Page 43 of Sold To My Ex's Dad

I pause, my hands still. "Star?" I ask, even though I know exactly what she's hinting at.

She flashes a knowing smile over her shoulder. "Michelin," she clarifies, her tone playful yet serious. "It’s pretty rare for a new place like Savor to be in the running for a Michelin Star so quickly, but then, Savor isn't exactly commonplace, is it?"

Her words strike a chord. Moved by her confidence in me, I close the distance between us.

"I don’t want it to be just me earning that star, Allie," I tell her firmly, taking her hand to stop her diligent scrubbing. "I want it to be us. We’re in this together."

The warmth in her smile tells me she gets it. We’re a team, in and out of the kitchen. I lean in and kiss her, sealing our shared commitment and dreams.

With the kitchen finally spotless and our work done, we walk out together.

We drive back to my place in quiet comfort, still riding the high from tonight's success. Once inside, I head to the fridge to grab a bottle of champagne, eager to keep the celebratory vibe going. "How about something to celebrate?" I ask, reaching for the glasses.

Her reaction is quick. "Actually, I'd rather not have alcohol tonight," she says, her voice a bit hesitant.

I nod and switch gears. "Sparkling cider, then?" I suggest, and she agrees more warmly this time. I pour us each a glass, and we toast to the future—ours and Savor's.

We sip the cider in silence before I lean in for a kiss, caught up in the moment. She pulls back sooner than expected, an apologetic smile on her face. "I might not be up for much tonight; I’m pretty tired," she admits.

I sense there's more she's not saying, but I let it be. Instead, I suggest, "Let’s just relax then," and she seems relieved.

We head to bed, and she curls up next to me. I wrap my arms around her, comforted by her presence. Even though she's holding something back, I'm content just to have her here. Holding her close, I think about the future that awaits us.

As sleep edges in, I find myself smiling.

Chapter 27

Allie

Iwake up alone in bed, but the delicious smells wafting in from the kitchen tell me Patrick’s up to something good. I stretch and can't help but feel a twinge of guilt for being so distant last night. It wasn’t fair to him, especially after such a big night at Savor, but between the pregnancy and what I overheard in the bathroom last night, my mind’s still swirling.

I grab my phone and see a barrage of texts from Stacy, each more dramatic than the last:

Good morning! Did you spill the tea yet?

You can’t just leave me in suspense! What’d he say?

Helloooo, are you ignoring me? I’m literally on the edge of my seat here!

I chuckle, feeling her impatience vibrating through the phone. I type a quick reply to calm her down, or at least try to.

But then my thoughts drift back to Donnie from last night, his creepy stares and that sleazy grin. Just the memory of them makes my skin crawl. How am I supposed to concentrate on work with that murder plot lurking in the background?

Shaking off the ick, I decide it’s time to face the music—and the yummy smells. Maybe a good breakfast will give me the boost I need to finally tell Patrick about the baby.

With a deep breath and a plan to tackle one thing at a time, I toss the covers back and head to the closet. Time to turn on the charm and ease into the big news.

I quickly throw on one of Patrick’s dress shirts, taking a moment to savor the scent that lingers on the fabric, and step out of the bedroom.

Pausing at the doorway of a spare bedroom, I'm struck by how unused it seems, like a blank canvas waiting for a new picture. The morning sunlight streams through the window, bathing the room in a warm, inviting glow. I step inside, my eyes imagining where a crib could go and picturing cheerful kids' decor brightening up the walls and a soft carpet strewn with toys. It’s so easy to envision a child’s laughter filling up this space.

The daydream snaps me back to reality with a pang of urgency. I need to talk to Patrick, and I need to do it today. With a deep breath, I turn from the potential nursery and head toward the kitchen, the aroma of breakfast growing stronger.

Patrick stands at the stove, expertly maneuvering a slotted spoon to retrieve perfectly poached eggs from a simmering pot. One glance at the setup, and I recognize the makings of eggs Benedict. My stomach growls in anticipation.

"Morning," I call out, trying to keep my voice light despite the butterflies fluttering in my stomach about the conversation ahead.

Patrick glances over his shoulder, his smile bright and welcoming. "Good morning," he replies cheerfully. "I see you've raided my wardrobe," he adds, his eyes flicking appreciatively down to the dress shirt I've thrown on. It hangs loosely on me, barely covering my thighs.

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