Page 18 of Secret Baby for the Bad Boy

“Shana, it's just business. Nothing more.” I adjust my laptop before me, pretending to read something important on the glowing screen.

“Of course.” But there's a hint of worry in her tone, and I know I haven’t convinced her one bit.

“Remember how much he used to drink?” I blurt out, then immediately regret it. Why am I bringing this up? Then it occurs to me – if I point out his faults and flaws, she’ll have to recognize I’m not interested in him.

“He was on vacation. Everyone drinks on vacation,” Shana says, her gaze unfocusing as if remembering how much we drank then, too. Which was a heck of a lot more than we typically do. Her attention returns to me. “But his drinking is none of our business, right? As long as it doesn't affect his work.”

“Right.” It’s none of my business. Except for the tiny, irrational part of me that worries. Lark had really gotten to me all those years ago. What’s to stop that from happening again? Can I really stand firm and not let him in? I have to. There’s no other option.

“Okay.” Shana pushes off my desk, relaxing back in her chair while studying my face in search of answers I don’t have. “Just remember, office romances are always a bad idea. Always.”

I manage a tight smile. “Noted.” The last thing I want is another complication in my life.

I lean back in my chair and let out a slow breath as Shana’s expression softens.

“How's Win doing?” she asks, a smile on her face as she asks about my son.

The mention of his name brings a smile onto my lips, warmth spreading through my chest at the thought of my little boy. “He's good. Growing too fast.” I picture his bright, infectious laughter, his green eyes sparkling with mischief—Lark's eyes. I’d named him Winston, but Win suits him, because he is a win in every sense of the word.

“Sounds like he's keeping you on your toes,” she says with a laugh. “Maybe we should do dinner on Thursday.”

We often had “family dinner nights” where Shana, myself, my brother, and win all sat down as a family. Shana might not be related by blood, but she’s the family we picked, and she’s closer than pretty much anyone else in our lives.

“Always.” My heart swells as I think about him and how much I love everything about him. Even the parts that remind me of Lark. “He's curious about everything. Just yesterday, he asked me why the moon follows us.” I laugh, thinking about the concern in his face as he asked if the moon is a stalker.

I smile as I think about how I’d had to explain that it’s simply an optical illusion. Then we’d dived right into other kinds of optical illusions and spent the night tricking our brains and having fun.

“He’s a smart kid.” The fond sparkle in her eye has me nodding.

“I swear he gets it from his uncle,” I say. “Speaking of Damon… Those two are thick as thieves. Damon taught him how to make paper airplanes last weekend. You should've seen the house.” I laugh. My brother’s time spent in a chair have led him to learn everything he can over the years. He’s intelligent, and driven to be able to answer all of Win’s questions. And I love that about him.

“I bet you made him clean it all up.” Shana grins, probably imagining the chaos.

“Definitely. With a little help from Gigi.” My housecleaner works so darn hard to keep up, and that’s why I give her huge bonuses… especially after fiascos like the paper airplane incident. “But it's worth it, seeing them together. Damon's been amazing with him.”

“I’m sure Damon loves the company. Did you ever find a nurse he’s willing to work with?”

I shake my head. “He insists he doesn’t need anyone, but I’m so afraid something will happen when I’m not home, you know?” I love my brother and don’t want anything to happen to him. I’d never forgive myself.

Shana reaches out and pats my arm. “You’re doing great by him. All you can do is voice your concerns; you can’t make him accept them.”

She’s right, but he’s such a stubborn ass. “And it’s good to hear they're both doing well.”

“Thanks, Shana.” I meet her gaze, grateful for the moment of peace she's given me in a morning filled with stress and worries mostly focused on Lark's return. “It means a lot. How have things been with you?”

She shrugs. “Same old, same old.” I know she doesn’t get along with her family much. Her mom burned bridges and her family assumed the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. It’s sad, really. Sometimes they invite her for holidays, but she spends them with us instead, saying we’re more like family than those strangers.

“I’d love to do dinner on Thursday,” I say, answering her question from before.

She nods. “Anytime,” she says, standing up. “You've got a great family, Lara.”

“I couldn't agree more; and you’re part of it.” A soft smile crosses her lips and I smile back. After she leaves, I study the fiddle-leaf fig that stands in the corner. Its broad leaves reach for the ceiling, leaning toward the light streaming in from the windows.

I stand up and make my way to the plant, then trail a finger over the glossy surface of one leaf, appreciating the simple act of caring for something that asks for so little in return. Maybe I’m crazy, but I talk to my plants. I love them, and they thrive here.

“Don’t you?” I ask. “Thrive with a bit of light, water, and love.” I give the plant an affectionate stroke. “If only it were always that straightforward.”

With a sigh, I stand at the windows a moment, looking down over the city before making my way back to my desk. The polished surface is uncluttered, save for a sleek laptop. I’d hidden the single framed photo in a desk drawer when Lark came in. It was a photo taken on a day when the world seemed lighter, easier. The picture of me and Win is a freeze-frame of joy in a sea of calculated perfection.

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