by Shayla Black
“How do you feel?” I ask.
“Shocked.”
“We both are. Beyond that?”
“Worried.”
I allay the only other concern she might have. “You’ll be a great mother.”
“I guess. I hope. I had a great role model.” She frowns. “But that’s not why I’m worried.”
So I was right. “Forget about my reaction for a minute. How do you feel?”
“Um, it’s a lot and it’s unexpected. I’m not unhappy. I already know I’ll love my son or daughter, no matter what.” She grabs the front of my shirt. “Please tell me what you’re thinking.”
How do I admit that I have no idea? “Just this morning, I was thinking about the child I lost seven months ago, the one who would be an infant now.”
Is this baby Nia and I conceived a second chance? Is this Fate’s way of replacing what I lost? I don’t really believe in such things, but this seems somehow too serendipitous to be totally random.
“And?” Her voice shakes.
“And…that’s as far as I’ve processed.”
“We’re going to be parents, and I don’t know what we should do next.” Suddenly, she can’t look at me. “If your marriage proposal is off the table, I get it. This is more than you bargained for, right? My own father didn’t want me, either. Since you and I got together, I’ve had trouble believing the hot, rich white guy would really stay with a girl like me, so—”
“Wait a minute.” Her words jar me. Infuriate me. I don’t bother with the back of her chair this time, just clutch her shoulders and kneel in front of her so we’re eye-to-eye. “I never said anything about retracting my marriage proposal. And I never thought any of those things you’re thinking.”
“But it makes sense.”
“To who? Don’t compare me to your deadbeat father. And don’t think for one second that I care what color either one of us is. You’re beautiful, smart, and sexy. I’ve been wondering what you’re doing with a tech geek like me,” I swear. “I would never abandon you or our child. Hell, you know I want to marry you. I bought you a ring you’re still not wearing. I was willing to give you the house you wanted. I’m living with you. I’m sleeping beside you. I’m doing my best to heap pleasure on you. I don’t know what else…”
She could want. But yes, I do. And an instant later, she takes the words right out of my mouth.
“You don’t love me.” Her words are almost a whimper, accompanied by tears.
Everything about her reply stabs me in the chest. I’m not sure what to say.
“I have no idea what I feel.” In the midst of some of the most shocking news of my life, I can’t help but laugh. “In case it’s escaped your notice, I’m terrible with emotion. There’s something between us that’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I’ve got no clue what that means. But if you really need to hear three words to say ‘I do,’ I don’t know where that leaves us.”
She dissolves into tears and wraps her arms around herself. “I never meant for this to happen.”
“You can’t blame yourself. I barged in. I demanded. I didn’t glove up. I didn’t think. It’s my fault. I’ll help you deal with the consequences.”
That only makes her sob harder. “You didn’t want children. All you wanted was relief. And now…everything is a mess. I need to go.”
“What? Go where? This is your house.” I shake my head. “No.”
When Nia sniffles again and I sense another tear-storm brewing, I glance around for a box of tissues. Nothing. Goddamn it.
“Stay right there.”
I hustle out of the room and haul down to the bathroom. It seems so odd to be terribly concerned about something as mundane as a tissue when the world as I know it is collapsing in on me.
A baby.
Fuck, I’m not ready to confront being a father again. I’m not ready to handle the fear of losing my child.
But what choice do I have?
Now that Nia isn’t in right front of me, her dark eyes haunting me with questions I can’t answer, I grab the cardboard box off the vanity and drag in a steadying breath. Vaguely, I’m aware of my fingers crushing the flimsy container, but I can’t stop. Or care.
A baby.
Nothing logical or coherent is happening in my head right now. It’s swimming in shock. I release the tissue box, grasp the edge of the sink, tell myself to breathe.
It doesn’t help.
When I lost Becca and the baby, I wasn’t sure I’d ever want a wife or a child again. The necessity of getting married soon became apparent, however. I could barely function without organization, and my practicality persuaded me that finding another wife was the best solution. Fine. Then Nia came along. Not exactly as planned, but in many ways better than I dared to hope. Yet more hellish because I never wanted to feel again. And now?
A baby.
That news keeps flashing through my brain like a neon sign, but it hasn’t really sunk in. I resist the urge to punch the framed mirror over the sink. I’m not a violent man, and I won’t stoop to a childish, destructive compulsion. But it’s tempting.
I need to return to Nia. I need to say something that will make it better. First, I need to figure out what that might be.
Yeah, I’m freaked out. But she’s scared. She’s worried she’s going to end up like her mother—alone and single because the selfish prick she gave herself to left. But I know all too well what it’s like to be without a father. I know how many years I spent resenting the hell out of Barclay Reed for leaving me to the dubious mercy of the foster care system because the son he’d inconveniently conceived with his secretary cramped his style or whatever.
That won’t happen to my child.
I’m going to go back into the living room, hold Nia’s hands, and find some way to convince that woman to be my wife. We’re going to have this baby together. I will not lose my shit because she’s pregnant. I will not walk away. I refuse to hurt her.
A baby.
I let out a shuddering breath, then somehow manage to compose myself, grab the box of tissues, and head back down the hall to comfort the woman I intend to marry.
But when I reach the living room again, Nia, her tears, and her purse are all gone.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Thirteen texts and half a dozen phone calls to Nia. All of them unanswered.
In the middle of that, I searched her social media and found the names of friends and past lovers. Methodically, I hunted down their phone numbers and called each one. I even gritted my teeth as I talked to Kyle.
No one has seen her tonight.
Afterward, I spent two hours driving to places I thought she might go. Lorenzo and Guilia haven’t laid eyes on her. Ditto for Bas. The BBB Revue was locked up tight.
Still no sign of Nia.
It’s damn near ten p.m. Anger and panic are carving up my composure. Where the fuck could she be? The waiting. The wondering. They remind me too much of that fucking April afternoon I never saw Becca again. That time, I hadn’t known anything was wrong until the police arrived at my office. Her death disordered my world.
Losing Nia would destroy me.
Terrified, I grip the steering wheel with one hand and begin dialing police stations with the other, barking questions and damn near biting people’s heads off.
If—no, when—I catch up with Nia, I’m putting a tracker on her car, her phone, and anywhere else I can think of. I can’t believe she fucking walked out of the house and left me. Is she trying to say we’re through? No. It can’t be over. I won’t let it be, not unless she says that to my face. Even then, I intend to do everything in my power to persuade her to stay in my life. I’ll beg her to marry me. Hell, I’ll skywrite my proposal.
Will you tell her you love her?
Do I? I’m starting to have suspicions, but how am I supposed to know for sure? Even if I’ve totally fallen, would she believe me if I said the words now?
Just in case she went to my penthouse, I stop there. The
minute I walk in the door, I know the unit is empty. Not only is no one inside, but it’s devoid of emotion. It always has been. After spending time with Nia, I comprehend that.
I lived under this roof for three years. Becca and I rarely smiled or laughed here. We never argued here. We hardly had sex here, either. We didn’t share passion. We didn’t share hopes. We shared hours. We shared space. We shared money.
That wasn’t a marriage.
Jesus, I didn’t love her.
I’ll have to call Bas later and tell him he was right. He’ll enjoy that.
Suddenly, my phone buzzes in my pocket. Fresh hope and panic twist around in my gut as I pull the device free. Nia’s name and text flash across my screen. Relief floods my veins.
Sorry I ran out. I had to clear my head. I’ll be home by midnight if you want to talk.
In two hours? I poise my thumbs over the screen, ready to demand she come back now before I pound her with a horde of questions. Where have you been? Where are you? How are you feeling? What are you thinking? But she texted—rather than called—because she wants to avoid answering all that until she’s ready. One thing I’m quickly learning about Nia? Rushing her, no matter how badly I want to, accomplishes nothing.
Finally, I tap back, I’ll be there. And we will talk.
She doesn’t respond, but I see she’s read my message. For now, it will do.
That gives me time to get calm, figure out exactly what I’m going to say. First, I have to find some way—no fucking idea how—to quiet the doubts and demons in my head.
I turn a slow circle around my darkened living room, looking for distraction. I don’t feel like TV. If I go to Nia’s place now, I’ll spend two hours climbing the walls. I don’t want a drink. I’m not hungry for dinner.
I can think of only one solution.
With ground-eating strides, I make my way to my bedroom and drag out a half-finished canvas from under my bed. In less than ten minutes, I’ve stripped down to a pair of shorts, dragged everything I need into the kitchen, and prepared a palette.
As every light in the place blazes, I stare at the beginnings of a painting I barely remember starting months ago. It’s mechanical, gears and spokes turning in circles, working together for a common purpose. The dominant colors are cool grays and blues with a hint of green and rust to depict shadow, wear, and age. It’s competent, not representative of the way I’m feeling now. There’s no sense of barely leashed wildness. Not one brush stroke is out of place. It’s too meticulous and methodical.
I can’t finish it.
After shoving the half-finished piece aside, I retrieve a fresh canvas and set it on my easel. I dip a brush in the paint and stare at the blank white space. What am I bringing to life with pigment? I’ve always been into technical and mechanical themes. Precision and order—that’s how my brain usually works.
Not today. In fact, not since Nia.
Raising the brush, I let it hover over the canvas and close my eyes. The cacophony of shock, worry, and terror begins to quiet. I encourage the monotone hum working its way up through the background of my thoughts. And without looking, I flip the brush across the blank space once, twice, a few more times.
A minute later, I risk a peek. Yeah, I have no idea what I’m doing. Is this a landscape? A portrait? An abstract? So far, it’s a disorganized blob…which is an accurate representation of my current thoughts.
With a disgusted sigh, I set the palette down, clear everything away, and toss my clothes on once more. I don’t know why my steadying, go-to activity still isn’t working. Since I actually put a brush to canvas, I managed more today than any time since Becca’s death. But I miss sinking into the steadying strokes, letting my subconscious take over as my world rights itself once more.
None of that happened tonight. I’m still as confused as ever.
Cursing, I grab my keys and lock the penthouse behind me, ridiculously eager to be away from here. In fact, when I move to Maui, I might sell this place after all. It’s not logical. It may cost me money in the long run since the value of this unit will only increase over time. But there’s nothing here I want to revisit. There’s no reason for me to return.
Wondering when I stopped being so practical, I head to Nia’s. The house is still dark when I walk in.
Thankfully, she’s only a few minutes behind me. When she finally steps through the front door, I’m desperate to hold her. Fuck, she looks tired. She’s clearly been crying.
I tear across the room toward Nia. Her expression turns resolute as she raises a hand between us to stop me. “Don’t. I have to say this without being clouded by your nearness.”
Though the distance she’s putting between us makes me anxious, I do my best to respect it. “I’m listening. But before you say anything, remember that I wanted to marry you before you found out you were pregnant. I still do. Don’t think for one instant that me being your boss, the size of our bank accounts, or the different colors of our skin changes anything for me.”
“I know you mean that. I’m sorry if I upset you. That was my insecurity talking. It wasn’t fair to lump you in with my father.” Nia slowly drops her hand to her side. “I’ve been driving around, thinking. I went by the house I grew up in. I visited my mother’s grave. I even went to the office after hours. Finally, I came to some conclusions. A baby changes everything. We both grew up in homes that weren’t picture-perfect. I don’t want that for my child.”
What is she saying? Why is my chest buckling, my throat tightening? “I don’t, either.”
“Some people may call my decision old-fashioned, but they don’t have to live with it. I do. And I believe this baby will be better off with two parents.”
“Ones who have the same last name and live in the same house.” I want to be clear about my expectations.
She nods. “Yes. The practical choice is to get married.”
Part of me rejoices. I’ve won; I’ve got her. But another part bleeds. I cheated my way into her future. Not intentionally. I hardly set out to get her pregnant in the hopes she’d marry me. Yet I hate the resignation on her face. She’s not making this decision lightly—or happily. She wants love. She wants the romantic fairy tale. That’s not what she’s getting, and I don’t know if I can ever give it to her. I respect her too much to lie now and hope it will be true later.
My one consolation? I’m prepared to make our engagement official.
From my pants, I pull out the box containing the engagement ring I bought before Thanksgiving. I lift the lid and extract the diamond from the cushion. Then I take her hand, surprised to find my fingers shaking. “This may not be the circumstance you wanted when you said yes, but I swear I’ll do everything I can to make you happy and—”
“It’s not about me and my heart anymore. Or even our feelings.” She slides a palm over her still-flat stomach. “It’s about the life we made together.”
After being with Nia these past few weeks, I’ve felt the passion and connection Becca and I lacked. I won’t have another gray, void marriage.
“It should be about us, as well.”
“I can’t think about that right now. I have a responsibility to this child. All my life, my mother put me first. She’s not here anymore for me to thank, but I’m a better person for her love. I intend to give our baby the same kind of devotion.”
It’s admirable, commendable. I’m sure Nia will shower our child with all the love he or she could ever want. But I’m not thinking about a being that’s the size of a seed right now. I’m thinking about the woman standing in front of me, cheeks stained with silver paths, whom I plan to speak vows to and spend my life with.
“Of course.” I slide the ring on her finger, gratified when it fits perfectly.
The sparkle of the diamond is a striking contrast with her rich brown skin. Every man will see the stamp of my possession. I’ve never been the caveman sort, but Nia is nearly mine in every sense of the word. This isn’t a joyous occasion for her, but I have to swallow d
own the urge to whoop and beat my chest.
Until she speaks.
“Can you do that?” Nia questions. “Less than a week ago, you said you didn’t want children. You couldn’t even hold Trace’s son. I wrestled all day about whether it was selfish to marry you when you’re not sure you ever want kids. I nearly decided that if my mother could raise a daughter alone, I could do the same with my baby—”
“No. That’s my baby, too.” I already lost one this year. I’m not losing another.
She anchors her hands on her hips. “How are you going to handle it?”
Honestly, I don’t know. I don’t feel any more ready to be a father than I was last Thursday. I’m terrified as hell of Nia being pregnant, of fathering another child who may never be born. But here we are, and bowing to fear will only hurt us all.
“I just will.”
“All right.” Finally, she looks down at the ring on her finger and swallows. “It’s really beautiful. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that when you gave it to me the first time.”
I squeeze her hand. “It looks perfect on you.”
The smile she gives me doesn’t convey happiness. “If we’re going to get married, I’d like to do this quickly.”
“Absolutely. Do you mind if we get married in Maui? Maxon and Keeley’s place is perfect for weddings. The Reed clan is all the family I have, and I don’t know if they can travel here—”
“The wives are all too pregnant to come to Seattle now. A wedding in Hawaii would be nice.” She tries to muster enthusiasm. “I only have a few people to invite. Lorenzo and Guilia. Some girlfriends. My second cousin Annabelle. Remember me telling you about her? The one who lives in New Orleans with her three guys?”
Vaguely, but if she wants them at our wedding… “Sure. I’ll call Britta. She’s the organizer. All three of my siblings have put together quick weddings, so they’re pros. Britta’s mom caters. Keeley works really closely with a great florist and photographer. Harlow is clever. It’ll come together.”
She nods absently. “I’ll figure out a dress.”
Becca always wanted something elaborate, and at the time we married, the money simply wasn’t there. I don’t want Nia to regret anything else about her decision to marry me.
