Page 13 of The Wrong Bride

She smiled then, a small, genuine smile that lit up her face. "Join the club. Isn't that how you Americans say it?"

I felt my heart lighten a little. I wasn't the only clueless one in this marriage. "Do you know whatyouwant?"

She put a hand on her stomach, and I felt something pulse inside me, something I recognized as possessiveness. I wanted to put my hand on hers, on her stomach. I wanted to feel our baby.

"Can you feel her?" I whispered.

"Her?"

I shrugged. "When I think of the baby, I think of a mini you. Pretty and cute, with curly hair and dark eyes."

"Oui?" Her eyes lit up. "I think of a miniyou."

"Let's hope not," I replied honestly. "I'd much rather our baby be beautiful like you."

"You think I'm beautiful?"

I blinked. "Stunning," I revealed.

"I think you're very handsome," she said shyly.

Me?I was a son of a bitch and a hard ass. I was a nasty piece of work. No one had ever called mehandsome. Well, except for escorts, but I paid them, so what the hell else would they say.

"You moved your things into my…ourbedroom." My heart was beating fast now. Did she want a real marriage? Probably. It was just that I hadn't given it much thought. I was marrying the woman pregnant with my baby whose father was a criminal with a gun—but I hadn't considered the ramifications of a marriage.

She seemed uneasy, and I wondered if I'd said the wrong thing. "It needs…a little color."

"The bedroom?"

She nodded.

I sighed in relief. "You can decorate it any way you want. Whatever you want is fine with me."

"Our styles are very different."

"I have no style," I blurted out. "This is all Madame Lefèvre and some interior designer Mom hired."

"You can't have no style." She furrowed her brows.

"I guess. I just I don't know what my style is. I grew up in my parents’ home and then lived in furnished apartments and hotel suites. This is the first place I've owned. Not the company, just me." I looked around and felt no connection to this apartment at all.

"What do you like?" she probed.

I thought about it and shrugged. "Hotels."

"Your place looks like a hotel." She looked through to the formal dining room past the wide doors of the kitchen.

I drank some wine. "Elsa, I don't spend a lot of time here. I travel a lot. I usually stay at the Ritz where there's room service and—"

"Escorts?"

I nodded. "Yeah, that too."

"Will you…ah…still…ah—"

"No," I immediately said. I was all kinds of an asshole, but I wouldn't cheat on my wife. Hell fucking no. "I haven't been with anyone since you."

Her eyes went wide. "What? Why? You got hurt or something?"

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