Page 120 of Nine Months to Bear
“So no, then.”
I stand in the doorway of his massive suite, staring at my pathetic collection of belongings that somehow look even more out of place here than they did in the guest room.
My drugstore moisturizer sits next to his Tom Ford cologne.
My worn Harvard Medical sweatshirt drapes over his Italian leather chair.
My battered copy ofGray’s Anatomyleans against his first edition Tolstoy.
“Stefan, we need to talk about boundaries.”
“Do we?”
“Yes. We do.”
He sets down my bag with a softthumpand turns around, giving me his full attention. Which is somehow worse than being ignored.
“Enlighten me, Dr. Aster. What boundaries would you like to establish?”
I take a deep breath. “First, separate bedrooms.”
“No.”
“You can’t just say no?—”
“I can and I did.”
Through the door into the en suite bathroom, I can see my toothbrush sitting next to his in the marble holder. Such a small thing—pink plastic next to black titanium—but it might as well be a neon sign screaming that I’ve already lost whatever battle I thought I was fighting.
“This is insane,” I croak. “You can’t just decide I’m living in your bedroom now.”
Stefan moves closer. “My grandmother will expect it.”
“Your grandmother?” I spin around, nearly colliding with his chest. “That’syour excuse?”
“She already assumes you’re my girlfriend.” His fingers find a strand of my hair, twisting it between them. “Would you prefer I tell her the truth? That you’re carrying my child for money?”
“That’s not—” I stop myself. Because it is. It’s exactly what this is.
“She’s been through enough disappointment in her life,” he says. “I won’t add to it by explaining that the woman in my bed is there under contract.”
“So instead, you want me to lie to her?”
“I want you to let her believe what makes her happy.” His eyes darken. “Is that really so terrible?”
Yes. No. I don’t know anymore.Everything about Stefan scrambles my moral compass until north points directly to him.
“Fine,” I say miserably. “But back to the boundaries thing.”
“Stuck on that, aren’t we?”
“They matter! Rules. Lines we don’t cross.”
“Such as?”
I take a breath, trying to organize thoughts that keep scattering every time he looks at me. “The physical stuff—what we did on the yacht, in your office—it’s not necessary. We’re trying to conceive, yes, but we don’t need to…”
“To what?”
