Page 15 of Oops Baby for the Billionaire
He’s lucky I don’t rip that arm from his body and beat him with it.
“Is there a problem?” He looks back and forth between us, clearly torn between wanting to be chivalrous and protect Willa from the big bad boss, and also—rightly—being afraid for his job if he oversteps.
“Maybe just a misunderstanding,” Willa suggests nervously. “Right, Mr. Thorne?”
All I manage to grate out is, “We need to talk.”
Her face pales, but she nods and points across the open workspace. “There’s an office we can use.”
I can’t breathe properly.
She’spregnant.
She worksin my building.
“I don’t understand,” I say dumbly as she closes us into a generic empty office. “I tried to find you.”
She gets a funny look on her face. “Did you?”
“What does that mean? Of course I did.” I shove my fingers into my hair, messing up my bun. I should never have stopped hunting for her. “There were no Willas on the guest list for the party.”
It’s a weak explanation. Of course there’s more, but time is glitching as I stare at her, as she gives me a wide-eyed, silent look back, her eyes swimming with terrified emotion.
“Jesus Christ, you’ve been here all this time?” I hear myself mutter.
And then I reach for more information that she needs to know, because of course I had my team search for her.
“I combed through the security footage, too.” My voice sounds hollow.
Doesn’t matter. I don’t care if she knows how desperate I was.
Her eyes flare with panic. “There’s video of that night?”
I fucking wish. If there was footage of what we did on the terrace, I’d have beaten off to it day and night. “No.”
Relief floods her expression, and it irritates me that she wouldn’t want any record of us.
Doesn’t she know I would never let anyone else see that?
But maybe she has another reason to be relieved.
“Why wouldn’t you want to have a record of being there?” My voice turns hard quickly. That’s one of my strengths in business. I’m ruthless. “Is there a more sinister reason?”
“Excuse me?”
“I think it’s time for you to come clean, Willa. What were you doing in my private space that night?” Fire burns in my veins. “Start speaking now, because I’m expected upstairs imminently for a meeting with your bosses. I had all the faith in the world in CurateMe—I thought it was a good company. But if you were a spy that night?—”
She gasps. “Aspy?”
I narrow my eyes at her immediate protest.
She’s confident, I’ll give her that. She’s glaring at me now, bold, bright eyes not afraid of pushing back. “I wasnota spy for CurateMe. Nobody on this team knows I was there, either. I was just—I was?—”
“What, Willa? What were you doing in that part of the apartment?”
“I was cleaning my bra,” she snaps. “Because one of your guests spilled wine all over me, and the catering manager told me to change.”
I stare at her dumbly.
