I take a deep breath, then watch as it exits my mouth in a pale white cloud. I don’t know if it’s fully hit me yet that I’m pregnant. I’ve always daydreamed about being a mother, but at twenty-nine, I’d begun to wonder if my time was running out. I’d seriously considered getting my eggs frozen, but now that’s clearly unnecessary because I’m going to be a mom in about eight months. My heart is simultaneously alight with joy, as well as trembling with fear that my baby might not have a father.
We don’t know anything yet, I remind myself. Ring the doorbell, Laurelin. Just ring the doorbell. Who knows what’ll happen?
With one more deep breath, I summon all the courage that I have, and ring the bell.
The door opens almost immediately and my fear only intensifies because standing in the frame is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. Her hair is long and dark, framing a high-cheekboned face with tan skin and sparkling green eyes. Oh god, this definitely isn’t a new housekeeper given her emerald-green sheath dress. Has Tate already moved on? Does he have a new paramour? I never even considered that during my depressive period, and my heart drops to my feet.
But the woman merely smiles at me politely. “Can I help you?” she asks.
All the wind has been knocked out of me. I shoot out my hand and clutch the railing to keep myself from falling down the steps. “N-no,” I stammer, my eyes huge and as round as saucers. “No, I don’t think you can.”
As I start to run down the stairs as fast as I can, I hear Tate’s voice somewhere in the house ask, “Who is it, Esmerelda?” Somehow, that makes things even worse, and I do my best to swallow down a sob. Unfortunately, I don’t move quickly enough, and before I realize it, Tate’s big form is standing in the doorway before I’m even at the bottom step.
“Laurelin?” comes that low growl.
I stiffen, and turn fully around. There he is. My former lover is as gorgeous as always, although his hair is a little longer and more tousled than I remember, and the bags under his eyes are a little darker. I swallow, hard. Has he been struggling to sleep, too?
I’m not sure what to say despite having prepared an entire speech. Finally, I manage to croak, “Um, hi.”
His dark brows lower and suddenly his expression turns ominous. “What are you doing here, Laurelin? It’s cold. Do you want to come in?”
“No, that’s okay,” I stammer, waving my hand dismissively. “I see that you’re busy. It’s totally fine! You have fun.”
He raises a brow. “You mean, have fun with my interior designer?”
Oh. All of my anxiety and jealousy deflates like a balloon. Suddenly, there seems to be a possibility that things will be okay--not much of one, admittedly, but at least it exists. I swallow. “I guess I could come in.”
Is that a smile ghosting his lips? “Try to sound more excited, will you?” he asks in a dry tone.
Then, the handsome man ushers me inside, and true to Tate’s word, Esmerelda, the criminally beautiful interior designer, seems to be taking measurements and furiously making notes in a little notepad. She gives me a dazzling smile and a little wave as I enter, and I return the gesture feebly, feeling dumb.
“I think I’m good for today,” Esmerelda says with finality, putting on her coat and sticking the notepad in her pocket. “I’ll be back tomorrow, Mr. Connor.”
“Thanks. Great work and have a good night, Esmerelda,” Tate says as she leaves. “We’ll talk later.”
The interior designer throws me another smile, and then click-clacks to the door before exiting. Suddenly, the townhouse feels very still and quiet, and I can’t move. I just stare at Tate, my lips trembling. Oh god, what do I do now?
But I know I have to speak because I’m here on a mission, and time is of the essence. Unfortunately, before I can start on my prepared speech, the words just tumble out. “I’m pregnant,” I whisper without preamble. Oh god. Did I just do that?
Tate’s dark brows lower, and a harsh flush comes over those bronzed cheekbones. My heart drops because this is not the expression of a man alight with joy. Honestly, in this moment, he could say anything, or he could say nothing at all, and I’m not sure which would be worse: anger or apathy. Both would haunt me forever.
But then he seems to collect himself, and stands up straighter. I’d forgotten how huge he is, and how he seems to take up all the space in the room.
“I have something to show you,” he growls before starting to walk upstairs. I’m caught completely off guard. I’m reminded suddenly of the first day I met Tate, when he nonchalantly grabbed my bags from the ground and strolled out of the park, confident that I would follow him. Of course I followed him then, and of course I’m going to follow him again now.