Page 23 of Secret Baby for the Bad Boy

He nods, and there’s that look again—the one that makes me feel seen, vulnerable. I take the plate, our fingers brushing. A jolt of electricity tingles up my arm from the point of contact, and I jerk away, nearly dumping the plate.

Despite my movement, he holds onto the plate, even when I let go. Flustered from his touch, I smile at him and he places it on my desk. There’s a look in his eyes, an acknowledgement that he felt the same shock when we touched. And suddenly, my office feels too small, too intimate. We shouldn’t be in here alone.

“Sorry,” he says, the word brushing across my skin like his fingertips had when we—. Why can’t I stop thinking about those nights in his arms?

His eyes assess me as if he’s trying to read the moment. I can only hope I’m not giving him clues; I don’t want him to know I’m barely hanging on to a thread of self-control right now. I want to jump on him, pin him to my desk, and take the pleasure he so effortlessly gave.

But I can’t do that. We can’t do that.

He steps back, one corner of his mouth lifting in an apologetic half-smile while his eyes seem to be asking questions I'm afraid to answer.

Feeling like I’m failing to hide in the fortress of professionalism I’ve built, I scramble for what to do or say next, but come up with nothing helpful. “Work is…” Work is what? Brain, come on, give me something to work with!

“Important. I get it.” The softness in his voice almost annoys me because his concern shouldn't be able to break through my defenses.

To my relief – and dismay – he turns and makes his way to the door. But with his hand on the knob, he pauses as if to say more. Then he seems to change his mind. Instead, he pulls the door open and slips out toward the voices in the break room and I’m left staring at the plate of food, so thoughtfully arranged, wondering what the heck just happened.

I sit there, staring at the space where he stood, the emotions left behind, lingering like a ghost. I draw in a shaky breath, turning my attention back to the food on my desk, wondering why it feels like a peace offering in a battle I didn't know we were fighting.

“Damn you, Lark,” I whisper to the empty room. No matter how tall I've built my walls, he finds a way over them, under them, around them. And each time, it scares me more—because falling isn't just a possibility; it's starting to seem inescapable.

So… maybe hiring him was a mistake.

The silence wraps around me, a reminder that I'm alone again, left to wonder what game we're playing—and why I'm so scared that I've already lost.

I push the plate aside, untouched. I can't afford distractions. Not when everything I've worked for is at stake. Not when my heart is the prize, and Lark doesn't even know he's competing for it. Or does he?

Another knock at the door has me worried he’s back again, maybe to say whatever he’d left unsaid before. But the door opens to Shana instead. Her gaze meets mine and I can see the concern there.

I wave her in and she sits, her ribs deflating as she lets out a huge breath. “What happened?” I ask, almost afraid of the answer.

“Another rejection,” she says, her voice steady despite the setback.

I lean forward, planting my elbows on the desk and pressing my fingertips together as I absorb the news. “We need someone who fits, not just anyone.”

“Right.” Shana sighs, flipping through the profiles scattered across the table. “But time isn't exactly on our side.”

“Quality over quick,” I say, my tone firm. “Our third partner has to share our vision.”

“Agreed.” She pauses, then looks up with a determined gleam in her eyes. “We'll find them. We have to.”

“Absolutely.” I stand, stretching the tension from my limbs. The office fades away as I picture my son's smile, the real reason behind all this striving.

“Mommy!” A blur of energy greets me as the door swings open. My brother sits there, grinning as my son launches himself into my arms.

“Hey, buddy!” I laugh, lifting him up high.

“Uncle Damon and I made an obstacle course!” Win says, wiggling to be set down. I follow him as he takes my hand to show off what they’ve done, and Damon follows.

They've turned the living room into a labyrinth of cushions and blankets, chairs and boxes.

“Looks impressive,” I say, when he looks over his shoulder at me, his smile wide and excited.

“Watch this!” he exclaims and dashes off, navigating the makeshift hurdles with the unbridled joy only a child possesses.

“Careful!” I call after him, but he's already giggling, disappearing behind a fortress of pillows.

Damon meets my eye, and I want to tell him he’s the best uncle in the history of uncles.

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