I accept the video call. “Isn’t it a little late in Copenhagen to be calling?”
Ciara returns my smile. “It’s a little past ten. Nik is working in his home office on a proposal with a looming deadline. I’m hanging out in the living room until he’s done, so we can go to bed together.”
“The triplets aren’t the ones keeping you up?”
“Not this time. No little nuggets are kicking soccer balls in my tummy.”
We laugh.
“You made it to Friday. Yay.” She brandishes a fist in the air “How was your first week.
“Give me a sec.”
“Holding.”
I get up and close the door to my office.
I snatch the mug and the small plate on the way to my chair and sit.
“I got an afternoon pick-me-up.” I take a sip of my latte.
“Bitch. I hate you.” Ciara frowns. “I miss coffee so much. I’m totally jealous.”
“The babies will be here soon, and you’ll be able to drink coffee again— Wait. Can you drink coffee while breast-feeding?”
“Girl, it didn’t hit me until a couple a months ago. When I asked my doctor, she said it was safe as long as I don’t drink a bucketful of coffee per day.”
I swipe my hand across my forehead. “Phew. Can you imagine giving up coffee for two or three years, depending on how long you breast-feed?”
“If that were the case, women would never have babies. Can you imagine pushing the equivalent of a watermelon out of your vagina and not being able to drink coffee for the foreseeable future? Back in the day when women had seven, eight, nine kids or more, the world order would’ve been fucked up if those women weren’t able to drink coffee. As women, we’re strong, but not that strong. Coffee is essential.”
“I agree.” I lift my mug. “May your coffee kick in before reality does.I can’t remember where I read that quote, but truer words have never been spoken.”
“Hear, hear.”
“But you can still eat cookies.” I lift mine.
Ciara’s eyes widen.
“These beauties are from a bakery that’s located not far from Kaz’s office. I swear, at this rate, I’m going to need a new wardrobe. These aredee-licious.”
“What flavor is that?
“This one is a soft, stuffed pistachio.” I take a bite, careful not to let the gooey filling drip on my pretty lavender dress. I turn the cookie so she can see the inside.
She gasps. “Do they deliver?”
“To Copenhagen?”
She offers an animated nod.
I laugh. “I don’t think so.”
“Maybe I can send Nik’s jet to New York, you could buy me a dozen, or two, or three––and whatever other delicious flavors they have––put them on the jet, and that way I can get them here.”
“That would be a perfectly good use of your husband’s private jet,” I say.
“If you fly with the cookies, then I’d get to hug my bestie, which I haven’t seen in so long. Miss you, babe.”
