Sylvie assured the other women. “And I’ve already made my final decision. My baby will arrive just in time for Christmas.”
“And the father?” Zoey asked in a tone of voice that indicated she was no more enthusiastic about Sylvie’s decision than Olivia was.
Sylvie smiled. “I have two whole months to decide who among the men I know will make the best father.”
“Two months,” Zoey repeated, her expression illustrating how crazy she thought the whole idea was.
“Two months,” Sylvie echoed with a decisive nod. “That’s all the time I’ll need to find the perfect father for my child.”
One
Cosmo’s Bar and Grille had been a downtown Philadelphia fixture for decades, a five-star restaurant known for its continental fare, its soothing peach-and-gray art deco atmosphere and its continual showcase of good jazz music. But those weren’t the only reasons Chase Buchanan liked to frequent the place. As he made himself comfortable at his usual spot at the bar, he caught the bartender’s eye. Without even asking him what he was drinking, she reached for a bottle of expensive single-malt Scotch and splashed a generous portion over ice in a crystal tumbler.
“Hi, Mr. Buchanan,” she said as she placed the glass before him with a cheerful smile.
“Hello, Sylvie,” he replied.
“I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show up tonight. I should have known you were just working late. Again.”
“Sometimes that’s what it takes to get the job done.”
She shook her head slowly, chin-length blond tresses shimmering with the motion. “You work too hard,” she told him bluntly. “People should work to live, not live to work. You ought to stop and count your blessings sometime.”
“Thanks, but I’d rather stop and count my change.”
Sylvie shook her head at him again and simply repeated, “You work too hard.”
Chase could hardly contradict her, not that he wanted to. Ever since he’d left his position as a junior architect of Bulwar-Melton-Jones Associates to start his own firm, he couldn’t recall a moment when he hadn’t had some major project commanding virtually every scrap of his time. BMJ had been a company without foresight, a bunch of old men with absolutely no imagination. He’d joined them immediately after receiving his college degrees and left them less than five years later. In the fifteen years that had followed, he’d made an excellent name for himself in the field of architectural design. His own company was known for its savvy, its cutting-edge timing and its farsighted vision. He had enough going on at any given moment to demand his complete and utter attention.
Buchanan Designs, Inc. meant everything to Chase. He gave 110 percent to his company. And dammit, he didn’t expect any less from anyone who worked for him.
“Yes, well, that’s easy for you to say,” he finally told Sylvie after an idle sip of his drink. “You don’t have to run this place.”
Her smile broadened. “You couldn’t pay me enough to run this place,” she countered. “You couldn’t pay me enough to run any place. I don’t want to be in charge of anything. I don’t want that kind of responsibility. Too much stress. That’ll send you to an early grave faster than anything else will, you mark my words.” She slung a linen towel over her shoulder and reached into the garnish bin to pop an olive into her mouth. “Not only that,” she added carelessly, “but it eats up way too much of your time. There’s a lot more to life than working, you know. And I intend to enjoy every moment of it I can.”
Although he wanted to disagree with her, Chase didn’t dispute her words. He was quite certain that what Sylvie said rang absolutely true—for Sylvie. But he thrived on being in charge of his own company. For him, working was living. And he was perfectly happy with things that way.
“Living means something different for everyone,” he told her. “For me, and for everyone who comes to work for me, business has to come first. It has to be the one thing in life that’s important. Hell, it has to be life, period.”
She surveyed him intently. “If you ask me, that’s nuts.”
“I don’t recall asking you,” he said with a smile.
Normally, no one—absolutely no one—spoke to Chase so frankly and dogmatically. They didn’t dare. But the attitude was perfectly normal coming from Sylvie. He expected it, and he more than tolerated it—he welcomed it. On more than one occasion she had been his devil’s advocate, and the byplay he enjoyed with her was something he shared with no one else.
What was odd was that Chase really didn’t know Sylvie all that well—hell, he didn’t even know her last name. But he’d been coming into Cosmo’s after work three or four times a week ever since he’d moved his office into the building across the street. That had been two years ago, and at that time, Sylvie had just been starting her own stint at the restaurant.
Somewhere along the way he had altered his schedule to match hers, stopping by for dinner at the restaurant before heading home only on those evenings when he knew she would be working behind the bar. Why he’d done this he didn’t know. But Chase liked Sylvie. He liked her a lot. She was funny and spirited and a welcome change of pace after a long day of stress and high pressure. She was cute in her man’s white dress shirt that always appeared to be two sizes too big, and the neckties she wore with her uniform were always something interesting. She had a nice smile. And somehow she always made him feel better before he went home at night. Already he sensed the day’s tension and irritation easing from every corner of his mind.
He’d even come close to asking her out a couple of times. But he never had. Because he just didn’t date women for very long, and he hadn’t wanted to put an end to the easy camaraderie he shared with Sylvie.
When he looked up from his drink she was eyeing him thoughtfully, and he wondered what was going on in that beautiful blond head of hers.
As if she sensed his inquisitiveness, she asked, “Are you telling me you’d rather work fifteen or sixteen hours a day than go home after the usual nine-to-five to a wife and family?”
Chase grimaced, running a big hand through coal black hair liberally threaded with silver. “God forbid. What a nightmare. Look, I’m forty years old and rabidly single. What does that tell you?”
She shrugged, still smiling. “Maybe that you’re not such a great catch after all?”
He gaped at her before chuckling. “Oh, thanks a lot. I’ll have you know there have been plenty of women who have tried to wrestle me to the ground and have their way with me—their way usually culminating in a leisurely stroll down the bridal path.”
“But you want none of it, is that it?”
He shook his head vehemently. “Absolutely not.”
“Not even the pitter-patter of little feet? You’re not one of those guys who wants to make sure he leaves his mark on the world in the form of a little Mr. Buchanan, Junior?”
He shuddered for effect. “God, no. I can’t stand children.”
Her
