Page 13 of Oops Baby for the Billionaire
Mybaby.
And apparently, billionaire Roman Thorne’s baby.
I sob into the toilet bowl.
Just for a second, just long enough to truly feel sorry for myself.
Because I know what his security guard is going to say. He’s going to either ban me from the property, or he’s going to demand a paternity test.
I don’t look like I belong here.
I don’t look like a girl thatRoman Fucking Thornemight impregnate.
Over the last two weeks, I’ve spent a lot of time reading up onRoman.
I feel like quite the dummy for not recognizing him the night of his party. I think I didn’t want to see it. I pretended all the things he said could have been said by anyone else attending the party. But in hindsight, it’s painfully obvious that he owned the building across the way.
And he thought everything inside it was his to take that night.
Well, I guess you showed him just how wrong that was by…thrusting your hips into his face repeatedly.
Dumb dumb dummy.
I clench my tired hands into tired fists and silently shake them at the ceiling, which is probably fifty floors below where my baby daddy might hold court in a boardroom.
I can’t imagine him doing anything as civilized as chairing ameeting.
After washing my hands and face, and taming my hair back into something slightly lesswild artist,I take off my coat and carefully fold it over my arm so the paint is hidden.
Then I square my shoulders and head back to the lobby.
There’s no sign of anyone looking for me.
The receptionist is gone, too, replaced by a young man wearing an identical headpiece.
Sighing, I stride up to him to repeat the same humiliating exercise again.
“Hi, I spoke to the girl before?—”
“Are you here for the CurateMe job interview?”
“N—” I cock my head to the side. “Sorry?”
“CurateMe,” he says slowly. “You’re an artist, right?”
Apparently I didn’t tame the aesthetic enough, but maybe that was a good thing. “I am.”
He hands over a pass. “Third floor.”
Heart beating fast, I grab it and head for the elevators.
Unfortunately, the pass only seems to work to access the third floor, so I can’t use it to get up to the top floor—even if Roman is up there.
But a job interview…
That might get me in the door. Literally.
And it might also get me off my studio couch.
