Page 36 of Secret Baby for the Bad Boy

With a sigh, I let go of the breath I didn't know I'd been holding. “I remember what we had, Lark,” I say. “It was supposed to be a harmless fling, then we’d never see each other again. Then I learned too much about you…” I bite down on my lip to stop the flow of words.

His hand, still on mine, feeling warm and safe, gently squeezes. “I'm not asking for forgiveness, and I can’t change the past,” he says softly. "I’m asking to be part of your life, and our son's, too.”

Guilt pricks at me, sharp and bitter. I'd cut him out completely, shielded myself behind walls I built to keep myself and my child safe. His child. Our child. Yet here he is, still trying to get over, under, or through the defenses I'd painstakingly constructed.

“Can we do that?” I whisper, looking down at our intertwined hands, the contact sending a jolt of warmth up my arm and through my chest.

“Maybe, maybe not,” he says, hope flooding his words. “But we can try, and that’s all I’m asking.”

The clink of dishes has us jolting apart as the waiter comes by, placing plates before us before vanishing again.

We wait until we’re certain he’s gone out of earshot, picking up our silverware as I study the delicious salmon and risotto that’s been beautifully plated. It’s almost a shame to eat the food and destroy how pretty it is. But my stomach grumbles in protest and I take a quick bite.

The food melts in my mouth and the flavors are an explosion of perfection. No wonder this place is so exclusive… the food is incredible.

But I don’t just want to eat in silence and ignore Lark. “Tell me about you, Lark. The parts I missed.”

He pauses, his fork halfway to his lips, and sets it down with deliberate slowness. A shadow darkens his powerful features, and a barricade rises behind those bright green eyes. “There’s not much to tell.” The way he deflects and flashes a half-smile tells me that there is so, so much to tell. “Dad passed when I was young. Mom and I... we've always been close.”

His words are sparse, but they carry a lot of weight. I sense the pain lurking beneath the surface, even though his façade doesn’t slip.

“Your mother is wonderful,” I say, remembering her treats and how she’d made the whole office happy the day she’d come in.

He nods, a genuine softness in his features for a moment. “She is. I’m lucky to have her in my life.”

Then, with the subtlety of a charging bull, he turns the conversation toward our son. “Winston. What's he like?”

A swell of pride warms me as I speak of our child. “He's high-energy, fun-loving, and sweet. He has your smile and eyes.” Even as my heart swells, it constricts, too. Lark's presence means sharing—splitting time, splitting memories. It stings more than I expect.

“Sounds like he's going to keep us on our toes,” Lark says, a twinkle of amusement lighting up his expression.

“Definitely.” My laughter sounds oddly flat, almost sad, as if the emotions warring within me are tipping toward sadness.

When the last bite of dessert—a chocolate cherry mousse—is gone, the sweet taste still lingering, I breathe a sigh. I’ve had a good time with Lark. This has been the perfect end to an unexpected evening.

Lark rises and offers his hand with gentle grace, eyes alight with something warm, something dangerous.

“May I have this dance?” His voice, a soft growl, sends a flutter through me.

My mouth opens, but no words come out. I want to say yes. I want to say no. I want to stall and try to figure out what the heck to say or do next. This isn't part of the plan.

“Okay,” I whisper, my traitorous mouth making the choice for me even though my head and heart say this is a very bad idea. My hand finds his and I feel a jolt of electricity at the contact.

He leads me, steady and calm, to the middle of the open space of the loft. His touch is light on my waist, pulling me into his arms. His right hand and my left entwine, our fingers laced as he places his other hand on my hip.

Nothing else matters as we move as one, our steps small and intimate. He’s an expert at leading me, and I follow with more grace than I ever thought I might. I’m not used to following. I’m used to leading, but with him, this feels natural.

“Thank you,” I whisper, unsure if I'm grateful for the dance or the way he's made me feel alive again.

Lark only smiles and I rest my head on his chest, loving the closeness and the rhythm of his heart under my ear.

His fingertips send warmth creeping across my waist and my whole body is screaming for him to do more, to touch me, to take me, to give me a taste of the passion we’d shared all those years ago. Would it still be as incredible?

“Relax,” he whispers, his breath tickling my ear.

A laugh tries to bubble up, but I push it back down. Relax? Easier said than done. I glance up at him, a question on the tip of my tongue. But my voice won’t work.

I should push away, put space between us. Every instinct screams that I’m making a huge mistake, one I’ll regret. Yet here I am, shifting closer, my arm winding around the curve of his shoulder. The fabric of his shirt is soft against my skin, and the scent of his cologne is as fresh as the crisp night air.

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