Page 5 of Baby Proposal
I rally my thoughts.
“I won’t have you taking unnecessary risks. As my employee, you’re under my care.” See, that sounds rational. Not weird or like I’m hopelessly in love with her. “I can help.”
She looks baffled. “You’ll… Help?”
I’ll give her anything and everything she needs. Even this office full of bright clutter and bloody plants.
“Like, with extra health insurance for IVF? That’s generous, but I can’t wait that long. It has to be today—”
“If you need a baby, I’ll do it.”
Her mouth drops open. So sweet and wet and pink, it would look perfect with my cock—Fuck, Rhys, what are you thinking?
“You’ll…” she says faintly, like she can’t believe it. Which, I concede is fair. This is not normal.
“Yes. If you want to get pregnant, it will be byme. I will be your baby’s father.”
This moment has brought clarity as to what really matters. Her. She is more important than everything else in the world to me, and whatever she wants to achieve, I’ll do anything to help.
I’ve been holding back for six long months. All this time I’ve lied that seeing her in the office and being her boss is enough. I didn’t ask about her private life, I knew—know—I’m too old for her and far too corrupt for a naive girl.
But if she needs me, all bets are off. The beast inside my chest is uncontrollable. Her being alone, or with some man of her choosing, is one thing. A fucking online jizz seller is another thing altogether.
Adrianne Blake ismine. And she’ll havemybaby.
“Should I pay you—”
“No.” That’s… No. Not how I was thinking of this at all.
“No. Right.” She hides her face in her hands as she mutters, “He’s a billionaire. He doesn’t need fifty quid for his… Magic juice.”
Quite.
She looks up, and there’s concern in the way her lips twist. “Look this is weirdly kind of you to offer, but you’re wealthy. How do you know I won’t demand child support?”
She has the most amazing pale green eyes and I admire them as she stares at me, confused. A lock of her hair has worked loose and is partially obscuring her cheek, and the urge to sweep it behind her ear is almost impossible to resist.
Those eyes. When we were discussing the redesign of a product logo she asked me what colour I wanted it, and I very nearly told her the colour of her eyes. Thankfully I remembered her notebook, which is almost exactly the same green. And she said, “Oh, like a soft matcha tea? Sure, I can do that,” and scribbled something down.
I have a collection of matcha tea-coloured items now.
“You won’t have to sue for paternity,” I say, dragging my hand into my pocket before allowing myself to touch her hair becomes taking everything I want. “I’ll acknowledge the child as mine.” Along with her.
“But Mr Cavendish, you can’t do that. You don’t have to. Why are you offering?” She’s looking at me like I’m crazy and her string of babbling questions ends with, “What would you get out of this?”
You.
I don’t say that, but I do say something almost as insane. “A wife.”
She blinks.
“Sorry, Boss? For a second there I thought you said,a wife.”
“A fake wife.” Is that more palatable? Yes, I think it is, since Adi’s face loses some of the panic and develops understanding. A speculative expression I’m not certain I like.
“Because you’re fed up with women throwing themselves at you?”
Because I won’t allow the woman I love to struggle on her own when she could be with me. Same-same. But her reason sounds like the sort of thing sane men say. “Yes.”
