Page 21 of The Billionaire Alpha's Surprise Baby

“Let me cook you dinner,” I coax. “We can talk, get to know one another, and . . . work all this out.”

Maybe it’s my mention of talking rather than taking her back to my place for mind-blowing sex, but she suddenly looks as though the weight of the world has been lifted off her shoulders.

“Okay,” she says, going over to a bank of lockers and pulling out a scrap of paper. She jots down an address and phone number, and I get a flicker of panic at the thought of leaving her — of being away from my mate for basically two full days and a night.

But I need to act like a gentleman and not an obsessive creep, so I tuck the paper into my pocket and take a step forward. I long to pull her into my arms again and devour every inch of her, but I sense Ava putting up walls between us, as if she’s trying to protect herself from future disappointment.

I settle with leaning in and giving her a soft peck on the cheek, but on my way out the door, I turn back to look at her one last time. “Do you know what it is yet? Boy or girl?”

She smiles, and it’s a real one. “Not yet. I-I’ll find out at my next appointment.”

I nod. So I haven’t missed everything.

Standing there in the doorway, I can hardly believe my luck. After all this time, I’ve found my mate, and she’s carrying my pup.

Chapter Eight

Ava

My hand is shaking so badly that I can’t hold the eyeliner pencil steady to put on my makeup. Frustrated, I toss it back in my makeup bag and sink down onto the edge of my mattress to try to pull myself together.

When I left Aspen back in April, I never thought I’d see Garrett Von Horton again. I certainly never expected him to show up at my work and profess his undying commitment to take care of me and my unborn baby.

I mean, who does that?

He’s supposed to be picking me up in half an hour, and I still have no idea what I’m going to wear for our date. Most of my clothes are packed away in cardboard boxes, which are stacked precariously in my closet.

My lease ends in two weeks, at which time I’ll officially be homeless.

Before I came here, a short sublease made sense because I was headed to Vietnam. But with a baby on the way, I can’t exactly go traipsing all over Asia.

Every cent I’ve saved these last six and a half years will go toward supporting me and the baby until I can figure out childcare — or muster up the courage to ask my mom for help.

She and I talk almost every week, but our conversations are always surface-level. I can’t ask her to help me raise a baby. She’s sacrificed too much as it is.

I’ve been apartment hunting on my days off, but the cost of even a one-bedroom in Denver is more than I can afford on my own. It was pure luck that I landed this place. Until a few weeks ago, I was sharing it with two other girls, but I can’t see any potential new roommate being cool with a crying newborn.

A fresh sense of hopelessness swamps me as I stare at my barren closet. I haven’t been on a date in years, and I haven’t gone out since that fateful night that Jules lent me her dress.

On top of that, I’m really starting to show, which means that none of my clothes fit. Jeans have been a no-go for weeks. I’ve been living in leggings and managing at work by using a hair tie to secure the top button of my uniform pants, but I’m not going on a date with Garrett in pants that don’t even button all the way.

A knock at the door pulls me out of my misery, and I glance at the clock. It’s too early for Garrett to be here.

Shuffling over to figure out which of my neighbors’ Amazon packages I’ve received by mistake, I’m surprised to find a plain white box wrapped in a pink ribbon.

Tucked underneath the bow is a note. It’s scrawled in a messy yet elegant penmanship that must be Garrett’s handwriting.

The note just says, “For tonight,” and I let out an audible groan.

It feels like one of those department-store boxes, but it’s not big enough for a fancy dress.

The knots in my stomach wind tighter at the thought that Garrett dropped off some sexy lingerie. Doesn’t he know I’m fucking pregnant? Do they even make maternity lingerie?

As I shut the door, I have the impulse to throw the box directly in the trash, but part of me is curious what Garrett picked out. If it is something sexy, at least it will give me an idea of what he’s into. My heart beats faster at the thought.

Swallowing to wet my parched throat, I undo the ribbon, open the box, and peel back the layers of tissue paper.

An ungraceful snort sneaks out of my nose when I see what’s tucked inside. It’s a comfy-looking white sweatsuit — Fendi, of course — that’s plenty roomy for my baby bump.

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