Page 22 of Faking Love with the Billionaire Boss

I scowl at him. He’s wearing one of his three-piece suits, and he looks gorgeous, with a waistcoat over his white shirt, and a light-blue tie. It’s impossible not to think about that night—him stripping off my clothes, covering me with kisses, going down on me… I can’t believe it’s him.

I grab the reins of my galloping mind and pull on them sharply. Even though he hasn’t yelled at me yet, I’m just a girl he had a one-night stand with who’s turned up penniless and pregnant. I have no idea what kind of man he is. He seemed nice, but he wanted to get me into bed, so who knows what he’s like in reality? I also have to remember that he might be dating someone now, in which case he’s not going to be pleased I’m here.

He slides his hands into his trouser pockets and continues to stand there, waiting. Huffing a sigh, I remove the wrapper and have a bite. Oh my God, it’s wonderful, moist and full of chocolate chunks. I break off a huge piece and shove it in my mouth, trying not to groan as I chew and swallow.

Kip comes over, smiles as he sees me eating, then says to his brother, “Okay, I’ll leave you to it. Call me if you need me.” Nodding to me, he leaves the room, and Marion follows him out and closes the door behind her.

Now it’s just me and Saxon. My stomach flutters with nerves. I can’t imagine what he’s thinking. It’s not every day, after all, that a girl you slept with turns up and suggests you’re going to be a father.

The music has changed toDear Prudencenow. I haven’t heard this song for years—it was one of my mother’s favorites.

Saxon perches on the edge of his desk, resting his hands on the edge, watching me. While I eat the rest of the muffin, I look around the room. The big wooden desk bears a laptop, a phone, a mobile, an iPad, and several other gadgets, as well as about fifty thousand pieces of paper, much the same as the dining table had in his hotel room. A drawing board sits near the window, looking out at the view of the gardens, the top sheet of paper covered with handwritten notes and drawings. On another table across from it rests a computer setup that makes my eyes pop—a huge tower, two large screens, a fancy keyboard and mouse, portable drives, flash drives, and dozens of parts like graphics cards, CPUs, a cooling system, an old motherboard, RAM sticks, and cables. The rubbish bin is overflowing with paper. Half a dozen coffee mugs are already scattered around the room.

There’s also a framed poster of the tenth Doctor standing in front of the TARDIS on the wall that has a signature scrawled over it, which is presumably David Tennant’s.

“This is your office,” I comment. It’s obvious from the poster, as well as how messy it is.

He nods and points at the remainder of the muffin in my hand. “I want you to eat all that.” He walks over to his desk, missing me poking out my tongue. Pressing a button, he waits for Marion to answer, then says, “What’s my schedule today?”

“Conference call with the NZAI team and Titus at nine, meeting with Zach Philips and Amy Penn at ten, presentation with Kip to The Fertility Group at eleven, senior leadership for two hours at twelve, Hemi Wihongi at two over at Pikorua Computers, Janie and Kenzo at three, Conference call with Sydney AI Associates at four, and you’ve booked the board room from five until late for the team to go over the latest results from the hospital.”

“Right. Can you move Senior Leadership to five p.m. and tell them it’ll just be an hour, move the team to six thirty, and leave me free from twelve until two.”

“Sure.”

“And can you book me a table for two at Frankie’s at twelve thirty, please? I’ll be taking Miss O’Clery here to lunch to make sure she eats something.”

“I’ve brought sandwiches,” I protest, but he ignores me.

“Will do,” Marion says, and he releases his finger from the buzzer.

I finish the last bit of muffin and screw up the wrapper. He holds his hand out for it, takes it from me, and tosses it in the bin. It misses and lands on the floor, but he ignores it.

He sits in the armchair opposite me, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, and says, “I think it’s time we had a conversation. Okay?”

Chapter Six

Saxon

Catie stares at me mutely, picking at her fingernails. Clearly, she’s not going to make this easy.

I can’t believe she’s here, in my office. Jesus, my heart is still racing from seeing her, as well as from the fact that she has a bump.

I’m no expert, but I’ve been talking to a lot of women over the past year for our IVF research, and to me, Catie looks as if she could be near the middle or even the end of her second trimester, maybe twenty-two weeks or more. I take out my phone and pull up the app I use to calculate pregnancy dates. If the baby was mine, she would have to have ovulated close to the time we slept together, which means she would only be around eighteen weeks.

The dates don’t work. And I used a condom.

But then again, I know that women’s cycles vary, plus the fertile window lasts up to six days because sperm can live for up to five days. Maybe she looks bigger because she’s so thin. And condoms aren’t one hundred percent effective. It’s not impossible that it could be mine.

I mustn’t jump to conclusions either way. Back in July, she said she was single, but for all I know she could have broken up with a boyfriend the week before.

She’s lost a lot of weight, and she wasn’t plump to begin with. Her cheeks have hollows beneath them, and her elbows and shoulders jut through her shirt, angular and sharp. I saw the way she wolfed down the muffin, so she didn’t miss breakfast because she wasn’t hungry. That concerns me.

She’s wearing black, the same as the last time I saw her—black leggings, black socks tucked into black boots, a black shirt, and outside on the stand was the same black jacket she wore before. Her beautiful red hair is scooped up in a messy bun, strands springing up as they dry around her face. She’s not wearing any makeup that I can see.

Despite all this, she’s still beautiful, with vivid green eyes that send a shiver down my spine. Kip’s right—I moped over her for a good few weeks after our night together, and even though I eventually came to terms with the fact that I wouldn’t see her again, I’ve thought about her a lot since.

“Maybe we should start at the beginning,” I say. “What’s your full name?”

---