Page 35 of Secret Baby for the Bad Boy

“It’s a beautiful night,” I say, trying to sound casual, as if I can ignore the tightness in my chest.

“Perfect for a dance with a beautiful woman,” he replies, a corner of his mouth lifting.

I want to make some joke about him finding me a pretty woman to dance with, but I’m far too nervous. “Maybe after dinner.”

“Of course.”

I never would have expected a gesture like this, and I’m at a loss. This feels like a date, but is it? Is there some chance that he and I can be something more? Maybe we could— no. I’m being a silly romantic. If I entertain a relationship with him, I’ll lose myself in the process. I know that.

Needing to escape for a moment, I slide my chair back, the soft scrape the only sound. I make my way to the windows and Lark follows. Side by side, we look out over the city. The lights all around us twinkle like we’re floating in a galaxy all our own.

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, before glancing over and catching sight of his profile. He’s handsome against the skyline, and the scent of his cologne warms my lungs.

“You’re beautiful.” His voice is confident, smooth as the velvet sky above us.

“It must've cost a fortune to close down the whole place.” I can't help but let out a soft laugh, colored with disbelief. The restaurant, usually bustling with life, is now quiet and surreal.

“That doesn't matter.” He turns, and that gaze—so intense, so full of something I don’t dare name—captures mine. “I wanted it to just be us tonight.”

A shiver runs through me, desire and caution tangling like ivy on old stone walls. I want to lean into that gaze, to accept what he’s offering. But that wouldn’t be smart, for either of us. We work together now, and mixing business and pleasure is a really bad idea. Besides, we both agreed to let the past stay there. But Lark seems intent on building a future.

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” I say, hoping my humor masks the shiver and my worry that he’ll see right through me.

“Everywhere?” he asks, arching an eyebrow and making his thoughts clear.

A blush warms my cheeks and I look away, taking in the beauty laid out before us. How can I respond to that when all I want is for him to pull me close and kiss me? Coming out with him was a mistake. But when he asked to take me to dinner, I didn’t think we’d be alone in this intimate of a space. I thought he wanted to talk business, or about our son, or to make plans about being a father. This feels like none of those things.

“Are you trying to impress me?” My words are playful, but my heart pounds so hard I feel faint. There’s no way he can’t hear my pulse, but thankfully, he doesn’t say anything.

“Maybe.” A half-smile plays on his lips. “Is it working?”

“Perhaps,” I say, feeling the pull of his presence. “But don't think we should take this further.” Why does it hurt to say the words? I’m making the right choice… it shouldn’t make breathing painful.

“I wouldn't dream of it.” His reply is soft, and almost certainly a total lie. He didn’t bring me here with the intention of talking business or about our son. This is a date.

Thankfully, we’re interrupted by the waiter. He places a bottle of wine on the table with a soft thud. Two glasses follow and he looks everywhere but at us, as if trying not to invade our privacy. He vanishes into the shadows, and Lark leads me back to the table.

We sit and Lark's fingers curl around the neck of the bottle, expertly tilting it over two crystal glasses. The wine pours, a rich crimson ribbon catching the flicker of candlelight.

“Chateau Margaux,” he says, as if the name holds some significance. I don’t drink a lot of wine – or much alcohol in general – so I’m not an expert by any means.

Still, I give a polite nod, watching the dance of shadows on the black tablecloth. My fingers brush against the stem of my glass, feeling the cool, smooth glass and wishing I wasn’t so warm. Though I doubt the heat I feel has anything to do with the temperature.

“Why are you doing this, Lark?” I ask, the question bursting out of me. I didn’t know I needed answers, but boy do I.

He pauses, his glass halfway to his lips, and searches my face. “Isn't it obvious?” he replies, his eyebrows twitching as he places the glass back on the table without a taste. “I want to make things right between us.”

I didn’t know things weren’t right between us.

My confusion must be showing on my face, because he smiles and reaches out to put his hand on mine.

I didn’t expect this — not a date, not the seclusion that makes the evening feel like we're the only two people in the world. There's an elephant in the room, and it's the thought of him here for me instead of our son. It squeezes my heart, but I can't look away from his gaze, intense even in the low light.

“Make things right?” I ask, feeling a tight smile pull at the corners of my mouth. “Or is this your way of warming me up? Softening the blow before you take our son?” The words come out cooler than I intend.

He leans in, a frown creasing his brow. “I wouldn’t use tactics like that with you.” His voice lowers, sincere or convincingly feigning sincerity. “This is about us, too, not just him. Though he is a part of everything.”

The desire I've tried so hard to bury rises within me, a persistent sensation of heat pooling low in my belly as my body demands he come closer and touch me. That feeling has never really faded, no matter how much I've wished it away.

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