And to stop having filthy, sleep-disrupting, sex dreams about my employees.
One employee, in particular…
The same one who I’m betting left this sexy slice of mushroom Wellington on my desk. The beauty sports a gorgeous, latticework crust and the kind of tightly packed filling that’s so much harder to pull off than it looks, while a darling wisp of lemon peel twined around a sprig of rosemary completes the sophisticated presentation.
Dumping my giant purse on my chair, I brace my hands on the desk and lean in, pulling in a deep breath that emerges as a moan.
Damn, it smells gorgeous, too. Like my own mushroom Wellington, in fact, except with a bit more dill and maybe…
I take the fork laid on a linen napkin beside the plate and pop a bite in my mouth, moaning again as I chew. My eyes slide closed as I focus on the brilliant mix of flavors. There’s definitely more dill than in mine, but it’s balanced by the perfect pungent crunch of the lightly sauteed onions and another flavor I can’t place at first.
All I know is that it’s sweet, and also crunchy, and…
“Shit,” I mutter, my eyes flying open as my lips start to go numb. “Oh thit, oh thit,” I say, heart racing as my tongue swells so quickly it’s already becoming harder to talk.
I fumble in my purse, searching for my cell, but I either forgot it on the charging station at home or it’s lost somewhere in the chaos of kid snacks and wet wipes and toys swimming around in my massive bag. I grab for the landline next, only to slam the dead receiver back in the cradle when I remember I still need to buy a new phone to replace the ancient—and broken—one Pierre left behind.
Terror spiking, I reel toward the office door, wrenching it open and shouting, “Call 911. Pleathse! Thumbody. Call 911. I can’t find my thell and I’m having an allergic reaction.”
But the dining room below is quiet, all of my new staff members clearly having taken my order to sleep late to heart. And now they’re going to arrive at noon to find my lifeless body at the bottom of the stairs, all because I was so swept away by a sexy mushroom Wellington that I forgot to check the ingredients for nuts.
There’s a lesson in there for me, I’m sure of it, but I’m not sure I’ll have the chance to learn it. Not if I can’t find a phone or an EpiPen in the next few minutes.
My EpiPen! I should have that in my purse, somewhere.
I’ve never actually used one on myself—the two times I accidentally ate nuts, I was close enough to a hospital to hit the ER and let the professionals shoot my needle-hating body full of drugs—but in a matter of life and death, surely, I’ll be able to get stabby with myself.
I stumble back into my office, now audibly wheezing for air, and grab my bag, dumping the contents onto the floor and falling to my knees to search through the detritus.
I’m still pawing through trash and toys and a few ancient tampons coming out of their paper wrappers, growing progressively panicked, when a familiar voice rumbles from the door, “Natalie? Are you okay?”
Shuddering with relief, I turn over my shoulder, intending to beg Cam to call 911. But when I open my lips to speak, all that emerges is a strangled squeak. And when I look up at his worried face, I see him through frames of my own swollen flesh.
I’m going down fast, but thank God Cam is more than just a pretty face.
Before I can try to speak again, he has his cell out, jabbing the emergency number as he falls to his knees beside me. “Yes, this is Cameron Brennan at Crave. I have a woman going into anaphylactic shock. She can still breathe, but just barely. Please, send someone. Fast.” He gives the operator our cross streets and address and ends the call, dropping his phone onto the carpet as he leans forward, swiftly sorting through the mess from my purse. “You have an EpiPen?” he asks, tossing aside bags of semi-crushed goldfish crackers and tattered boxes of crayons.
I nod and wheeze out a “yee” sound, but I’m beginning to doubt myself.
Did I actually refill my prescription? Or did I simply tell myself to do it so many times that my brain assumed I’d gotten the job done and moved on to other things?
That happens as a single mom with a demanding full-time job. I’m constantly putting my needs last on the list and then running out of time to get to them by the end of the day. Neglecting myself has become a bad habit, but it’s one I’ve always assumed I would move past once Crissy was older. Or when I could afford to hire more help at the restaurant or a full-time nanny.