Page 23 of Vows of Betrayal

Giselle's head turned, and she spotted me. “Francesca,” she said like we were old friends. “Can you do me a favor? We're leaving soon, and I'd like to use the ladies room. Could you look after this little guy for me, please? I'll be quick, I promise.”

There really was only one answer to that. “Sure,” I said and walked up to her.

She handed the baby off to me and said, “Thank you.” Then she dashed out of the room.

“Hi,” Stefan said, but I couldn't tell if he was speaking to me or the baby. Either way, I stayed quiet.

He hadn't said much to me since the night he'd come all over my belly. And then practically died right after.

He mostly slept. The medications likely made him groggy. He hadn't yelled at anyone since then, either.

“Are you okay with holding him?” I asked. The stroller was here. I could always put one of them in there if he were too tired to hold the baby.

“I'm fine,” was all he said. He talked to the baby in a calm voice. And with a smile on his face. He seemed more than comfortable around him. I wondered then if Stefan had any babies of his own. If so, I wondered if they had his dark hair and broody eyes. Or his sharp, movie star chin.

But I wasn't going to ask. Not right now.

I wasn't sure what the protocol was for talking to someone who'd blown their load all over your belly and then scooped it up and tried to insert it inside of you. And then nearly died right after.

I figured I'd let him make the first move. Seeing as I didn't know where we stood.

I mean, I knew we weren't boyfriend and girlfriend.

The guy was way older than me. He must be in his mid-thirties. I was only twenty-three. He likely wasn't looking for a girlfriend. Or not one like me, anyway. I had my own problems. That didn't include mysterious men getting gunshot wounds to their chests.

I hadn't asked him how he'd gotten hurt. Whatever had happened, Giselle seemed to think that bullet was meant for her.

None of this was my business. And quite honestly, I didn't want anything to do with them if it came with bullets and chest wounds.

No, thank you.

I had my own pile of steaming crap to deal with. I didn't need to take on anyone else's.

“Are you still mad at me?” Stefan asked the baby. I thought that was a pretty dumb question to ask an infant.

The baby in my arms was starting to wriggle around. His little face was getting red, too.

“Francesca,” Stefan said, making me look over at him. His eyes were now directly on me.

“What?” I asked in a clipped tone. One that I didn't really mean to use. But I was trying to figure out what this baby needed. And I couldn't tell. For one thing, I only had one sibling. And she was exactly the same age as I was. I'd never been around tiny babies like this. Never even babysat.

Looking after my dad and my sister was enough of a chore when I was growing up.

“Are you still mad at me?”

I blinked and tilted my head. Then I frowned. “Why would I be mad at you?” My mind raced with what the heck he was talking about. And I couldn't come up with anything.

Stefan sighed but held my eyes with his. “After the other night?”

I put the baby against my chest and rocked him, hoping he'd settle that way. “You mean when you almost died? Again?”

Stefan chuckled and shook his head. “I didn't almost die. I popped a few stitches. That's it.”

Now it was my turn to shake my head at him. “Yeah, internal stitches and you started bleeding again.”

He shrugged and held his finger out to the baby. He grabbed on tight. It was sweet—Stefan's big finger and the baby's tiny fist grabbing it. So cute.

“They sewed me back up again. I'm as good as new.” He smiled at me.

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