He had filled out nicely since she had last seen him. The thin cotton of his shirt clung to his biceps, skimming his taut abdomen as it tucked into his dress pants. His hips were still lean and tight, and she closed her eyes as she tried not to remember how they had felt between her thighs, as he had moved inside her, breathing softly in her ear, as she had moaned and whimpered and—
She shook her head. She wasn’t standing in his large, oak-paneled office just to take a trip down memory lane, as pleasant as that might be. She had flown here, over three thousand miles, to tell him what he deserved to know.
Inappropriate laughter bubbled up in her throat as she considered the ridiculous melodrama of the situation. Her 17-year-old self would be rolling her eyes, wondering how this 29-year-old woman had managed to turn a seemingly promising life into a soap opera.
She glanced up at his face, looking at his lips, which had tur
ned down into a deep scowl. His eyes had narrowed beneath his brows, and his straight, patrician nose was slightly crinkled in response to her presence.
The contempt he felt toward her was radiating from him.
Hanna tried to keep her breathing steady, reminding herself that although she was in his office, on the penthouse floor of his building, this was her show.
She was in control.
If he viewed her with contempt now, God only knew how he would feel once he’d heard what she had to say. He had been an integral part of her life for so long—as a friend, a confidante, even a lover—but never before did he have the power to break her.
“As nice as it is to see you,” he drawled, the tone of his voice making it patently clear that her being in his office was anything but nice, “I have a meeting in five minutes. Exactly what is it that you want?”
He had no idea, but this was it. Time to open her mouth and tell him what he needed to hear. Her arms suddenly felt heavy, and her fingers trembled, a physical manifestation of her nervousness. Her laughter was replaced by something more unsettling as she tried to take in a deep breath and form the words that she had traveled all this way to say.
Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. She watched his gaze move down to her mouth. He stared at her with dark eyes, watching as her teeth drew in her bottom lip.
“Richard.” Her voice was surprisingly strong. She could do this. She could tell him the truth, and then get the hell out of here.
Back on a plane.
Back home.
Back to him.
“Richard, we had a baby.”
The silence that followed was palpable. Hanna could almost taste Richard’s confusion as she watched expressions flitting across his face. She had done what she came here to do—had told him the truth—and now she was preparing herself for the fallout.
Richard remained frozen. She wondered if she should repeat herself. Her feet shuffled beneath her, wanting to move toward him, to get her close enough to touch him.
That kind of thought was dangerous.
“We had a baby?” he repeated. Hanna realized her mistake. In her desperation to get the news out, she hadn’t thought her words through.
“We have a baby, well he’s a toddler now, but he was a baby. Once.” Damn it, she was babbling now, her nerves shining through. It took every ounce of effort she had to meet his eyes. Her body recoiled when she saw the anger and confusion radiating from them.
“What the hell is going on?” He frowned, the deep creases in his forehead emerging as he tried to absorb her news. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
She realized she needed to show him proof, rather than try to explain. Her hands were shaking again, but she managed to control herself enough to pull her cell from her pocket, trying to steady her fingers as she pulled up her photos.
“When I left New York in 2010, I was pregnant. I didn’t realize it then, in fact I didn’t find out for a few months, but the last time we were together, we made a baby.” Her voice lingered over the final words. She still found the fact amazing.
“Are you certain he’s mine?”
His question was legitimate, but it still cut her to the quick. “Absolutely.”
The momentary silence was like a wall between the two of them. Hanna wondered if she would ever be able to breach it. She decided to continue, to give him all the information and then get the hell out of there. She wished she could hold Matty in her arms right now. She needed his presence to ground her.
“His name is Matthew, he was born on November twelfth. He’s eighteen months old.” She moved forward to show Richard a photograph on her iPhone, picking one she took a couple of days before. Matty was standing up in Tom’s living room, holding a ball as he attempted to throw it to Ruby. His joy at playing with his aunt was written all over his face; and he was biting his lip in concentration.
“That’s him?” Richard’s voice was dead. “That’s my son?”