Page 31 of Sinful Blaze

“We’ve got work to do.” I shut the laptop and rise to my feet. “Daphne and our baby are under my protection. Our protection. Whether she likes it or not.”

10

DAPHNE

I should be getting ready. Should be doing something more, at least. More makeup, or more jewelry, or more… I dunno. Better hairstyle, maybe.

Instead, I’m lying on my bed and staring at the ceiling like it’s going to spit out all the answers to my burning questions.

How is this supposed to work?

How am I supposed to raise a baby with a man like Pasha?

Should I raise my baby with him?

What if he thinks I’m just some gold-digger?

I don’t need Pasha’s help. Even if my parents have fallen from grace, my job at the gallery pays enough to keep a roof over my head. I have enough to cover rent, bills, and make sure my baby has everything they need.

But I want Pasha’s… not his help, but more like… involvement? Yeah, that’s it. I just want him to be involved, to be part of this whole process of learning how to become decent parents in a less-than-decent world.

He doesn’t know how much his promise means to me. That he’ll be right here, by my side, raising our child with me.

Because he’s basically the only person in my life to make such a promise.

Mother still won’t talk to me. Father is… well, he’s surprisingly not as furious as I anticipated. More like he’s wallowing in grief over the fall of the House of Hamish. His two daughters are a curse upon his name and he’s been praying for answers as to what he did to deserve any of this. Thus far, God has declined to pick up his calls.

At least Melanie is excited to be an aunt. She did promise to check in on me frequently and to be there for the birth, so that’s something. But she’s got her own shit to deal with, so I can’t exactly ask her to hold my hand through everything.

So it really does circle back to Pasha. Gorgeous, sexy, way-too-damn-sure-of-himself Pasha. Will our baby have his eyes? His rugged jaw? His devilish charm?

An image of Pasha cradling our baby in his arms, bare-chested and cooing in the middle of the night, sends a surge of heat straight to my core.

Fuck, I want him. I want that. I want him and that and so much more.

The alarm on my phone goes off before my hopes devolve into raunchy fantasies.

Ugh.

Showtime.

I grab my purse and keys and head for the door, pausing only to slip on the heels that match my little black dress. I might as well enjoy them now before my ankles and feet get too swollen.

And then I damn near trip over a heavy vase in the hall.

“What the hell?” I mumble to myself as I swoop down to catch the huge bouquet of flowers before they topple over and spill water all over the carpet.

Roses. Interesting. Champagne-colored with pink tips and there’s at least two dozen?—

Ah, shit.

They’re from Conrad.

There’s a note scrawled inside the card, but the only thing I actually read is his boorish signature at the end. It’s enough to make me want to toss the note into the trash and the bouquet out the window.

But they are roses. And beautiful ones, at that. I’d hate to waste them.

They’ll survive in my car until I figure out where they belong.

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