Chapter 22 Nina
Nina
Chris looks better than he did last week, but not good. Not really.
He’s traded the severe lines of his work suits for dark jeans and a button-down the color of storm clouds, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair is freshly washed but disheveled—I know that pattern, fingers raked through it too many times.
He’s shaved, but the shadows under his eyes remain.
There’s an effort here, a deliberate attempt to appear put-together, but underneath I can still see the strain.
When he smiles at something Callie says, the expression transforms his face for a moment, offering a glimpse of the Chris I’ve loved since I was old enough to know what love meant.
But it doesn’t last. The weight of whatever he’s carrying settles back into the lines around his eyes almost immediately.
“Nina.” He turns when he sees me, and for a breath the distance from my office falls away. He crosses the remaining space and pulls me into a hug—tight, real, the kind he hasn’t given me since college.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs against my hair. “For the way I left. For showing up at your office like that.”
I close my eyes and let myself fold into him.
Cedar and warm spice and Chris—the one who showed up at my father’s funeral when I was barely eighteen, who was still in Denver when college had taken Callie to the other side of the country.
My safe place before Wyatt existed, before the Agency complicated everything.
He’s still in there. I can feel it in the way his arms tighten, the way his breath steadies against my temple like holding me steadies him.
The guilt is immediate and devastating.
He’s holding me like I’m still the person he trusts completely. And I’m carrying a secret that would break this moment into pieces. Tell him. Right now, while he’s open—
But Callie is six feet away, and Wyatt is standing behind me, and this is supposed to be a family dinner. The moment isn’t right. It’s never going to be right.
He pulls back, hands still on my shoulders. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I lie, and hate myself for it.
Then his gaze shifts to Wyatt, and a look passes between them, weighted with shared knowledge I’m not part of. They’ve talked, I realize. About what, I don’t know, but there’s an understanding there that makes my skin prickle with unease.
“Wyatt,” Chris says, his voice carefully neutral.
“Chris.” Wyatt’s response is equally measured, but his eyes flick to me briefly.
An awkward silence stretches. Chris has never done small talk, but he clears his throat and tries anyway. “How was the flight?”
“Fine. Nikita wasn’t thrilled about it, but we managed.”
Chris’s entire posture shifts, his eyes sharpening as they cut to me. “Nikita?”
The edge in his voice is unmistakable—jealousy, concern, a territoriality he’s trying to mask as casual interest.
“His cat,” I clarify quickly, surprised by the heat in Chris’s reaction. “Calico with serious attitude. She’s actually really sweet once you bribe her with enough treats.”
“Cat.” Chris’s shoulders drop fractionally. “Right.”
“She’s the jealous type too, actually.” Wyatt’s tone is dry, easy. “Hisses if I pay attention to anyone else.”
Chris only narrows his eyes but refuses to take the bait. His attention returns to me, and vulnerability threads through his voice as he says, “Thank you for inviting me.” As if my invitation was the only thing that brought him here.
“Of course,” I manage, though the words feel inadequate.
It’s all I can manage with everyone watching. With Wyatt standing beside me, radiating the kind of controlled tension that means he’s still absorbing what I just told him. Processing the word pregnant and everything it implies.
The conversation we needed to finish hangs between us like a fresh wound. I can feel his quiet understanding, the way he’s not looking at me directly because he knows I’m barely holding it together.
Callie appears at Chris’s elbow with a glass of wine, her timing impeccable as always—rescuing us from the awkwardness before it can deepen.
“Well, this is cozy,” she says, but her voice carries warmth rather than sarcasm. “My brother finally shows up, Wyatt gets reassigned to LA, and Nina’s here for a family dinner. It’s like old times, except with better food and fewer disasters.”
Mason laughs from where he’s tending the grill. “Give it time. The night’s still young.”
Chris’s gaze flicks between Wyatt and me, something unreadable passing across his features. His posture shifts, suddenly wary, like he’s aware he’s walked into something he doesn’t fully understand.
He’s not wrong.
The November evening has settled into that perfect LA coolness—warm enough for short sleeves but with a crispness that promises actual seasons exist here. String lights have flickered on automatically as the sun begins its descent, casting everything in a soft amber glow.
Zoey toddles between adults, chattering in her delightful mixture of languages.
I should feel peaceful. This is exactly what I wanted—safety, family, the people I care about most gathered in one place.
But instead, I feel like I’m carrying a bomb that only Wyatt knows exists.
Every smile feels forced. Every casual comment from Chris lands like he’s talking to someone he doesn’t know at all.
Because he doesn’t. He doesn’t know about the positive test, the panic attack on my bathroom floor.
And Wyatt—God, Wyatt heard me say pregnant and was and immediately understood. I can see it in the way he’s standing, the vigilant stillness that could either mean he’s running interference, or that he’s still recovering from the bomb I dropped.
I drift toward the patio table where Marcella is arranging place settings.
Her movements are deliberate, each fork placed with careful attention—the concentrated focus of someone relearning fine motor control.
I recognize the slight pause between tasks, the way she ensures her grip is secure before moving to the next piece.
Small victories that most people wouldn’t notice.
“Let me help,” I offer, needing something to do with my hands, something to focus on besides the weight of their eyes tracking my movements.
“Nina, chérie,” Marcella says, handing me a stack of napkins. “You look pale tonight.”
“Just tired,” I lie, focusing on folding each napkin with unnecessary care. “Adjusting to a new city is a lot.”
She studies me with that sharp, assessing gaze—the same intensity Mason has, though her blue eyes are warmer than his gray ones.
Still, nothing gets past either of them.
She glances toward Chris, who’s crouched beside Zoey’s playpen, listening with exaggerated seriousness as she explains something animated about her stuffed elephant.
“He’s good with children,” Marcella observes quietly. “Natural.”
The comment lands like a blade between my ribs. I fumble the napkin I’m folding, my hands suddenly unsteady.
“Yes,” I say quietly. “He is.”
“You don’t like to talk about children,” she says gently. It’s not a question.
I pause, a fork halfway to its proper place. I could deflect, change the subject, retreat behind professional boundaries. But Marcella’s curious yet non-invasive tone makes me want to tell the truth.
“No,” I say. “I don’t.”
“May I ask why?”
“I was eight when my mother died,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Complications during childbirth. I was there when... when it happened.”
Marcella’s expression softens immediately. “Ah, ma chérie. I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
She pats my hand gently. “Men like Chris and Wyatt—good men—they will understand. And if they do not?” She shrugs elegantly. “Then they are not as good as I thought.”
Chris glances up from Zoey’s animated explanation, catches me watching, and smiles. Those smiles used to make my knees weak—soft, open in a way he reserves for children and animals and moments when he forgets to wear a mask.
My chest constricts so suddenly I have to look away. Chris with a child in his arms, patient and open, and the only thing I can think is I took this from him. It’s not rational. It’s not even true. But guilt doesn’t care about logic.
Mason’s voice carries across the patio, calling everyone to dinner.
I place the last fork before everyone converges.
The table is set with Marcella’s usual elegant touch—simple white plates, cloth napkins, small sprigs of herbs from the garden tucked under the rim of each wine glass.
The food looks incredible, but my stomach is churning with nerves and unfinished confessions.
Chris takes the seat directly across from me.
The proximity feels both intentional and torturous.
Wyatt sits to my left, close enough that his knee presses against mine under the table.
Normally I’d welcome it. Tonight, it feels less like comfort and more like monitoring—a hand hovering over something fragile to make sure it doesn’t fall.
We haven’t finished our conversation. The word pregnant is still sitting between us, raw and unprocessed, and I can feel him holding it—carefully, the way he holds everything—but holding it over me too.
Every time his hand brushes my arm, or he leans in to murmur something about passing the tortillas, I feel the unspoken questions pressing against his silence.
It makes the air between us feel thinner than the air between me and Chris, which should be impossible given what Chris doesn’t know yet.
The conversation flows around me—Callie’s honeymoon stories, Mason’s playful rebuttals, Marcella’s gentle teasing about their obvious happiness. I try to participate, try to smile at the right moments, but everything feels distant. Like watching from behind glass.