12. Dane
DANE
I’m getting into this expectant father role. There are stacks of books beside my bed. Excellent for when I can’t stop thinking about Stephie, and how gorgeous she looks with that little bump. How much I want to run my hands over her possessively.
Knowing she’s just next door is torture, but it’s also peace. For the first time in four years, she’s where she belongs—with me. In my house, even if not in my bed.
Yet. We’re going to get to that.
There’s a thread between us. An understanding. It’s simple, like when she passes me the milk over breakfast without my asking. And it’s also complex, like when our gazes meet and heat burns along that link, hot and immediate.
She still won’t talk about the biological father of the baby, which pulls me in two directions.
It’s good, because I’m the only father her child will ever have or need.
And it means she can’t care about him much.
She doesn’t seem to pine for him, and I’ve been monitoring her phone calls, and she hasn’t contacted anyone. Admittedly, it’s only been a few days.
On the other hand, I haven’t found the man who deserted her to disembowel him yet. She might have said she didn’t want that, but I am who I am. Stephie is mine, and an insult to her is a plea for death.
I’m being patient. The results of the paternity test will take a few more days. I instructed them to check against the whole London database, including everyone in Beckton. If one of my men got her pregnant, I’ll make him regret it.
The test is based on blood from Stephie, and I’m going a bit insane thinking about it. The blood of the foetus—ugly word but I guess they’re not exactly designed for elegance at this stage—transfers into her blood. So the DNA of the father is inside her.
The jealousy of knowing that some other man is there, in her, forever, is almost unbearable.
Whoever this bastard is, he won’t see her smile, have her in his house, or spend every day with her. Without any discussion, she’s continued with her job as my assistant, and in turn, I’ve been making preparations.
“What is it?” Stephie asks as I take her upstairs after work.
“Look for yourself.” I step back and let Stephie open the door into the new nursery, and she gasps gratifyingly.
“Oh my god! It’s amazing!” Her head twitches side to side as she takes in the details in a chaotic order. The mural of the sea, complete with birds, blue sky, and boats. A sailing yacht and a fishing boat. And beneath the waves, green and turquoise fish lurk beside rocks and seaweed.
There are blue chests of drawers, and a wardrobe. A changing table, and all the bits and pieces the decorator told me we’d need.
“This is magical.” She trails a finger over a lovingly painted seagull bobbing on a wave.
“I’m glad you like it.”
She turns to me, eyes narrowed. “It’s very blue, though.”
“It is.” I restrain my smile, because I know where this conversation is going, and I’m looking forward to the next part.
“Did you sneak a look at the baby’s gender somehow?”
“No,” I reply innocently. “Why would you say that?”
“Because this is a room for a boy.”
“Gender stereotypes are so damaging, don’t you think?” I drawl. “This could be a girl’s room.” It isn’t. But we’ll get to that. It’s too much fun winding Stephie up.
“A little girl can’t have this room! Her friends might tease her!”
“Then she needs better hypothetical friends,” I reply.
“Seriously.” Stephie folds her arms.
I enjoy the way it frames her breasts, and her bump. I swear her breasts are bigger than… My imagination made them? I discard the thought. There’s no point in wishing for what could have been. Stephie and her baby will be mine in all the ways that matter.
“If she wants a blue, sea-themed room, then that’s wonderful, and we’ll do that for her. But until she can make that decision herself, I think it’s fairer to give her something more conventional.”
I nod, as though I’m taking this seriously. “Mmm. Okay, that is a consideration. I wonder…” I pause for effect. “Come and have a look at this.”
Turning away, I saunter down the corridor to the bedroom on the other side of the two of our rooms that take up the prime spots with views.
Again, I indicate for her to enter the room. This time, Stephie gives me a confused glance. Concerned, almost. Then the door swings open.
She’s speechless for long seconds, her mouth is an “o” of disbelief.
The mirror of the nursery we just looked at is before her.
Crib, chest of drawers, wardrobe, other things.
But instead of the sea mural, it’s a pink sunset on the savannah, complete with lions and giraffes, and birds and trees.
In the corner there’s a pair of tourists on safari.
If they seem suspiciously like Stephie and me, I’m taking no responsibility for that. It was the artist’s idea.
“Dane, this is…” She shakes her head, and when I step forwards to look at her, there are tears in her eyes.
“No need for that,” I say gruffly.
And then she’s crying harder, even as she smiles. “It’s just pregnancy hormones,” she hiccups. “I can’t help it.”
I hesitate, and then, fuck it. I slide my hand over her shoulders and shift closer. She folds into me without question, and my whole body relaxes at having her close, as she shakes with happy tears.
“It’s so beautiful, I didn’t think I’d have anything like that for the baby. Especially not that I didn’t make.”
“What’s a Daddy for but to make dreams come true?” I meant for the baby, but immediately I think of the night that I dreamed of Stephie and me together. I’m still working towards that.
I stoke her back gently. No lust right now, though that’s always just below the surface when I’m with Stephie. I comfort and hold her carefully, not showing the depth of my feelings when hers are so raw.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, shaking her head in disbelief. “This is absolutely—oh!”
Her chin snaps down, and her hand goes to her belly. Her eyes go wide. “Dane!” She looks up at me. “Our baby is kicking.”
Before I can process any of what she’s said, she’s shifted, grabbed my hand and pressed it to her bump.
“Can you feel it?” she asks breathlessly. “The kick? It’s the first time!”
There’s a flutter, and I’m not sure.
My face must reflect my uncertainty, because Stephie unceremoniously drags up her top and pushes my hand onto her bare skin.
Sensation washes down me. Her belly is firmer than most other places on her. The curve of the baby inside her is small, but distinct. I can feel it. Like bubbling water. A tiny movement that doesn’t come from Stephie herself.
“Yes.” I’m overawed by this miracle. She’s here, her hand over mine, and her eyes shining.
We’re touching, and it’s not even a kiss to the cheek or a deniable brush of fingers.
She’s sharing this magic with me. A moment I will never experience again and is a privilege in every way.
The first time our baby—she said ours—made their presence known.
If we were a real couple, I’d lean down and kiss her. I’d lift her in my arms and spin her around with sheer joy. Instead, I smile down into her eyes and promise the active little life beneath my palm that I will love both of them, Stephie and every baby she brings me, with every part of my soul.
We stand there like that for long minutes, just feeling the baby, until it has had enough exercise for one day, and goes still again.
Stephie’s gaze slips to the mural on the girl nursery wall.
“Dane.” Her brows pucker. “The only thing is, there are two nurseries and one won’t be used at all. That’s such a waste!”
Oh it’s not. It’s absolutely not.
“I think we can find something to do with the extra nursery,” I say casually. Like fill it with another child. This one conceived while she screams my first name in pleasure and wears my last name.