Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Sara
The silence in Nick’s car is deafening.
Not angry silence. Not awkward, exactly. Just… loaded. Every inch of space between us is thick with everything we haven’t said and everything we’re terrified to feel.
Meatball sits between us in the back seat, a furry, drooling buffer zone. His tongue lolls happily. He’s completely oblivious to the fact that his mom is minutes away from emotional collapse and his chauffeur might actually be a billionaire with a protective streak the size of Manhattan.
I keep my eyes on the window, watching the city blur past, bright and loud and alive in that way New York always is at night. It should make me feel small. It usually does. But not right now.
Even if I don’t know what we are, even if I still don’t know how this ends, I’m not walking this road solo anymore. Nick’s here. And that matters more than I want to admit.
“Seat warmers still work,” he mutters, adjusting a knob on the console.
I glance down, realizing the leather beneath me is heating slowly. My feet have been cold since the appointment and I didn’t even notice until now.
“Thanks,” I say softly.
He nods, eyes still on the road.
We’re not exactly chatty.
He keeps glancing over every few blocks, needing to see that I’m still here, that I haven’t disappeared. I do the same, checking, watching, afraid that if I stop, he’ll be gone.
Meatball sneezes dramatically and flops over, wedging his head in my lap with a grunt.
I run my fingers through his ears, feeling the first hint of calm filter through me. It’s thin. Brittle. But it’s there.
Twenty minutes later, we pull into a gated drive tucked between rows of brownstones and mid-century luxury. I blink at the security pad, at the way the gates open smoothly on their own. And then we’re turning down a narrow, perfectly manicured lane and…
Oh.
Oh, wow.
I don’t know what I expected, but this… this is not it.
Nick’s place isn’t just a building, it’s a statement.
Rising with quiet arrogance, lit from below to cast sharp, commanding shadows.
Valets shift positions with practiced precision.
Inside, the marble lobby gleams, cool and echoing.
A chandelier of glass teardrops hangs above, catching the light in fractured bursts that scatter across the walls.
A doorman greets him by name. I’m still clutching Meatball’s leash as if it’s going to protect me from being wildly out of my depth.
We take a private elevator straight to the top.
I should say something, I know I should, but I don’t know what. Thank you? I’m sorry? I hope your board doesn’t crucify you for this?
The elevator doors open with a soft chime. And then we step into his world.
It’s… breathtaking.
Two stories of floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the main living area, framing a skyline so perfect it doesn’t look real. Everything is soft lighting, muted grays and golds, warm wood and brushed steel.
Clean. Luxurious. Huge.
There’s art I probably couldn’t afford if I sold a kidney. A grand piano I’m ninety percent sure he doesn’t play. The ceilings are cathedral height. There’s a fireplace taller than me.
And it’s quiet. The kind of quiet that costs a fortune.
“I… wow,” I breathe, stepping inside.
“I know it’s a lot,” Nick says, watching me closely.
“No, I mean… it’s beautiful. But also, like, palatial. Where’s the moat?”
He huffs out a small laugh. “Out back. With the dragons.”
Meatball trots in, owning the place.
I skim my fingers along the back of a velvet armchair, fighting the sense that I’ve stepped into a story that isn’t mine.
“Come on,” Nick says gently. “Let me show you the guest room. You can settle in, and we’ll figure everything else out tomorrow.”
I nod, still in a daze.
Still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Still half-convinced this is some fever dream brought on by morning sickness and stress and my body suddenly producing three humans at once.
Nick disappears down the hall and returns a few minutes later with a menu and his phone in hand.
“Takeout options,” he says, like we’re negotiating a high-stakes contract instead of tiptoeing around our emotional wreckage. “Thai? Italian? Something that doesn’t smell like regret?”
I arch a brow. “Does that mean no garlic knots?”
He smiles, and God, it’s unfair, how much that smile still hits me in the chest. “We’ll make an exception. You’re eating for four.”
I groan and bury my face in Meatball’s fur. “Don’t say it like that. I already feel like a bloated science experiment.”
“Beautiful science experiment,” he corrects.
I peek at him. “Suck up.”
“Pregnant woman with three future Ashfords in her body. I’m not taking chances.”
We order pasta and salad and enough garlic knots to qualify as reckless, and by the time the food arrives, I’ve kicked off my shoes and curled into the corner of his oversized couch.
It’s absurdly comfortable, the kind of couch you sink into and never leave, a trap laid by someone with deep pockets and a Pinterest addiction.
The city lights twinkle beyond the glass, and for the first time all day, I feel… almost okay.
We eat cross-legged on the floor, boxes spread out between us, Meatball shamelessly begging from both sides. I tell Nick about the prenatal appointment, the heart beat, the measurements, the moment I cried without realizing I was crying.
He listens. Quiet, focused, nodding in all the right places.
He tells me he’s been working with Jonah to figure out who the woman in the security footage is, that he’s already increased building security and changed his office access codes.
“You don’t have to handle this alone,” he tells me.
I want to believe him. I really do.
But believing means letting my guard down again, and the last time I did that, it ended with a slammed door and a full-blown scandal.
Still, tonight is different. Warmer. More real.
We talk about small things after that. Non-threatening things. Childhood stories. The best pizza in the city. Meatball’s mysterious vendetta against delivery men.
And then, somehow, we’re side by side on the couch.
Close.
Close enough that I can feel the warmth of his thigh next to mine.
Close enough that I can smell the faint trace of his cologne, clean, masculine, way too effective for my current emotional state.
Nick leans back, one arm stretched along the back of the couch, fingers just brushing my shoulder.
I don’t move.
Neither does he.
“You know,” he says after a beat, his voice softer now, “I used to picture this.”
My heart skips. “This?”
“You. Here. Not just for a night. Not just for sex. I used to imagine what it would be like to have you in my space. Part of my life.”
My breath catches.
“And now you’re here,” he adds, looking at me. “Carrying our babies. Three of them.”
“Technically,” I murmur, “they’re the size of gummy bears right now.”
“Then I guess I’m crazy about gummy bears.”
I laugh, and the sound is foreign in my throat. Light. Unburdened. Something I haven’t let myself feel in weeks.
He turns toward me, and the moment shifts.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks.
It’s not a line. It’s not a move. It’s careful. Considerate. After all we’ve been through.
And I nod.
Because I want it. Because I need it.
Nick shifts closer.
One hand comes up, fingers brushing along my jaw. He’s giving me time to pull away. To change my mind.
I don’t.
I lean in instead.
And when our mouths meet, it’s soft at first. Sweet. Careful. A promise unspoken. A question.
A thousand apologies wrapped into one warm, lingering press of lips.
But then I exhale against him, just the barest sigh, and something in him breaks open.
The kiss turns.
Deeper. Hotter.
His hand slides into my hair, cradling the back of my head as he angles his mouth over mine and takes more.
Not rushed. Not frantic. But hungry. Intentional.
He’s reconnecting with the shape of me, relearning what it means to kiss someone you can’t stop thinking about.
I curl into him, my fingers bunching in the soft cotton of his T-shirt, tugging him closer, needing to feel his weight, his heat, his gravity.
Damn, he still tastes the same. I can’t believe how much I’ve missed him.
Nick groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against my lips, and it sends a shiver straight down my spine. His other hand finds my hip, grounding me, holding me in place as if he knows I might float away if he doesn’t.
“You feel so good,” he murmurs against my mouth.
I arch into him, dizzy with it. “So do you.”
He kisses me again, deeper this time, claiming space we both forgot belonged to us. His tongue brushes mine, teasing, coaxing a moan from somewhere deep in my chest. My body reacts before my brain can stop it, pressing closer, needy and alive in a way it hasn’t been in weeks.
And then his hand drifts, sliding along the curve of my waist, skimming the bare skin beneath my shirt. I gasp softly into his mouth and he stills, just for a second.
“You okay?” he whispers, lips brushing mine.
I nod, breathless. “More than okay.”
Nick’s eyes darken at my answer. Not with surprise. With intent.
He kisses me with raw hunger, all restraint shattered. I kiss him back, just as desperate, needing, taking.
My hands find the hem of his shirt and shove it upward, fingers grazing the hard lines of his stomach and chest, aching to feel more, to take all of him.
He lifts his arms and lets me strip it off him, tossing it to the floor without ever breaking the kiss.
His hands grip my hips tight, anchoring me against him. I can already feel how hard he is through our clothes, thick and straining beneath his jeans.
When I grind down just slightly, his groan rumbles into my mouth.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re going to kill me.”
“Not yet,” I whisper.
His hands slide under my shirt, fingers stroking up my spine until I arch against him. When he tugs the fabric up, I raise my arms and let him peel it off, his eyes dropping to my breasts excitedly.
“No bra?” he asks, voice rough.