Chapter 44
Chapter Forty-Four
Zoe
Max and I are quiet as we step into the elevator. The silence is thick, filled with unspoken words and emotions we’re both trying to sort through. As the doors are about to close, a couple steps in next to us, pushing a stroller with a tiny baby inside. The sight of the beautiful baby and the way her father is cooing on her tugs at something deep inside me, and I feel my breath catch.
Max seems to notice. Without a word, he pulls me closer, his arm wrapping protectively around my shoulders. I stiffen slightly, torn between the comfort of his touch and the confusion swirling in my mind.
Okay, maybe I need to remind him that there shouldn’t be any PDA between us. Especially when I’m too confused about this . . . Can we even call it a relationship? That’s too forward, right? Sure, right now he says that he loves me, but that’s probably just the hormones talking.
No, wait, I’m the one with the hormonal imbalance because I have a little one growing inside me and they’re making sure that I seem like I’ve lost the last strand of sanity to the rest of the world.
The elevator dings on the third floor, and the couple steps out, the baby cooing softly. As the doors close again, I turn to Max. “What was that about?” I inquire, my voice soft but curious.
He looks down at me, his eyes sincere. “You seemed a little sad or something when you looked at him. It was just in case you were . . .”
“About to cry?” I respond, not sure if I’m touched by the sentiment or pissed that he can tell when I’m about to lose it. I take a deep breath, trying to steady my emotions. “Max, we need to talk about boundaries.”
“Why?” He furrows his brow, looking genuinely perplexed. His hand drops from my shoulder, and he takes a small step back, studying my face as if trying to decode a puzzle.
The elevator dings again, and the doors slide open to reveal the foyer of Max’s penthouse. The sudden expanse of space feels both inviting and intimidating. I hesitate for a moment, my feet seemingly glued to the elevator floor.
Max gestures for me to exit first, his expression a mix of confusion and concern. “After you,” he says softly, clearly waiting for me to lead the way into this conversation about boundaries.
As I step out, I can’t help but wonder if I’m ready for the discussion that’s about to unfold. I don’t even know what it will be about. He’s just suddenly in love with me, or us having a baby that neither one was expecting but he surely has never wanted.
Instead of saying anything, I wait for him to start, my arms crossed protectively over my chest.
“I can make you some lemonade with mineral water to settle your stomach,” he says, which is not exactly what I was expecting.
I blink, caught off guard. “Pardon me?”
“Well, during my drive here I was asking Google to do some research for me,” he explains, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re at ten weeks, which means an upset stomach and with your IBS, I’m thinking things are a lot harder,” he concludes. “I’ve missed at least five weeks, but I want to make sure that you know I’ll be taking care of you.”
“You were researching?” My chin quivers slightly, but I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin, determined not to let my emotions show. “No, I’m fine. Let’s get this over with, but thank you for . . .” I trail off, not sure if I’m grateful for the offer, for him trying to catch up, or for what. It’s all a little too confusing.
Max steps closer, his eyes searching mine. “Zoe, what exactly is happening? Usually, you’re easy to read but also very clear on voicing what you need. Now . . .”
I feel a lump forming in my throat, torn between wanting to just run away and the fear of letting him in. “If it were only me, I’d be okay, you know? It’d be like, fine, let’s deal with whatever is happening. But now, I’m just wondering if I’m going to make a mistake that will affect my baby.”
He nods, his brow furrowing slightly as if processing the weight of the situation. “I get it. There’s a little human being that depends on you, and any decision we make might affect her future.”
I raise an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at the corner of my lips. “You keep saying ‘she’ and ‘her,’ and we don’t know yet if we’re having a boy or a girl.”
His eyes light up, a boyish grin spreading across his face. “True, but wouldn’t it be incredible to have a little baby Zoe in my arms? Then, we’ll think about a boy—or two.” His voice rises with excitement, hands gesturing animatedly as if he’s already imagining a house full of children.
I feel my chest tighten, a mix of anxiety and warmth flooding through me. But I stop him. Someone has to be the voice of reason here. “Focus, McCallister. You’re already thinking about more when we haven’t even discussed what all this means to us,” I say, my voice softer than intended. I take a deep breath, steeling myself. “The last time I checked—when I got the news of the pregnancy—you said you didn’t want a family. ”
His expression shifts, a flicker of guilt crossing his features. “Listen, that day, I was more concerned about you and whatever I said . . .” He runs a hand through his hair, eyes locked on mine. “My only worry was taking you to my house and putting you in a bubble so whatever was happening to you wouldn’t harm you.” The intensity in his gaze makes my heart stutter.
I swallow hard, trying to ignore the warmth spreading through my chest. “Well, no need to put me in a bubble,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.
“I’ll try my best not to do it,” he says, a mischievous glint in his eye that tells me he’s not entirely serious.
“First things first, we have to focus on your health and the baby’s. I can add you to my insurance so I can take care of the bills.” He leans forward, and suddenly he’s all business. “We should move you to another apartment. I think the one on the main floor is a two-bedroom and empty?—”
“Whoa,” I interrupt, holding up a hand. My eyes narrow suspiciously. “Why would you know if there’s a vacant apartment in my current building?”
He flinches, a guilty look flashing across his face.
“McCallister?” I tap my foot, arms crossed, waiting for an explanation.
He shifts uncomfortably, avoiding my gaze. “I might own the brownstone,” he mumbles, then rushes to explain. “It was a lot easier to . . . I just wanted to take care of you while you were trying to find yourself. ”
“Max,” is all I manage to say, my voice cracking slightly. A warmth blooms in my chest, threatening to overwhelm me. “Why?”
He stands abruptly, hands fidgeting at his sides. “Can I get you the lemonade while I put my thoughts in order?” he asks, already backing toward the kitchen.
I tilt my head, curiosity overriding my initial confusion. “Thoughts in order?”
He pauses mid-step, a self-deprecating smile on his face. “Caleb says I need to use my brain before I open my mouth.” He snorts, shaking his head. “Hence earlier, I was more concerned with defending myself than processing what you were telling me. And I fucked up what should’ve been a very significant moment for the two of us.”
“You did?” I ask softly, hope fluttering in my chest because maybe I’m really not alone in this.
He nods, his shoulders slumping as he leans against the counter. His eyes meet mine, filled with regret and something deeper. “The woman I’m in love with told me she’s pregnant and instead of . . . I don’t know, being happy or at least asking if you’re okay, my defensiveness just activated. I spewed a lot of nonsense.” His voice is thick with emotion, his usual confident demeanor replaced by vulnerability that makes me hold my breath for a second while I analyze those words.
Does he really love me? It could be just something he’s saying because now he thinks it’s the right thing to say—and do. Isn’t it? Before I start making up my own assumptions and placing a wall between us I just say, “It was pretty shitty.” My lips twist into a wry smile.
Max’s eyes crinkle at the corners, a mix of amusement and admiration crossing his face. “And as always, I appreciate that you don’t take my shit. Maybe that’s one of the things I love the most about you.”
My stomach flutters at his words, but I push the feeling aside, crossing my arms over my chest. I can’t let him smooth talk me into something that’s not really happening. I have to put a stop to it now before I believe his lie. “You keep throwing the L-word around as if it’s confetti, and that’s not how life goes,” I say, my voice coming out sharper than intended.
“But you’re . . .” Max’s voice falters, and he holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “Give me a second, okay? I really need you to let me organize my thoughts. Then I’ll take the floor because the last thing I want is to fuck up again.”
I watch as he moves to the kitchen, his broad shoulders tense under his shirt. The clink of glasses and the soft whir of the refrigerator fill the silence between us. Max’s movements are deliberate as he prepares the lemonade, his brow furrowed in concentration and the tip of his tongue shows slightly.
The muscles in his jaw work as he pours the lemonade, the ice cubes clinking against the glass, and when he finally looks up, he says, “Okay, I think I’m ready so please don’t interrupt me.”