Page 80 of Darling Venom
Tate grabbed a pen and checkbook from the drawer, tossing it back inside when he realized it was out of checks.
His finger descended on the intercom button. “Sylvia, grab me a gift from the storage room.”
It occurred to me that lying to my boss at a job I’d worked hard to get—a job I wanted to keep—was not worth seeing Tate Marchetti again. Not when he was back to being cold and distant and not the man who’d comforted me on Friday after I’d spilled one of my deepest regrets.
I crossed my arms, sudden waves of bitterness crashing into me. “I haven’t had the chance to go to the library and donate the books. I’ll get the tax donation form to you soon.”
“Bummer. My bank account will take a hit in the meantime.”
It seemed that, outside of Kellan and Reagan, we had nothing in common. Nothing to talk about. And I didn’t know why, but I refused to swallow that truth.
Call me stubborn.
Or idiotic.
“How are babies one through seven?”
He leaned against the wingback chair. “Pardon?”
“The ones that were due to be delivered over the weekend.”
“One through five made it out okay.”
“And the other two?” My voice hitched.
Tate saw life and death every day. How could it not remind him of Kellan?
“Stubborn. But I don’t think you came here to discuss the upcoming induced labors. I don’t think you came here to deliver Reagan’s invitation either.”
An abrupt knock interrupted us.
Tate never took his eyes off me. “Come in.”
Sylvia entered with a tall, skinny gift bag. She set it on Tate’s desk and left, but not before giving me major side-eye.
Thin tissue stuffing wrapped around what was undoubtedly an expensive bottle of booze. Tate snapped off the tag with his name on it, slipped two fingers inside, and pulled out a card, tossing it in the trashcan in front of me without reading it.
I stared down at the paper, tilting my head a bit to make out the slanted font.
Dr. Marchetti, you are our saint. Thank you for making our dreams come true.
Louisa and Tim Miller
Dreams.
Tate Marchetti fulfilled dreams.
I almost told him this. Just to see if his broken pieces could be fixed.
It’s not your problem, Charlotte.
He is not your problem.
Tate slid the bag forward for me to grab off his desk. “I don’t attend parties my patients throw, especially gender reveals of babies I already know the gender of. But please deliver my gift to Reagan, along with my sincerest congratulations.”
Sincere.
The word didn’t fit any part of him.
