Page 89 of Sexting the Billionaire

Not who I want us to be.

Yes. We should talk. I type back, then add I'm sorry for making a scene.

His response is immediate:

Don't apologize for defending your work. That's one of the things I love about you.

Love.

The word jumps out at me, the first time either of us has used it directly. My heart contracts painfully. Of course he woulddrop that bomb via text, in the middle of our first fight, when I'm possibly pregnant with his child.

The man has spectacularly terrible timing.

The taxi drops me at my apartment, where I pace restlessly, too keyed up to work on designs as I'd planned.

Roman's meeting could run for hours, leaving me alone with thoughts that spiral increasingly toward catastrophe.

What if Grant wins this patent claim?

What if the board decides I'm a liability?

What if Roman chooses the company over me when push comes to shove?

What if I'm actually pregnant and everything falls apart before I can even tell him?

The thought stops me cold. I need to know. Now. Before Roman arrives, before we have this conversation about professional boundaries and personal feelings. Before I make any decisions about us, about my career, about anything.

Hands shaking, I dig through my bathroom cabinet until I find the box of pregnancy tests I bought months ago during a particularly stressful week when my period was late. It had been negative then, a relief I'd celebrated with wine and takeout.

Now, as I stare at the small box in my hands, I'm not sure what result I'm hoping for.

Roman and I haven't discussed children. We've just recently acknowledged that what we have is a relationship rather than an "arrangement." A baby would complicate everything—my career just as it's taking off, his business empire, our still-evolving dynamic.

And yet...

I think of the way he looked at Mia tonight, with genuine interest and respect. The way he listened to her ideas, challenged her thinking. I think of his face when he speaks of hisgrandfather, of the fierce protectiveness that surfaces whenever someone he cares about is threatened.

I think of how it might feel to create something together that isn't a brand or a business strategy, but a person. A little human with his eyes, maybe, or my stubborn chin.

Hands shaking, I open the box.

Some walls, once they come down, can never be rebuilt. And this wall—between the life I’ve planned and the one that might be growing inside me—is the most terrifying one yet to face.

As I take a deep breath ready to step into the unknown my phone buzzes.

Roman.

On my way. Still okay to come by?

I stare at the message. The box in my hand suddenly feels heavier.

Of course it’s him. Of course it’s now.

The test is going to have to wait.

Because whatever’s growing inside me at this moment, right now, it’s not just a maybe.

It’s anger.

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