Page 43 of Baby I'm Yours

Later, when she’s asleep on my chest, and I’m staring at the ceiling, unable to deny how good this feels, I realize what a fool I was. Staying away from the apartment during the day isn’t going to cut it, not when this woman is fully capable of putting me under her spell in ten minutes or less.

I’ll have to reevaluate my approach in the morning.

But for now, I let myself enjoy the feel of her curvy little body relaxed against mine, giving me a trust I absolutely don’t deserve.

twelve

ELAINA

Four Days Later…

The kitchen island is spotless,gleaming under the pendant lights like it’s auditioning for a spread in Architectural Digest. Which means I’ve stress-cleaned it at least three times today.

Maybe four…

I dig my spoon into the pint of triple-chocolate-caramel-swirl therapy ice cream that’s rapidly becoming dinner, wondering when I turned into this woman. The kind who mopes around a fancy apartment waiting for a man who probably isn’t thinking about her at all.

Who has nothing to do but clean and shop for ridiculously overpriced groceries, and walk begrudgingly on the treadmill for thirty minutes before lounging by the pool for the rest of the afternoon, reading romance novels that are starting to depress the shit out of her.

Because my blossoming romance?

It’s going nowhere fast.

Likely, I never had a romance to begin with, but hell… It felt so real, that night in the shower, and the way Hunter held me after.

Just held me and kissed my forehead and cradled me close like I was a precious thing he never wanted to lose…

“A thing,” I mutter to the view as the sunset light begins to turn the park below pinkish gold. “That’s the operative word, Elaina. You are athingto him. A baby-making thing, a mother-pleasing thing. You are not a person, let alone a person he likes. You are not his lover; you are not his friend.”

My bottom lip trembles, but I stop it with another spoonful of sin.

I have to pull myself together. Hunter’s going to be home any second and the last thing I want is for him to see me pouting and sniffling because I’ve missed him more than he seems to have missed me. After all, he only called twice—twice, in four whole days—and the texting has been sparse and sporadic.

But then, he had business to conduct and people to do business with. I’ve been here alone for four days, and that’s a long time to be stuck with nothing but your own thoughts and an internet browser assuring you that all your new business ideas are dumb or already being done better by someone else.

Especially when your body decides to make it clear that you’ve failed at the one thing you were supposed to be doing in your tower tucked away from the world…

The cramps started this morning, right on schedule, proving that our night in the lifeguard stand hadn’t resulted in the outcome I’d been hoping for. Not that I really expected to get pregnant on the first try, and I knew from the get-go that the timing probably wasn’t right, but still…

A girl can dream.

And hope.

And apparently develop real feelings for the asshole who fled to Chicago on “emergency business” the morning after introducing her to his mother…

“Emergency business, my ass,” I mutter, stabbing my spoon deeper into the ice cream. “He never mentioned anything about having business in Chicago before. And it was Saturday.”

But it probablywasa real emergency. Hunter doesn’t seem like the type to make up excuses. He’s more the “brutally honest about not wanting to engage with you once you’ve squeezed out his baby and his mom’s kicked the bucket” type.

Which only makes this stupid ache in my chest worse.

I’ve started to fall for a complete dickhead. I knew better—I warned myself not to get attached at least a hundred times—but my stupid heart clearly wasn’t listening.

“It’s just the sex,” I mutter as I finish the last of the pint. “The sex is too good. It’s rotted my brain and infected my heart. Like a virus. Or flesh-eating bacteria.”

The security panel by the door chimes, announcing the elevator’s arrival, and my heart leaps into my throat. Quickly, I shove the empty ice cream container back into the freezer, making a mental note to dispose of it securely later, and ditch my spoon in the sink.

Then, wiping a trace of chocolate stickiness from the corners of my mouth, I wander toward the living room, casual as you please in my black silk pajama pants and his nearly see-through white tank top with no bra on underneath. I hope I look effortlessly sexy and relaxed in this ensemble it took me thirty minutes to pick out, but for some reason, I doubt it.

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