Page 25 of Beauty and the Boss

She looks down again, at our linked hands, and bites her bottom lip. Now I see her reason for asking me the question—she needs reassurance.

“Move in with me,” I say, the words out of my mouth without a second thought. Words that feel so right.

She jerks as though startled. “What?” she asks.

“Move in with me. Live with me at my house. Will that prove that I’m not planning on going anywhere? That I want what we have to be permanent?”

Seconds pass, then a minute, and she still doesn’t respond. Why not? Surely this establishes my intentions towards her. I thought she would be happy, but her expression conveys uncertainty.

“Can I think about it?” she asks eventually, a hint of anguish in her eyes.

I look away, trying to conceal my hurt. “You don’t trust me,” I state.

“No, no, it’s not that. It’s…”

Just like I did in this very office last week, now she seems to struggle to say what she means. Is she going to reject me? Our night together was incredible, but has something fundamental changed since then? Is this just about sex for her? As much as I’d happily repeat what we’ve just done, I also can’t bear the thought of her not wanting all of me the way I want all of her.

“Forget I asked,” I say coldly, standing up and letting go of her hand. I walk over to my desk, wanting to put some distance between us, to give my bruised ego some breathing space. I pick up my lighter and take a cigarette from the pack.

“Michael, please!” She bangs her fists on the couch in frustration and hangs her head, clearly struggling with something emotionally. I look at her and feel foolish for displaying such a knee-jerk reaction. I need to at least hear her out. I discard my smoke and return to the couch.

“I’m sorry,” I say, stroking her bare arm. “I’m rushing you, aren’t I? Of course you can think about it.”

She picks at the hem of her skirt, her mouth twisted to the side. She’s beginning to worry me.

“Cecelia, what is it?” I repeat, my voice firm. I’m conscious that we could be interrupted by one of my staff members any minute and I want to hear what she’s got to say.

“Remember I mentioned Micah the other night?” she says.

I nod. “Your nephew.”

The silence stretches between us for a few seconds. Finally, she looks at me.

“My son,” she whispers.

I frown and swallow. I wasn’t expecting that. She has a son? Why hasn’t she mentioned him before now? I feel the fine hairs on my neck stand on end as I consider an astounding possibility.

“How old is your son?” I ask.

“Four. He’ll be five in a few months.”

Realization descends like snowfall, light and pure, and I understand the reason for her confusing behavior.

“How many months?” I ask, although I already know the answer.

“Nine,” she confirms.

Like a jack in the box, I suddenly stand, needing to expel some of the excess energy coursing through my body. I pace the room, raking my hand through my hair, glancing at Cece who is watching me with wary and watery eyes. Cecelia. The mother of my child. The child I never knew I had. I think of the years I spent in my prison cell—my life, my whole world so confined and restricted and miserable, and in all that time my little boy was born and grew and thrived. The thought that I missed out on all that devastates me yet the knowledge that he exists thrills me more than anything I have ever experienced before.

“I have a son?” I ask, shaking my head. My whole word has just titled on its axis, and I feel dizzy and disorientated, thoughts of my own father flashing through my mind. Although I loved and respected him and he provided me with a good life, he was always with his other famiglia—Franco and their many associates—and then, when I was old enough, he brought me into the outfit too. But his focus was always business. And therefore, so was mine, especially after he died, even though in my lonely moments I often dreamed of having a wife and family. A different life to the one my father modelled. A life filled with love. And now, thanks to Cece, my dream has come true.

“We have a son!” I laugh, raising my hands, the dizziness morphing into euphoria as I pull Cece up and hold her tightly in my arms. I feel her shake against me and I pull away to see that she’s crying.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, beaming at her. “This is such wonderful news!”

“I know,” she says. “These are happy tears. But there’s more, Michael. Please come and sit back down with me.”

I do as she requests despite my thoughts racing at a mile a minute causing my knee to jiggle and my hands to shake. This is turning out to be quite a day—I’m a father! I have a child with the woman I love more than anything in the world!

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