Page 94 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

He leans against the island, arms folded. “He confirmed the legal firm that placed Ashley had ties to PulseMatch’s board. Subtle, layered through shell corporations. But intentional.”

“And Eleanor?”

“He’s convinced she orchestrated it. With help.”

Something dark and cold moves through me. But there’s something else too, something sharper than dread. Purpose.

“What did you say to him?” I ask.

“I said thank you.”

I blink. “Really?”

He nods. “He showed up. He helped. And... maybe it’s time I stop pretending I don’t want something from him, too.”

I study him. “Like what?”

“A second chance. To decide what kind of father I want to be.”

I reach for his hand. “You already are that man.”

His thumb slides over my knuckles. “Still learning. But thanks for the review.”

***

Later that night, we’re both barefoot in the nursery. The walls are still bare. The crib is half-assembled. A box of unwrapped baby gifts waits in the corner like a promise we haven’t figured out how to unpack. Grayson is holding a tiny onesie with stars all over it.

“This is... microscopic,” he says.

“She’s going to fit in it,” I say, smiling. “And then she’ll outgrow it in a week.”

He turns it over like it might dissolve. “How are we supposed to be ready?”

“We won’t be.” I sink onto the rocker and press a hand to my belly. “But she’s coming anyway.”

He moves toward me, crouching so we’re eye-level. His hand slides over the curve of my belly, fingers spread wide. “You feel her?”

“She’s kicking like she’s mad we’re behind schedule.”

He smiles, and the tension in his face eases just a little.“Overachiever. Definitely yours.”

“Excuse you,” I laugh.

He leans in, his voice lowering. “We’ve survived sabotage, boardroom warfare, scandal, and heartbreak. If she gets here and the only thing not ready is the mobile above her crib? I think we’ll survive that, too.”

I reach for his collar, tugging him closer. “You make it sound easy.”

He kisses me then. And nothing about it is easy. We don’t make it to the bedroom. I’m halfway out of my sweater before he lifts me, carrying me through the hall with that slow, sure stride that always unravels my thoughts. The city glows beyond the windows, but all I see is him, his hands on my skin, his breath hot against my throat, the reverence in every movement.

He lays me down on the couch, his mouth claiming mine as his hands slide beneath the waistband of my leggings, dragging them down, kissing every inch of exposed skin like it’s sacred.

“You’re glowing,” he murmurs, voice low, rough with want. “You’re fucking gorgeous.”

“Then take your time,” I whisper, arching into his touch.

He does. He strips slowly, deliberately, eyes locked on mine the entire time. When he finally sinks his cock into me, it’s with a groan that sounds like worship. We move together in sync, unhurried, savoring. His hands never leave my skin. His mouth never stops telling me what I mean to him.

When I come, it’s with a cry muffled against his neck. He follows soon after, trembling against me, his breath ragged, his body tense with release. We stay like that, tangled and quiet, heartbeats slowly returning to rhythm.

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