“No. No, baby, of course not.”
I nod, but my stomach twists. Because the truth is, I don’t believe him. And that bothers me. More than that, it scares me.
Because now there’s a gulf between us. A small one, maybe, but it’s there. And I don’t know how to cross it. But I need to.
I can do this, I think, my hand resting on my belly. I know that I can.
But only with Damien beside me.
7
I’m awake before the sun—but not before Damien. I’m not sure that I’ve ever been awake before Damien on a work day, and as I slide out of bed, I wonder if that will change once the baby is in our lives. When I’m up at four with diapers and feedings, and my schedule is all switched around. I sit on the edge of the bed and press my hand lightly against my belly, feeling a bit unsettled. I’m still nervous about the baby, but the fear has vanished, leaving behind the kind of uncertainty and anticipation that is normal for facing the unknown. Even that fear is tempered by my knowledge that wherever this path leads, I’m traveling it with Damien.
So it’s not the baby that weighs on me—it’s the lingering secret. Or, rather, it’s my fear that there is a secret. Maybe Damien really did tell me everything about Charles and the calls and Sofia. Maybe. But it feels like he’s holding something back. And I can only hope that he will tell me soon. That he is only trying to keep my head clear while we are in Dallas.
I stand, then reach for my robe, telling myself that has to be it—he knows how stressed simply coming here has made me. How nervous I am about the interview today. And now, with the news of the baby and the mystery of my vanishing mother, of course, he is trying to protect me. That’s all. Of course, that’s all.
And as Damien steps into the room with a cup of coffee in his hand and tenderness in his eyes, I have to believe that I’m right.
“Good morning, beautiful,” he says, then hands me the coffee, followed by a kiss.
“The kiss I like, but I’m not so sure about this.” I look mournfully at the cup.
“Decaf,” Damien says. “All the taste, none of the buzz.”
I pretend to pout. “I like the buzz.” I raise the cup, smell the brew, and put it down on the side table in disgust. “Yeah, no. Who would have thought that I’d ever reach the point of not wanting coffee?”
Damien pulls me close and cups my ass with one hand. “We’ll just have to make sure you’re stimulated in other ways until the baby’s born,” he murmurs, then nips my earlobe, making me jump.
“Careful,” I say on a laugh. “You’ll make me late, and then I’ll blame you if I don’t get the contract.”
“Can’t have that.” He kisses my nose as he backs off. “How are you feeling? Any morning sickness?”
“None at all.” I frown, because yesterday, I’d been so overwhelmed by hormones and nausea that I’d passed out. So what’s changed? “You don’t think that’s a bad sign, do you? I did some reading online last night, and all the articles say that morning sickness is healthy, and—”
“You’re fine,” he says. “And if it makes you feel better, I’m sure it will be back. Morning sickness comes and goes, doesn’t it? And it’s not always in the morning, either. So consider today a gift, since you have your interview.”
I take a deep breath. He’s right, of course. I need to not freak out about every little pain—or the absence thereof.
“Speaking of, your car will be here in about an hour. Why don’t you go get dressed, and I’ll order breakfast.”
“Pancakes,” I say firmly.
“No eggs?”
I usually indulge in fried eggs and bacon when we’re in a hotel, but now I shake my head and smile happily. “I thought about it, but the idea alone makes me nauseous.”
Damien laughs. “See? Now go get dressed.”
I start to, then pause at the door and turn back to face him. “Why don’t you come with me? You could wait in the lobby. We could get an ice cream later. Celebrate my achievement.”
“Not a bad idea, but I have a few calls scheduled and working from here will be easier. Plus, I’d rather celebrate with something more interesting than ice cream.”
“Oh,” I say, and my already riled-up hormones start to flutter even more. “In that case, wish me luck today. Because I really can’t wait to celebrate with you.” I pause, then cock my head. “Although, if you’re thinking pickles and ice cream, just be aware that I haven’t crossed that line yet, and I’ll be very, very disappointed if that’s your idea of ‘more interesting’.”
“Noted,” he says, obviously fighting a smile. “But when you do cross that line, just know that I’ll cater to your every whim.”
His words, so passionate and sincere, warm me. “You already do,” I whisper. “You always have.”
I’m still smiling an hour later when I’m dressed and fed and reviewing my notes in the back of the car Damien hired to schlep me around for the day. I have my laptop open on the seat beside me, a yellow pad in my lap, and I’m going over the original solicitation for bids from the company to make sure that I have talking points to cover each one.
I know that my pitch is spot-on; I spent well over a week proofing the thing, and several more weeks before that doing the actual work of putting the proposal on paper and making sure I didn’t promise more than I could deliver, both in terms of technological prowess and manpower to make it happen.
Right now, Fairchild Development employs exactly one person—me. And if I get this contract, I’m confident that I can handle the work. But Greystone-Branch is a multinational consulting firm, and with their business locked in, I’d not only make enough off the contract to hire at least two developers, but my little company would also be settled more firmly on the map. Which would mean more customers. Which means more employees. And more income. And on and on and on.
Planning for the possibility of rapid growth makes me nervous, so all my projections on paper are conservative. But I’ve reviewed every nickel and dime and decision with Damien, and when a man like Damien Stark says that my overall plan for growing the company looks dead-on doable, then I’d be a fool not to at least be cautiously optimistic about my little company’s chances.
I nod, but my stomach twists. Because the truth is, I don’t believe him. And that bothers me. More than that, it scares me.
Because now there’s a gulf between us. A small one, maybe, but it’s there. And I don’t know how to cross it. But I need to.
I can do this, I think, my hand resting on my belly. I know that I can.
But only with Damien beside me.
7
I’m awake before the sun—but not before Damien. I’m not sure that I’ve ever been awake before Damien on a work day, and as I slide out of bed, I wonder if that will change once the baby is in our lives. When I’m up at four with diapers and feedings, and my schedule is all switched around. I sit on the edge of the bed and press my hand lightly against my belly, feeling a bit unsettled. I’m still nervous about the baby, but the fear has vanished, leaving behind the kind of uncertainty and anticipation that is normal for facing the unknown. Even that fear is tempered by my knowledge that wherever this path leads, I’m traveling it with Damien.
So it’s not the baby that weighs on me—it’s the lingering secret. Or, rather, it’s my fear that there is a secret. Maybe Damien really did tell me everything about Charles and the calls and Sofia. Maybe. But it feels like he’s holding something back. And I can only hope that he will tell me soon. That he is only trying to keep my head clear while we are in Dallas.
I stand, then reach for my robe, telling myself that has to be it—he knows how stressed simply coming here has made me. How nervous I am about the interview today. And now, with the news of the baby and the mystery of my vanishing mother, of course, he is trying to protect me. That’s all. Of course, that’s all.
And as Damien steps into the room with a cup of coffee in his hand and tenderness in his eyes, I have to believe that I’m right.
“Good morning, beautiful,” he says, then hands me the coffee, followed by a kiss.
“The kiss I like, but I’m not so sure about this.” I look mournfully at the cup.
“Decaf,” Damien says. “All the taste, none of the buzz.”
I pretend to pout. “I like the buzz.” I raise the cup, smell the brew, and put it down on the side table in disgust. “Yeah, no. Who would have thought that I’d ever reach the point of not wanting coffee?”
Damien pulls me close and cups my ass with one hand. “We’ll just have to make sure you’re stimulated in other ways until the baby’s born,” he murmurs, then nips my earlobe, making me jump.
“Careful,” I say on a laugh. “You’ll make me late, and then I’ll blame you if I don’t get the contract.”
“Can’t have that.” He kisses my nose as he backs off. “How are you feeling? Any morning sickness?”
“None at all.” I frown, because yesterday, I’d been so overwhelmed by hormones and nausea that I’d passed out. So what’s changed? “You don’t think that’s a bad sign, do you? I did some reading online last night, and all the articles say that morning sickness is healthy, and—”
“You’re fine,” he says. “And if it makes you feel better, I’m sure it will be back. Morning sickness comes and goes, doesn’t it? And it’s not always in the morning, either. So consider today a gift, since you have your interview.”
I take a deep breath. He’s right, of course. I need to not freak out about every little pain—or the absence thereof.
“Speaking of, your car will be here in about an hour. Why don’t you go get dressed, and I’ll order breakfast.”
“Pancakes,” I say firmly.
“No eggs?”
I usually indulge in fried eggs and bacon when we’re in a hotel, but now I shake my head and smile happily. “I thought about it, but the idea alone makes me nauseous.”
Damien laughs. “See? Now go get dressed.”
I start to, then pause at the door and turn back to face him. “Why don’t you come with me? You could wait in the lobby. We could get an ice cream later. Celebrate my achievement.”
“Not a bad idea, but I have a few calls scheduled and working from here will be easier. Plus, I’d rather celebrate with something more interesting than ice cream.”
“Oh,” I say, and my already riled-up hormones start to flutter even more. “In that case, wish me luck today. Because I really can’t wait to celebrate with you.” I pause, then cock my head. “Although, if you’re thinking pickles and ice cream, just be aware that I haven’t crossed that line yet, and I’ll be very, very disappointed if that’s your idea of ‘more interesting’.”
“Noted,” he says, obviously fighting a smile. “But when you do cross that line, just know that I’ll cater to your every whim.”
His words, so passionate and sincere, warm me. “You already do,” I whisper. “You always have.”
I’m still smiling an hour later when I’m dressed and fed and reviewing my notes in the back of the car Damien hired to schlep me around for the day. I have my laptop open on the seat beside me, a yellow pad in my lap, and I’m going over the original solicitation for bids from the company to make sure that I have talking points to cover each one.
I know that my pitch is spot-on; I spent well over a week proofing the thing, and several more weeks before that doing the actual work of putting the proposal on paper and making sure I didn’t promise more than I could deliver, both in terms of technological prowess and manpower to make it happen.
Right now, Fairchild Development employs exactly one person—me. And if I get this contract, I’m confident that I can handle the work. But Greystone-Branch is a multinational consulting firm, and with their business locked in, I’d not only make enough off the contract to hire at least two developers, but my little company would also be settled more firmly on the map. Which would mean more customers. Which means more employees. And more income. And on and on and on.
Planning for the possibility of rapid growth makes me nervous, so all my projections on paper are conservative. But I’ve reviewed every nickel and dime and decision with Damien, and when a man like Damien Stark says that my overall plan for growing the company looks dead-on doable, then I’d be a fool not to at least be cautiously optimistic about my little company’s chances.
