction. I had no idea how educated Olivia was in dance techniques or classical warfare, but I’d let her think she won this round if it gave me a peaceful morning.
