Page 7 of Nine Months to Bear
He reaches for me. I don’t believe what’s happening until his hands frame my face. “We really have to stop meeting like this.”
“I… You…” It takes me a long, embarrassing moment to realize he’s joking. When I do, my cheeks flush and I rip away from him. “I was gonna figure it out.”
Stupid pride.Another one of the things I inherited from Mom. It’s been a real pain in the ass to get rid of. Clearly, my therapist and I have lots of work left to do.
Stefan laughs in my face. “You were two seconds from becoming a Rorschach stain on the sidewalk.”
Before I can argue, his arm snakes around my waist. He pulls me around Frederick’s slumped body, leaving the man and the violence in the shadows.
I blink against the lights of the gala as we go inside. They seemed dim before, but they nearly blind me now. Guests part like the Red Sea and furtive whispers trail in our wake.
I don’t realize Stefan is leading me to the center of the dance floor until the string quartet swells into a waltz. It’s like they were waiting for his cue. The second the music starts, Stefan whirls me against his chest.
I’m acutely aware of every point where our bodies connect. His palm at the small of my back, fingers splayed possessively, the hard plane of his chest against mine, the faint pressure of his thigh occasionally brushing mine as we move.
“Relax,” he murmurs. “At least attempt to enjoy yourself. You’ll attract less attention if it looks like I haven’t abducted you.”
“I can’t enjoy myself,” I mumble. “You just assaulted someone.”
“Correction: I improved the event’s ambiance.” His palm is heavy and reassuring on my hip. “Now, do what Frederick wishes he could do andbreathe.”
My eyes snap to his just in time to see the amusement dancing there.
He didn’t kill Frederick, but something tells me he wouldn’t hesitate to do it if the need arose.
Still, I don’t breathe. Can’t. My lungs burn, my skin hypersensitive where he touches me. The room spins—or maybe it’s just Stefan, effortless and unbothered, guiding me past the throngs of gawking guests.
Including, I realize with a jolt…
… my mother.
Dr. Margaret Aster stands at the edge of the dance floor. Her eyebrows are practically disappearing into her hairline as she no doubt wonders how her failure of a daughter ended up in the arms of Boston’s most enigmatic billionaire.
Just like that, I can breathe.
Just like that, I see opportunity blooming from the shit-stained ashes of this disastrous evening.
I force my shoulders to relax and tilt my chin up to meet his gaze. His eyes are stormy blue, impossible to navigate but equally impossible to look away from. “So you’ve researched me.”
It’s the accusation I couldn’t make on the balcony, but my desperation is morphing into something useful now. I let my voice go smooth, let my lips curve into something that might pass for flirtation.
“I’ve heard of you,” he corrects. “Mostly by accident. Your clinic’s collapse isBoston Heraldclickbait.” Pitching his voice low, he recites, “Fertility Savior Flounders: Aster Daughter’s Last Egg?’Charming headline.”
I stiffen as that familiar shame blooms in my stomach. My mother laminated that article and mailed it to me with a Post-it, on which were scrawled two words:Fix this.
Those two words have kept me awake more nights than I care to count.
“If you’re here to mock me—” I start to pull away, but his hand slides to my lower back and keeps me in place.
“Mockery is wasted on the desperate.” He spins me. I catch glimpses of my mother’s face in the watercolor blur of the crowd. She looks oddly… pleased? That can’t be right. “You need capital. You know it , and so does your mother. How many voicemails has she left you today? Ten? Twenty?”
My stomach drops.How the hell?—?
“Your hands are a dead giveaway,” he explains when he sees my eyes practically bugging out of their sockets. “They clench every time your phone buzzes. Tell me, little fox, do you want the money to save your clinic… or is it your pride you’re trying to salvage?”
The music swells. I see my mother edging closer, clearly intent on intercepting us when the dance ends. It’s now or never.
My pitch—practiced in mirrors, polished for investors—tumbles out. “Aster Fertility Solutions has a seventy-three percent success rate, double the national average. With proper funding, we could revolutionize accessibility to?—”
