Page 42 of Tangled Innocence

SYRAH: OH MY GOD!!!

The typing disappears abruptly and my phone starts vibrating in my hand. Smiling, I pick up her call and answer in my best, most professional P.A. voice, “Hello, Wren Turner speaking.”

Syrah’s screech nearly punctures an eardrum. It’s a wordless wail of excitement for a while before she finally regains the power of words. “You’re pregnant!”

“Yeah,” I say with an amazed sigh at how good it feels to come clean. “I am.”

“I literally cannot believe this. It’s legit? Confirmed?”

“Confirmed. I am one hundred percent knocked up.”

“Fuuuck,” Syrah breathes, drawing out the syllables in a sing-song voice. “Okay, wow. Was not expecting that. I guess I figured when you didn’t say anything after your last appointment, it meant that the insemination didn’t take.”

“I think I was just processing it,” I admit. “The whole point of getting pregnant was for Rose and Jared. And now…”

“Shit. Yeah. Jesus, I can’t imagine… How’re you doing with all of that?”

Just when I thought I had a handle on my emotions, my bottom lip goes and starts trembling. “I’m still not sure. I guess I just need time.”

“Of course. I mean, duh.” She lets out a sympathetic little whimper. “Are you going to be at work on Monday?”

The truth is, I have no freaking clue. Things like that are way out of my control these days. But for some reason, I find myself nodding. “Yup. That’s the plan.”

“Good. I miss you.”

Smiling, I grip the phone a little tighter. “Miss you, too, Sy.”

“If you need anything, just ask, okay? I’m happy to make late-night ice cream runs if you need it. Pickles may or may not be included.”

“You’re the best.”

“Obviously. Anyway, I’m almost home and I know you said you’re crashing, so I don’t want to intrude. Talk later?”

“Definitely. I want to hear all about this unfortunately curved date.”

She laughs. “I’ll spare no detail. Goodnight, hon.”

After I hang up, I pull the blanket off my lap and lean in towards my bedside table where a bowl of M&M’s is waiting to be devoured. I’m not even hungry; it’s just something to do. Snacking as a hobby isn’t quite rock bottom, but it can’t be that far off.

I have no idea how I’m gonna spend another week cooped up in this penthouse, let alone the next few months. “Batshit crazy” is starting to sound like a best-case scenario.

“Doors opening.”

I bounce to my feet at the faint voice announcing a new arrival to the penthouse, shimmy into a white slip dress that I found in the walk-in closet, and run into the hallway.

I can already catch a whiff of his honey-and-musk aftershave. My resolve rallies fast and suddenly, I make a split-second decision that’s at least partially fueled by the shit ton of sugary snacks I’ve consumed all day to stave off the looming specter of soul-crushing boredom.

By the time I walk into the living room, Dmitri is reclining on the sofa with a drink in hand. He turns to me warily as though he’s anticipating a fight. I stride around the sofa until I’m standing right in front of him.

Then, without a word, I sink down onto my knees.

His eyes flare in that delicious way that only he can do. I grit my teeth and stay where I am, my chin jutting out defiantly. “You wanted me to kneel,” I explain softly. “I’m kneeling.”

He regards me coolly, still saying nothing. I have no idea if he’s annoyed or impressed. Either way, he’s called my bluff—so now, I’m calling his.

“I’m ready to go back to work.”

His jaw clenches. “Stand up.”

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