Chapter 23
Chapter 23
DAPHNE
I should be getting ready. Should be doing something more, at least. More makeup, or more jewelry, or more… I dunno. Better hairstyle, maybe.
Instead, I’m lying on my bed and staring at the ceiling like it’s going to spit out all the answers to my burning questions.
How is this supposed to work?
How am I supposed to raise a baby with a man like Pasha?
Should I raise my baby with him?
What if he thinks I’m just some gold–digger?
I don’t need Pasha’s help. Even if my parents have fallen from grace, my job at the gallery pays enough to keep a roof over my head. I have enough to cover rent, bills, and make sure my baby has everything they
need.
But I want Pasha’s…. not his help, but more like… involvement? Yeah, that’s it. I just want him to be involved, to be part of this whole process of learning how to become decent parents in a less–than–decent
world.
He doesn’t know how much his promise means to me. That he’ll be right here, by my side, raising our
child with me.
Because he’s basically the only person in my life to make such a promise.
Mother still won’t talk to me. Father is… well, he’s surprisingly not as furious as I anticipated. More like he’s wallowing in grief over the fall of the House of Hamish. His two daughters are a curse upon his name and he’s been praying for answers as to what he did to deserve any of this. Thus far, God has declined to pick up his calls.
At least Melanie is excited to be an aunt. She did promise to check in on me frequently and to be there for the birth, so that’s something. But she’s got her own shit to deal with, so I can’t exactly ask her to hold my hand through everything.
So it really does circle back to Pasha. Gorgeous, sexy, way–too–damn–sure–of–himself Pasha. Will our baby have his eyes? His rugged jaw? His devilish charm?
An image of Pasha cradling our baby in his arms, bare–chested and cooing in the middle of the night,
Chick Duin My Dainting Now He Regrets
19.5%
Chapter 23
sends a surge of heat straight to my core.
Tuck, I want him. I want that. I want him and that and so much more.
The alarm on my phone goes off before my hopes devolve into raunchy fantasies.
Ugh.
Showtime.
I grab my purse and keys and head for the door, pausing only to slip on the heels that match my little black dress. I might as well enjoy them now before my ankles and feet get too swollen,
And then I damn near trip over a heavy vase in the hall.
“What the hell?” I mumble to myself as I swoop down to catch the huge bouquet of flowers before they topple over and spill water all over the carpet.
Roses. Interesting. Champagne–colored with pink tips and there’s at least two dozen-
Ah, shit.
They’re from Conrad.
There’s a note scrawled inside the card, but the only thing I actually read is his boorish signature at the end. It’s enough to make me want to toss the note into the trash and the bouquet out the window.
But they are roses. And beautiful ones, at that. I’d hate to waste them. They’ll survive in my car until I figure out where they belong.
When I see Pasha waiting for me outside the restaurant, I nearly groan. Not because of anything bad.
He just looks so damn good.
His thick hair is playfully disheveled and yet somehow makes his charcoal gray look all the more professional. There’s a five o‘ clock shadow dusting his jaw and I’m suddenly struck with the desire to find out what that feels between my thighs.
Focus, girl. You’re here to talk business.
At least I didn’t overdress for the occasion. Pasha picked the restaurant, and I figured an LBD would be the safest bet no matter where we ended up being.
To my surprise and delight, this is a deep dish pizza joint.
“You look beautiful,” he murmurs into my ear as he helps me slip my coat off. It’s not particularly cold
Chapter 23
out, but better to be safe now that I’m carrying our little one inside me.
And now, I’m officially overheating.
Pasha hands my coat to the interior valet and nods when the host leads us to our table. His hand never leaves the small of my back. He pulls out my
chair and waits for me to be comfortably seated before he settles himself in. I’ve never felt so protected
before.
I’m not sure how I feel about it, exactly.
“This is nice,” I remark awkwardly as I look around the room. It is a pizza place, but one of those higher–end joints where you still get waited on and the water is served with decorative slices of lemon and mint leaves. “A whole lot of men here, though.”
“They’re mine.” Pasha casually flips through the menu and says that like it’s supposed to explain anything
at all to me.
“Yours? Like…” “Security.”
Right. Because that makes sense. I pretend like it does, at least, and peek at the menu. “Hm. Where are the
salads?”
“We’re not eating salad.”
“Well, I mean, you don’t have to eat a salad. But I do, and-”
Pasha closes his menu and motions for the waiter. “You’re not eating a salad.”
“Excuse me?”
But before I can rail into him about dictating my dining choices, the waiter appears with a broad smile and welcomes us to this magical evening. And when he asks us if we know what we want to start with, Pasha orders one of everything off the appetizer menu.
“We’ll let you know when we’re ready for pizza,” he adds.
I blink at him until the waiter leaves. Then: “Are you insane? We can’t eat all that food!”
Pasha simply shrugs. “We’ll box up whatever’s left. It won’t go to waste. Besides, you deserve to have
what you want.”
“I want a salad.”
“No, you want to make your mother happy and maintain some demented idea of what your figure is
21:29
Boyfriend Let His Side Chick Ruin My Painting, Now He Regrets
19.8%
Chapter 23
supposed to look like.”
“I… don’t have a rebuttal to that.”
He smiles at me and nudges the basket of buttery breadsticks toward me. “Eat up. Live a little. Fuck your figure. I did, and now, you don’t have to worry about it.”
“I’m not taking that bait, Mister.” I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m also perfectly capable of deciding what I should and should not eat.”
“I’m sure you are. But are you capable of shutting off all the nagging voices in your head and allowing yourself to do whatever the fuck you want?”
“What’s it to you?” I hate that he seems to know more about me than I’ve let on. I hate that he’s right–I’m constantly eyeing the good stuff while forcing myself to enjoy salads because I’d rather not have to deal with Mother’s nagging over my weight. “Why does it matter?”
“Because you’re pregnant. With my baby.” Pasha unrolls his silverware and tucks the cloth napkin on his lap with practiced movements. “I promised you I’d take care of you. Apparently, that starts with making sure you don’t starve yourself and our child.”
The waiter returns with platter after platter of appetizers that do, in fact, make my mouth water. Fried ravioli, bruschetta, spinach dip, stuffed mushrooms–I want it all.
Until now, I never got to have any of it.
I glance up at Pasha, who nods for me to dig in. So, against everything I’ve ever been taught since childhood, I do. Starting with the fried ravioli and mozzarella sticks because dammit, I’m a cheese addict.
At one point–somewhere between the spinach dip and our supreme deep dish pizza arriving–Pasha frowns at something over my shoulder. Then he barks something–in Russian, I think–before returning to his own plate.
“What was that about?”
He shrugs it off. “Just needed to remind my men to keep their eyes to themselves.”
I playfully waggle a brow. “Ooh. They gettin‘ flirty with the waitress?” “No. I don’t pay them to ogle you.”
That makes me set my fork down and stare at him. “What? What does that even mean?”
Pasha is completely unbothered by how bothered I am. “It means I do pay them to show you respect as the mother of my child.”
“And so… they’re not allowed to look at me?”
21:29
Boyfriend Let His Side Chick Ruin My Painting, Now He Regrets
20.0%
Chapter 23
“Not like that.” He tucks into his bruschetta like this is a totally normal conversation. “Not at what’s mine.”
“Excuse me?”
Pasha just continues eating. And looking at me. Which, apparently, he’s allowed to do because he’s the one who fucked a baby into me.
I can’t help it–I actually laugh. “Wow. Okay. What are you, some sort of mob boss?”
He doesn’t answer at first. The clink of silverware and the whooshing of the A/C is all I can hear for a long, long minute.
Finally, Pasha says. “I would like to discuss with you the logistics of hiring bodyguards. Just for work,
shopping, basically any time you leave your apartment.”
Cue another bout of laughter. “You can’t be serious.” One look at his face says he is.
“I mean, there’s no way my bosses will allow it. Or our clients.” I dab my mouth with the napkin just to feel like I’m wiping away the smirk because holy shit, this man is coming on more than a little strong. “They expect a certain level of anonymity and privacy, and we pride ourselves in giving it.”
“Fair enough.” He nods. “Then you can come live with me.”
I nearly spray him with the sip of water I just took.
Pasha sets his fork down and leans back in his chair with a sigh. “I’ll cut right to the chase. Especially since you’ve all but figured things out. You asked me if I was a CEO or something-”
“I mean, I just guessed from the money you literally burned,” I mumble.
“Right. Well, to answer your question, I’m both. I’m a CEO of a multi–billion dollar defense contract company. And… I’m something else.” He glances at a table full of serious–looking men quietly enjoying their lasagna near us.
I follow his glance. Then I notice the faded tattoo below his ear.
