I laugh inside. The man is incorrigible.
“Hey, Dad,” Ashton calls out. “You wanna go shoot some hoops?”
Weston has the kids this week, and they’ve been around in the late afternoon. They’re usually glued to their phones, heads buried in the refrigerator, lounging on the living room sectional, but often, they stay in their rooms. I guess they're at that age when kids need their privacy.
“Sure,” Weston says. “I can spare an hour.”
The goddess walks into the kitchen, and I freeze. I study her as she hands Weston some papers. “The latest bill from the orthodontist. He says Lizzie needs to brush her teeth better. You need to really stay on top of her.”
Lizzie manages to both scowl and pout as she leaves.
“Thanks,” he says. “I don’t believe you’ve met Gretchen yet.”
This woman is larger than life. Bleach blonde and beautiful, and impeccably dressed. She’s almost as tall as Weston in high black Louboutin heels, the red bottoms striking.How can she even walk in those?I study the pumps more carefully. They appear to have a platform which probably helps. Perhaps, she has a long foot and a high arch. I’m fascinated.
I’m still staring when she offers her hand. “Hello, I’m Bridget,” she says in a sultry voice. “Weston’s ex-wife.”
“Uh…” I’m speechless. Even her voice is sexy. “I’m Gretchen… I work here.”And your ex-husband spanks me occasionally.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you,” she says. “I hope Weston is not working you too hard.”
I blush.
“Oh, he’s working her hard all right,” Rosetta pipes in.
Oh, God, Rosetta. Go away.
“How are you, Rosetta?” Bridget asks very politely.
“You know… same old.”
Bridget nods, and an awkward silence fills the kitchen.
“Well, I need to go file these papers,” Weston says, and he’s gone in a flash.
How dare him leave me alone in the kitchen with the ex-wife. Thankfully, Rosetta is here to break the ice.
“So what exactly do you do here?” Bridget asks, clearly curious.
“I’m here on a six month contract,” I explain. “I’m working on the branding for Mr. Hanson’s new charity.”
“Oh… that’s great.”
“She’s really good,” Rosetta chimes in. “Isn’t she adorable?”
Bridget’s gaze travels from the top of my head, down to my vintage Chanel heels and back up again. Her assessment is cool and deliberate, but when our eyes meet again, she smiles. “I like your hair.”
“Oh… thanks,” I say, not sure if she’s being genuine or not.
“I could never get away with that. Us professionals need to keep it bland. My work is boring that way.”
Us professionals?What does she think I am. Some willy-nilly flaky artist? Well, I kind of am. On some days.
She shrugs. “Well, I best be going. I have a yoga class. It was very nice to meet you, Gillian.”
“It’s Gretchen,” I say, annoyed. “It was nice to meet you too, Bernadette,” I say sweetly. “Uh… sorry, I meant Bridget.” What can I say? My snarkiness sometimes knows no bounds.
She throws us both a forced smile as she leaves the kitchen. I smirk and wave goodbye.
