Page 22 of Secret Baby for the Bad Boy

“Success is the goal,” I say, moving toward the window as he falls into step beside me. The reflection shows both of us, our images like ghosts over a city that never slows down to breathe. It's a powerful visual, one that reinforces why I'm here.

“Goals are meant to be achieved,” Lark says, shifting his weight, close but not too close. “And I've never seen you fail to achieve yours.”

I like the compliment – it means so much more than calling me pretty, because I have to work for success – but I realistically wonder how he knows. He’s been out of my life for years now, and there are plenty of things about me that he doesn’t know.

“Let's keep it that way,” I say, holding his gaze in the reflection before turning away. There's work to be done, and no matter how unsettling Lark's presence might be, I can't afford distractions. Especially not the kind of life-altering distractions he brings with him.

“Let's,” he says in a way that tells me he’ll fight to help me every step of the way. I can also hear the smile in his voice as I step away, putting physical space between us once again. If I don’t… well… all bets are off. This man has an effect on me I can’t control or deny.

No matter what, I won't falter—not in business, and certainly not in whatever game we started five years ago and still haven’t seemed to concede, despite mutual promises to keep things professional. It occurs to me that maybe, just maybe, he’s struggling just as much to maintain that distance between us. But that’s not possible… is it?

I walk down the hall with purpose, my arms heavy with cardboard carriers brimming with coffees and bags of takeout that boast a variety of dishes and flavors.

I worry about my people, the stress lines etched into faces, evidence of long hours and relentless work. They’re long overdue for a break. With a few helpers who were in on things, Lark, Shana, and Mark, we carry things to the break room.

“Alright, everyone. Let's eat!” I say, the announcement leaving the space suddenly silent as heads pop up like prairie dogs alerted to a change in the wind.

“Is that from Gianni's?” one of the developers asks with a hopeful lilt as he sniffs the air.

“Yes – I got everyone’s favorite.” We set down the feast on the large central table, and the team converges with an enthusiasm that warms my heart. “You've all earned this.”

And I’ll never let anyone who tells me that keeping a spreadsheet of everyone’s favorite meals is crazy again.

A chorus of thanks transforms the room from a high-stress office to a communal dining space filled with conversations and joy. Smiles replace furrowed brows, and the music of unwrapping, pouring, and contented chatter replaces the frustration.

As the room buzzes with energy and happiness, I feel a gaze linger on me. Lark. It's been weeks since I told him that we’re keeping it professional, but the tension remains—a live wire we’re both trying desperately to avoid.

“Great idea bringing in lunch,” he says, leaning against a column with a casual elegance. “It's like you can read our minds.”

“Or stomachs,” I tease, keeping things light. Can I trust him? His presence is a pebble in my shoe—small but persistent. Every time I think I’m safe, I start to doubt and worry that he’s going to slip back into my life in a romantic sense… and that can’t happen.

“Both are important for morale.” His eyes hold mine a moment too long and the intimacy there unsettles me, leaving my heart fluttering and my face warming.

“Morale is key to an engaged, happy, work environment.” We might as well be quoting from some business handbook, but there’s an undercurrent that has me wanting to sidestep the conversation, so I move to help distribute plates and utensils.

“Can't have the troops going hungry,” Lark says as he follows close, but not crowding. His help isn't necessary, but it's not unwelcome, either. As he moves plates in stacks along the table where everyone can reach, I take a handful of plastic forks and move them beside the plates.

“Exactly,” I say, feeling the weight of his attention. What does he want?

“Especially when the general sets such a formidable pace,” he says, voice low, just for me.

“Focus on your own plate, soldier,” I tease, while taking a step back, but my heart skips. Why does he do this? Push and pull, teasing that could be innocent or not, a professionalism that leaves me longing for something else entirely.

“I always do,” he says, flashing a wink at me that dries up every drop of saliva in my mouth. How? How does he do that? Like he has some orders on command that just make my body respond without my permission.

“Good,” I say, even as questions swirl. Lunch continues around us, a pleasant gathering that I use as an excuse to turn my attention from him. I hide my worry behind a smile and focus on my team; their laughter, their camaraderie. They are why I'm here, why we're all here.

“Enjoy, everyone!” I call out, raising my cup in a mock toast before slipping away from the room and back to the safety of my desk.

Only when I’m safely back in my office do I exhale. Try as I might, I can’t shake off Lark's lingering presence that clings like sweat to my skin. Why does he have to be everywhere? The way his eyes hold mine, that slow, knowing smirk—it's too much. His casual touches leave me trembling inside, and desperate for what we shared in the past. But the past is past. That’s not my future. He’s not my future.

“Come in,” I say when a knock interrupts my thoughts. The door opens and, of course, it's him. My hands tremble and I lower them to my lap, casually smoothing the material of my dress. The color matches the gray ring in my eyes and manages to be both professional and sleek all at once.

“Hey.” He steps into my space, all casual confidence and rugged charm. This is my empire, my rules, yet here I am, a bundle of nerves because of this man. How dare he?

He extends a plate toward me, its contents colorful and arranged with care. “I noticed you didn't eat.” His voice is soft, yet it reverberates through me, sending ripples through my body, much like the pleasure he’d—

“Thanks.” The word catches in my throat. It's ridiculous, how just a few simple words and a thoughtful gesture like this can reduce me to a quivering puddle. I'm strong, damn it. But with Lark, my strength seems as substantial as a wisp of steam.

---