Page 40 of Secret Baby for the Bad Boy

I hold my breath as her hand leaves mine and her slender fingers work at the ribbon, untying the bow with a gentle tug. Thankfully, the velvet box is narrow and rectangular, so it doesn’t give the wrong impression.

She lifts the lid, and I watch her eyes widen—a clear blue with that stormy gray ring.

“Wow,” she whispers, tracing the heart-shaped pendant with a fingertip.

“Turn it over,” I say.

Her hands obey, revealing the initials—our son's initials—etched into the silver. She gasps softly her gaze warm and stunned as she looks at me.

“It's beautiful, Lark,” she says, her voice wavering.

I’d made sure this was a custom piece made just for her. And the reason is simple. “I wanted you to have something special... something to remind you of today.”

She leans in, her head finding the crook of my shoulder, fitting there like it's meant to be. Win’s giggles reach us from where he drives his mini luxury car across the open grass, and everything feels right in the world.

“Thank you,” she says. “This means the world to me.”

Everything I've ever wanted is right here, with her, our son, and this moment. I place a kiss to the top of her head.

Chapter Seventeen

Lara

My fingers fly across the keyboard, the clacking the only sound in my office. It's late, way past when the cleaning crew nodded their goodbyes and the last of my colleagues shut down their computers and made their ways home.

Droplets of rain cling to the windows, distorting the view outside. The city lights, usually sharp pinpricks against the night, instead merge into a watercolor of light. Reds blur into yellows, streetlamps bleed into neon signs, a view that’s fascinating and exciting to take in. But I’m not focused on the outside world, or anything but the words flowing across my screen.

I’ve powered down the second screen because I don’t need it at the moment, and I ignore that, too. I've dialed down the overheads to help ease the strain on my eyes. In the gentle ambiance I prefer for these solitary work sessions, my mind can focus, even if thoughts of him do sneak in occasionally.

I lean back, stretching the stiffness from my limbs, wishing I could do the same for the soreness. My gaze lingers on the windows for a moment, trying to focus on something far away to combat the constant closeness of the screens. The technique eases the pain gathering at the base of my skull and I breathe a sigh of relief.

“I’m almost there,” I whisper to myself, to keep the focus that threatens to slip away with each tick of the clock. I hate late nights. Hate not being the one to put my son to bed. Hate that he’ll remember mom was busy and worked late far too many times. But some things can’t be helped, and that’s heartbreaking and true all at once.

My reflection stares back at me from the darkened screen of my dormant second monitor. I look determined, stubborn, and tired. The set of my lips is tight, and I actively try to relax my face.

“I’ve got this,” I say, rolling my shoulders to relieve the tension that's built up over hours of hunching and rubbing the back of my neck with one hand before diving right back into the comfort of work where I can forget everything else but what’s next, work emails, and the plans we’ve made to take the next step… once we find a partner.

For now, I just need to look over one more report. Send a few more emails. Then it's nothing but the comfort of my bed and the promise of sleep, however brief, before morning brings along a whole new set of demands.

The words on the report blur together and I let out a sigh that seems too loud in the silence. The details of the report fight like needy children for my attention. My eyes ache. I rub at the tension clawing the back of my neck, wishing it away. Why do I do this to myself? This could wait until morning, but some part of me won’t let me rest until this is complete.

“Working late?” A familiar voice startles me, and I almost fall out of my chair.

Lark stands in the doorway, but his presence fills the room like an unspoken demand for my attention. What the heck is he still doing here? It’s late, and there’s no way he still has work to do.

“Always,” I say, not turning to face him. “Deadlines don't sleep.”

“Neither do you, apparently.” He walks into my office, and I can feel his gaze on me, intense and oddly warming up my core.

“Can't afford to.” I try to sound nonchalant, focus on the screen where the words continue to blur into meaningless shapes.

“Let me help.” It's not a question, but a demand that I let him take over. But I’m not about to let anyone make demands, not even him. Outside this office, maybe he can lead, but in it, this is where I lead.

“No, I've got it.” I force my attention back to the work, wondering why he’s still there, still studying me, still not making a move to go so I can get back to work, because when he’s looking at me like that, I can hardly breathe, let alone accomplish anything.

He doesn't move, doesn't speak, just watches. I can almost hear the wheels turning in his head, calculating, assessing, planning.

“Go home, Lark.” My tone is sharper than I intend. “I'm fine.”

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