Page 67 of Masked Seduction
With perfect timing, my phone buzzes in my purse. It’s a text from Abram.
Where should I have the car pick you up?
I type out Claire’s address, then grin at my reflection in the salon mirror.
CHAPTER 24
JENNA
The car pulls up to Abram’s building, sleek and silent. I smooth my dress, exhale deeply, and step out into the crisp Vegas evening.
Part of me is glad he suggested a night in. Between the boutique, the salon, and the positive test, my nerves are strung tighter than piano wire. Being in public tonight would’ve been too much.
But up in his penthouse, just the two of us and a little candlelight, that I can handle.
The elevator doors close behind me with a soft chime before ascending to the top floor. The glass walls reveal an amazing, glittering view of the Strip, the city slowly slipping into its nighttime splendor. It’s sunset, and everything’s bathed in a honeyed gold—buildings edged in light, sky streaked with rose and violet.
When the elevator glides to a stop, the doors open into Abram’s penthouse like magic.
He’s at the dining table, dressed in a pale grey button-up and tailored black slacks, sleeves rolled to the elbows, collar openjust enough to tease. He’s preparing the place settings, a soft, domestic moment that sets every nerve in my body on fire.
The scent of something delicious floats in from the kitchen, garlic, herbs, and butter. Light jazz hums low in the background, candles flickering golden across the glass table.
It’s too much. Too perfect.
He looks up and smiles when he sees me. My breath catches.
“Bozhe moy,” he says, crossing the room. “You look unbelievable.”
“Thanks,” I manage, feeling like a teenager on prom night. “You look pretty amazing yourself.”
His arms wrap around me, one hand skimming down my back to rest just above the swell of my hips. He kisses me, slow and warm, with just enough pressure to make me melt into him. I soak in his presence, trying to keep my brain from shouting “I’m pregnant!” at full volume.
He pulls back and brushes a knuckle down my cheek. “Wine?”
I hesitate, then shake my head. “My stomach’s been a little weird today. Probably stress.”
His brows twitch into a slight frown, the wheels starting to turn. But he doesn’t press. He just gives me a nod and steps back toward the table.
“You hungry?” he asks.
“Starving,” I reply, easing out of my heels. “Smells amazing.”
He grins, a flash of pride in his eyes. “Osso buco. My mother’s recipe.”
I smile. “Are you trying to seduce me with veal shank, Mr. Vasiliev?”
“Is it working?”
Oh, it’s working. Everything he does works.
“I’ll have to taste it first.”
I grin, but I’m shaking beneath my brave exterior. Because this might become more than a dinner. It might be the last night of us, before things change forever.
I perch at the kitchen bar, resting my chin on my palm as I watch him move around the stovetop like he was born to cook. I’ve seen him cook before, but there’s something different about tonight. I’m no longer evaluating him as just a cook; I’m now looking at him as a potential dad.
The thought is so intense I push it out of my head as quickly as I can.
