Page 59 of The Undercover Billionaire's Baby

“Checkmarks. He’s read it.”

I flipped my phone back to look for the dots, but Sam wasn’t typing. I watched the blank space.

“You need to say more than that so he knows it’s important.”

I tapped out another text. Backspaced. Bit my lip. Settled on Please. This is important.

The checkmarks appeared again, but again, no dots. I waited and still no dots, and dropped my phone in my purse.

“Let’s get back,” I said. “I’ll talk to him later.”

Later came and went, and then even later. I texted again that night, and then the next morning. Then I tried calling, but I bounced straight to voicemail. I got as far as “Hello, this is,” and then I hung up. Sam would see my number on the missed call. I had nothing else to say to him that was fit for voicemail.

“I need to borrow your car,” I told Alice at lunch. “I’ll pay you for gas, and?—”

“Are you going to see him?”

I nodded, eyes prickling. I didn’t want to see Sam. But what choice did I have, if he wouldn’t text back? Maybe it would be better not to tell him at all, to spare our child a father who didn’t call back. I could see it already, four years from now, a little boy or girl waiting for Daddy. Waiting on the front steps for him as the morning dragged on, the light slowly going out of their eyes. I’d try to explain to them, Daddy’s just busy, but what they’d hear would be too busy for you.

Still, three hours later, I was in Boston, finding a parking space at Elkins Tower. I sat for a long time, hands on the wheel, trying to decide, was this the right thing? Sam was rich. He had lawyers. What if he took my baby? I didn’t think he’d do that, but what if he did? What if he offered to pay to “take care of it?” What if he laughed at me? If he wouldn’t see me at all?

I let out a shaky breath and pushed off my what-ifs. All I could do was what I thought was right, and right now, I felt like I had to tell Sam. He’d told me he wanted kids. He could be a good dad. I’d seen that in him, his kindness. His caring. I couldn’t keep his child from him if he wanted to be a father.

One step into Elkins Tower and I felt my throat close. My heart raced, my skin crawled, and I broke out in a sweat. I felt suddenly small and impossibly shabby, though I’d come in my best, most professional skirt. Even the lobby here was shiny and luxe, huge soaring windows, planters full of green. A whole indoor koi pond with its own little bridge. The receptionist was watching me with cool, judging eyes, one hand on her headset, her lips pressed together. Was she calling somebody to throw me out?

I shook my head to clear it and marched up to her desk. “I’m here to see Sam,” I said. She held up one finger. I realized she was listening to someone on her headset. Nodding along with whatever they said.

“Sorry,” she said at last. “You’re here to see who?”

“Sam? Sam Elkins?”

“Do you have an appointment?”

I blinked. “An appointment? Uh, no, but?—”

“You’ll need to call back and make an appointment.” She thumbed her headset back on.

“Wait, no. He’ll see me. Just tell him Lana’s here. Lana Stamey?”

“Hold on.” The receptionist tapped on her headset. “Sorry, Lana, was it? You’ll need to call his office and make an appointment.”

It hit me, she’d never heard of me. Neither had the legions of suits streaming by me, headed to their offices high above. Boston wasn’t like Haverford, where everyone knew your business. Here, it was like me and Sam never happened. I was out of place, an unseemly intruder.

“If you could just call him? Tell him I’m here?”

The receptionist ignored me, intent on her headset. A phone burred on her desk and she pressed a button.

“Good afternoon, Elkins Group. How may I direct you?”

I backed away from her desk, but I couldn’t just leave. I’d come all this way, and I’d come on a mission. Sam would hear me out, and he’d hear me today. I wasn’t about to make an appointment.

I looped around the koi pond and joined with the suits, with a dark group of them headed for the elevators. They didn’t seem to notice me trailing along, and neither did the receptionist rapt in her phone.

“I hate squash,” said one of them, and brushed lint off his sleeve. “I miss the days when we all played golf. Whoever started this squash trend?—”

“You’re just sore you lost.”

“On purpose, you dolt. It’s a fine art, trying to lose to some of these morons.”

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