Page 27 of Secret Bump

I’m stuck in a place of fear and uncertainty.

And my underwear isstilla mess.

“I need that shower,” I manage to get out.

He exhales roughly, then turns me and leads me into the world’s nicest bathroom. It has a sitting area. It has an oversized tub that looks out onto a fountain below. It has two sinks, one of which has a cluster of Mack-coded accessories next to it—a sterntoothbrush, a couple of matte black tins that might be beard oil, and an aluminum tube of toothpaste that probably costs more than my daily pay check. The other sink looks like it’s never been used, which makes my heart feel traitorous, hopeful things.

I hate the idea of another woman sharing this bathroom with him. I hate it so much my neck gets hot and I have to focus on the shower in front of me to not burst out with questions about his dating life.

It’s a huge shower. Like, made for multiple people kind of huge.

“Do you have orgies here?” I clap my hand over my mouth, but it’s too late.

He looks down at me, eyebrow raised sharply. “Do you think of me as an orgy-having monster?”

I mumble my answer behind my hand.

He shakes his head and peels my fingers back. “No secrets, Isabelle.”

“Not a monster,” I mutter, looking down. “Orgies are perfectly fine, but I’d rather you don’t have them because I don’t like the idea of you having sex with anyone but me.”

He sets his knuckle under my chin and lifts my face. “No orgies, I promise. Any other important relationship notes or questions?”

“Was that someone’s sink?” I wince. “Nevermind?—”

“No,” he says firmly, cutting me off. “The second sink just came with the house, which I bought for the privacy it affords, no other reason. I’ve never been married. Never lived with anyone, or been engaged.” He holds my gaze. “This is my private domain, and now it is yours.”

“I find this all very hard to make sense of,” I admit.

He leans in, hovering his mouth over mine for a long, aching second before kissing me on the cheek. “Then it’s my job to helpmake it make sense,” he says. “Have a shower. I’ll get you some fresh clothes.”

He strides out like a tornado, leaving me a wreck in his wake. Fingers shaking, I take the silly blue flowers out of my hair and set them on the marble countertop. I strip off my dress that felt like protective armour earlier, and avoid my visibly pregnant reflection in the mirror as I shove my underwear down my thighs.

They are sticky with our combined mess, so I quickly wash them in the sink.

Where can I hang sex-stained panties in this bathroom? Will Mrs. Millbank come in here?

I find a double stacked hook and put the underwear on the lower hook and then hang my dress above it, hiding them from sight.

Then I finally turn to the shower, which is even more glorious than I guessed. It takes a minute to figure out all the taps, but I’m soon enveloped in warm steam. A detachable wand head feels like heaven between my legs, cleaning me up and giving me a thrill at the same time.

And then I explore the fancy bottles on the tiled shelf. Some of them smell like Mack, and some of them just smell…nice. Botanical. Simple. Clean.

I wash my hair twice, and my face three times.

I only get out of the shower when my fingertips start to wrinkle.

When I crack the door open and peer out, I see a robe hanging in the sitting area.

It’s big and soft and thick, and I practically disappear into it. I wrap it around myself and step quietly into the bedroom.

Mack is sitting on the edge of the bed, his head bowed, typing furiously on his phone.

“Hi,” I whisper.

He jumps. “Isabelle.” His gaze rakes over the robe, down to my bare feet, then back up to my face. “Feel better?”

I shrug.

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