Page 13 of Caught By the Chief of Staff

“I’ll pick you both up at five.”

“Maybe we should meet you at the restaurant,” I try, because the thought of having Rick in my space has me on edge.

“I said I’ll pick you up at five,” he states firmly, ending our conversation.

I’m being dismissed. The glimpse of my funny sailor is long gone.

“I’ll tell Rachel when I pick her up from school,” I say as I stand from the chair. “She’ll be pleased.”

And then I run away like the scared little rabbit I am.

• • •

“Serious question,” Rick begins after we sit down in a booth at a small, family-owned pizza place just a couple of blocks from my apartment. How Rick knew it was there, I will never know.

“What’s that?” Rachel replies.

“Anchovies or no anchovies?” he asks, making her nose scrunch up.

“Ew, gross!”

“What?” he gasps, clutching his chest. “You mean to tell me you’re not firmly in your mom’s ‘anchovies are life’ camp?”

“No way!” She laughs at his joke, and it’s the sweetest sound in the world. By the look on his face, Rick feels the same way.

“What kind of Jersey girl are you?”

“A bad one.” She laughs. “I was born in Nevada.”

“Nevada?” he prompts, even though I know he knows just about everything about her, since I delivered the baby book, her birth certificate, and a letter telling him all about our beautiful daughter this morning. He knows she loves soccer and hates the color pink. She’s read an entire series on dragons in the last month and is allergic to penicillin. And that she’s known about him and who he is her entire life. “So you deal blackjack?”

“No, silly. I’m a kid.”

“You are? I thought you were thirty-five,” he replies.

“No way!” She laughs again. “I’m eight.”

“Well then, what do eight-year-olds do for fun?”

“I like video games and dragon books, and I play soccer.”

“Soccer?” he practically shouts. “I love soccer! What position do you play?”

“Defender!”

“Sweet! I was a goalkeeper when I was in school.”

“No way! I hate that position,” she shouts, making Rick laugh.

“What can I get you tonight?” a young server in jeans and a T-shirt with the restaurant logo on the front asks as he steps up to the table.

“I think we need a medium—” Rick starts to say, but Rachel shakes her head. “Alargepepperoni pizza, and a medium pepperoni and anchovies for the Jersey girl.”

“Thank you,” I mumble.

“And to drink?”

“Cokes all around?” Rick asks.