Chapter 15 #2
The strip of images catches his eye. He looks at them, at me, then braces his hands on the opposite side of the island, leaning forward.
"Emma." His voice is lower now. "I owe you an apology. An actual one. Not the half-assed version shoved between meetings and panic."
"You already—"
"No." A small, sharp shake of his head. "On that terrace, when you told me you were pregnant, I gave you nothing. No reaction. No words. I stood there like a fucking statue and then went back to glad-handing investors like you hadn’t just detonated my entire universe."
I flinch. Because yeah. That’s what it felt like.
"I was in shock," he says quietly. "That’s not an excuse. It's just the truth. You deserved…something. Questions. A conversation. Not a man-shaped blackout."
I stare down at my hands, twisting the condensation ring on my glass. "It felt like you disappeared while still standing right in front of me."
He exhales slowly, like the air is thick. "I know. And I'm sorry. That’s on me. Not on you. Not on the baby."
The word lands between us again.
Baby.
He continues. “I’m not good at feeling out of control. Or fucking helpless.” His gaze raises to mine. “And to be clear, fear is the one thing I’m not good at narrating in real time. I was terrified, Emma. Of failing you. Of failing this baby. Of proving that Vanessa was right and—"
I blink. “Who?”
His mouth tightens. For a second, he looks like he'd rather reopen the IPO prospectus than answer.
“She—That doesn’t matter. Because I want this baby, Emma," he says, and there’s no hesitation this time.
His eyes are steady, dark. "I didn't know that on the terrace.
I hadn't heard the heartbeat yet. I hadn't seen…
" His gaze flicks to the photos. "That. But I know it now. I want this baby. And I want you."
My lungs forget their job for a second. "You have a shitty way of showing it."
A corner of his mouth lifts. "I deserved that."
"Yeah.” My voice wobbles. "You do."
He rounds the island, stopping right in front of me.
Up close, I can see the faint stubble along his jaw, the silver threading his dark hair at his temples.
It should make him look older. It just makes him look more dangerous.
"This is me showing up," he says quietly. “The OB waiting room, ultrasound gel, all of it. I'm still scared. I’m still worried I’m going to fuck this up. But I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere unless you tell me to."
My throat tightens. "So what now?"
"Now," he says, and something new enters his tone—decisive, CEO-steely, "I make a wildly overbearing proposal and you tell me if I’ve completely lost my mind."
"That sounds promising."
"Move in with me."
My brain blue-screens. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Move in," he repeats, calm like he’s suggesting we change a meeting time.
"Your apartment is a fire hazard with walls. You’re climbing flights of stairs while nauseous.
This place has elevators, a guest room that can be yours, another room that can be a nursery, and a kitchen where I can attempt to learn what the hell pregnant women eat when everything makes them sick. "
"Donovan, this is insane. We’re not…" I gesture between us. "We don't even know what we are."
"We’re two adults who made a baby and are trying not to screw it up," he says. "We date. We cohabitate. We figure out boundaries and therapy and whatever else we have to. But we do it somewhere that doesn’t involve you carrying groceries up a stairmaster in July.”
"It's too fast."
"Emma." His voice drops, all velvet and iron. "What's fast is your body changing while you pretend this is a minor inconvenience we can pencil in after the product launch."
"That’s not fair."
"It’s accurate." He softens it with a sigh. "Look, I'm not asking you to sign away your independence. I'm asking you to consider letting me show up. To let me be in this with you day to day, not just in exam rooms and boardrooms."
The idea is both scary and…achingly tempting. Sasha and Riley are a world away. So is my mom, my dad, everyone all back in Chicago.
And I picture waking up to this view.
To him.
To not being alone with my nausea and my Google searches and my fears at three AM.
"I'll think about it," I say finally, the only answer I can give without spontaneously combusting.
His broad shoulders ease a fraction. "That's all I'm asking."
Taking a step back, he glances toward the kitchen.
"Are you hungry?" he asks.
I look down at my empty stomach. "I could maybe manage something that doesn't smell like a fryer."
"I can do better than that." His mouth curves. "My pasta skills are legendary."
"Legendary where? In the Titan HR handbook?"
"In my own head, which is the only place that matters." He nods toward the aisle between the island and the range. "Come on. Sit there. Let me cook for you and the bean."
"The bean?"
He shrugs, heading for the fridge. "Until we come up with something more dignified."
I take my water and slide onto the end stool by the corner of the island, close enough to the range to feel the cool air from the vent hood, far enough to watch him without craning my neck.
He moves around his kitchen like he moves through meetings—efficient, clean, everything within reach.
Stainless steel drawers whisper open, a pot hits the induction burner with a low thud, and the gas flames beneath the other burner snap to life with a soft whuff.
In a minutes, olive oil glints in a pan. Garlic hits the heat with a sharp sizzle as my bossy baby daddy tosses in crushed red pepper.
In the obscenely extravagant kitchen, the air warms. With heat. Spice. And the scent of my desire, which is rising every time his muscular forearms reach for another ingredient.
I clear my throat, shifting on the stool.
“Smells amazing," I admit.
He glances over his shoulder. "I’m very motivated."
The words curl around my ribs and settle somewhere low as Donovan turns back to the stove, adding cherry tomatoes, letting them blister and burst.
The sweet-acid smell mixes with garlic and oil, filling the space while he salts pasta water like he’s done it a thousand times. He tosses in linguine, and sets a timer with the same precision he applies to investor calls.
And my brain can’t seem to come to grips with how erotic this domestic scene is. How surprising.
And how completely disorienting.
I check my watch.
I was only supposed to give Donovan one hour, and now at forty-seven minutes and thirty seconds, that time is quickly passing by.
I should leave. Except I can’t seem to move. Or speak. Or think.
"You're staring," he says without turning.
"You're cooking," I counter. "It's unsettling."
“I’m a man of many talents.” He kills the heat, tosses the pasta straight from the pot into the pan, the noodles hissing as the starchy water hits hot oil. At the last second, he adds a knob of butter, swirling everything together until it glosses.
He plates with unfailing competence. A twist of pasta in a wide white bowl, topped with tomatoes, basil torn with his fingers, a snowfall of parmesan.
He slides the bowl in front of me, along with a fork and napkin. "For you."
My stomach, traitor that it is, growls. "Okay, this looks decent.”
"Eat before it congeals." He leans both hands on the island, watching me.
I twirl a cautious forkful. It smells bright and garlicky and…safe. The first bite hits my tongue—silk and acid and heat—and my eyes close of their own accord.
"Oh my God," I groan. "That's better than decent."
"High praise. I’ll print that on the menus when I open my inevitable backup trattoria."
I take another bite, a little bigger. It sits fine. My stomach doesn’t revolt. For the first time all day, the nausea recedes to a dull whisper.
I open my eyes to find him still watching me, intent and hungry in a way that has nothing to do with food.
"What?" I ask, heat creeping up my neck.
"Nothing." His gaze dips briefly to my mouth. "Just making a list."
"Of what?"
"Things that make you moan like that. So far, I have pasta, hotel sex, Chicago, my private jet, and the moment you heard the heartbeat."
My face goes nuclear. "You can't say hotel sex like that in the same sentence as the heartbeat."
"You're right." He comes around the island toward me. "The heartbeat goes first."
He stops in front of my stool, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to see him.
"Donovan," I warn. "We just had a very serious talk."
"And we will have more very serious talks," he says. "But I’m also allowed to want you."
His hand comes up, fingers brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. His thumb grazes my jaw, the touch light but focused.
"Finish eating," he grunts. "Then I'm going to make you moan for a completely different reason."
My fork clatters against the bowl. "That's…bossy."
"You're surprised?" His mouth curves. "Emma, you’ve seen me in boardrooms and hotel rooms. You know exactly how bossy I am."
Heat gathers low in my belly, mixing with the warmth of the food and the memory of that ultrasound heartbeat.
I manage the last two bites before he plucks the bowl away, setting it in the sink without breaking eye contact, then steps back between my knees, hands gliding up my thighs, thumbs circling over denim.
"Tell me to back off," he says quietly. "If you want space. If this is too much. You say the word, and I walk you to the elevator, and we keep it PG-13 until you decide otherwise."
I swallow. "And if I don't say it?"
"Then I'm going to fuck you senseless right here on this counter," he says, voice dropping to that dark, commanding register that liquefies my spine. "And remind you exactly how good it feels when you let me take care of you with more than pasta."
The smart part of my brain wants to make a flowchart. The rest of me is already leaning in.
"Don," I whisper. "Kiss me."
His eyes flare. "Good answer."
Cupping my face, he tilts my head, and then his mouth is on mine, hot and sure.