Chapter Seventeen-Andrea
I stare at my reflection in the mirror.
This bathroom is massive—more spa than space—and I’m brushing my teeth with a freebie toothbrush I found still in the packaging.
The whole thing is surreal.
A gorgeous marble counter.
His and hers sinks. High-end finishes.
This is clearly the owner's suite.
It’s beautiful. More than I expected.
And that makes me feel mean. Petty.
What do I even know about Remy Falco aside from obvious?
He’s gorgeous, which is a given, and anyone with eyes can see that.
He fucks like a God. And if I have to think about how he got so good at that, I’ll probably turn green with jealousy.
Oh, and is such a genuinely good man, with a big heart, that he steps up to take care of his orphaned niece, raising her like she’s his own daughter.
And me?
I'm just here.
Liar. Cheater.
Playing games with people's lives as if I have any right.
In borrowed space.
In borrowed time.
I’m freshly showered, wrapped in one of his soft white towels, my belly really starting to show.
It’s more than I feel bloated.
I mean, twins.
Plus, have you seen the size of that man?
Undoubtedly, his babies will be giants, too. So, sure, my hips ache, my GERD is real, and I have to pee every seven minutes.
But I can’t say I don’t like being pregnant.
Even though I got this way by manipulating Remy into my bed.
By lying. Stealing. Playing fucked up games.
Mom always told me not to mess around with matters of the heart. And just look at me now.
I’m someone’s wife.
I’m someone’s stepmother.
I’m going to be a mother myself.
Holy shit.
What have I done?
Effectively ruined the lives of not one, not two, but five entire people, counting the unborn twins.
A wave of nausea hits me.
I grip the edge of the counter, my toothbrush still in hand, and I freeze.
I push the bathroom door all the way open and stare at the suitcase that someone—probably him—brought over while I was asleep.
It’s mine. I recognize it.
Someone propped it up and opened it, leaving it face up on the ottoman against the wall.
From here, I can see it all there.
Clothes. Shoes. My favorite pajamas. My moisturizer. Even my sleep mask. Beside it? My camera bag.
Remy must’ve sent someone to my place.
Someone just let themselves in. Brought my stuff here like it was nothing.
I should probably ask him about it. I mean, can you say invasion of privacy?
But my brain is short-circuiting. I turn back to the sink and continue to brush.
The facts just don’t line up.
Nothing about this feels real.
I got married.
I’m having a baby.
I’m staying here, in his house.
There’s a kid sleeping down the hall who just gave me kisses and hugs before bedtime and shared a chicken nugget with me before spilling an entire cup of whole milk on my pants.
Not that I cared about that.
Little cutie.
My stomach flips.
Not morning or nighttime sickness. Just—panic.
Complete, blinding, slow-motion what the actual fuck am I doing panic.
I should leave.
I should run.
I should sleep on the couch or maybe just vanish in the night, crawl into a rideshare and go beg one of my cousins to let me crash in their guest room.
But instead?
I stand here brushing my teeth in his bathroom, wondering if he’ll even care if I vanish.
And worse?
Wondering why my entire nervous system still zings to attention when I see him. When I think about him.
Why does my body react to him like he’s a goddamn drug?
My body responds to Remy like it doesn’t know what my brain knows—like it never got the memo that he’s probably furious with me.
That I ruined whatever this could’ve been.
That I broke the man before I even tried to love him.
And that, most likely, he hates my fucking guts.
“I don’t hate you, Andy,” comes the low, familiar voice from the doorway.
I scream.
Well, it’s more like a choked squeak with a mouth full of foam, but still—I spin around, toothpaste dripping, heart in my throat.
“Jesus, Remy! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
He leans against the doorframe, casual in sweatpants and no shirt, just miles of tattooed skin and bulging muscles. His arms are crossed. His gaze is dark and unreadable.
“Were you eavesdropping?” I snap, trying to wipe toothpaste off my chin and save whatever dignity I have left.
He lifts an eyebrow.
“Didn’t have to. You know you’re talking out loud, right?”
My jaw drops.
“I—what—no I wasn’t.”
“You said, ‘What have I done?’ followed by, and I quote, ‘Why does my body react to him like he’s a goddamn drug?’”
“I did not say that,” I gasp, horrified.
“You did,” he replies, stepping inside the room now. “Word for word.”
The floor should open up and swallow me whole. That would be kinder.
“I’m just processing. It’s hormones,” I mutter, finally rinsing and spitting and flinging my toothbrush into the sink like it personally betrayed me. “This is all a lot.”
His voice softens. “Yeah. It is.”
We stand there for a second.
Him a few feet away, me damp and vulnerable in nothing but a towel.
“Where’s Callie?” I ask, desperate to change the subject.
“Back in her bed. Out cold,” he says. “She likes you, you know.”
I blink. “She does?”
Remy nods. “Said you smell like cake.”
I laugh, despite myself. “That’s probably the strawberry milk she spilled on me.”
“Still,” he says. “She doesn’t warm up to people that fast. But you?” He steps closer. “You got under her skin already.”
Just like you got under mine, he doesn’t say.
But I hear it anyway.
Feel it.
And when our eyes meet—his glittering and guarded, mine wide and swimming—I feel it again.
That pull.
That danger.
That impossible want.
I clutch the towel tighter and whisper, “Where am I supposed to sleep?”
He looks down at me for a beat too long. Then shrugs nonchalantly.
“In the bed, Mrs. Falco.”
And holy shit, that does something to me too.