CHAPTER ELEVEN
PENELOPE
I DID IT! AT LEAST ten million people will watch the show that just aired and will replay over the days and weeks to follow.
That kind of brand exposure is impossible to pay for when you’re a charity, and it’s far more powerful than advertising.
It’s influential.
That’s the magic.
I’m so giddy I don’t even stop to remove all the makeup they layered me with before I go to my next meeting.
Or rather, my appointment.
I also don’t have time. I knew it was close, but both were important, so after chatting to all the crew behind the cameras and thanking them for the opportunity, I hightailed it out of there.
As I walk across the large lobby of the studio building, I wonder if showing up with all the bright makeup will give the wrong impression. If it even matters.
I remind myself to explain.
My heels tap on the floor as I hitch my large tote bag onto my shoulder, then stop dead.
My heart skips a beat.
What is he doing here?
Dressed in a navy suit—jacket unbuttoned—a crisp white shirt, and hands casually slid into the pockets, Ward Montgomery stands several feet in front of me.
Owning the space around him.
And staring at me.
His ocean blue eyes swirl with unsaid things. I’m unsure if I want to run into his arms, cry, or slap him.
I’m an emotional mess.
I can’t move.
But he does.
Step by step, as I shake, Ward closes the distance, and I tell myself he’s just some guy I slept with and means nothing.
Liar.
“You were incredible.” He stops a foot away. Close enough for me to breathe in his expensive cologne and read the time on his Rolex watch.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Breathe,” he says, running a finger down my arm.
Christ.
Then he takes my hand and my eyes snap down to them.
“What is happening?”
“Can we talk?” Those blue globes are so intense, and it reminds me of when he’s inside me.
Do not think about that right now.
It throws me.
“Okay.” Then I shake my head. “No. I. Ward, I have a meeting.”
He releases my fingers, and the loss is palpable.
“Of course.” Ward glances around and takes my arm, steering me outside. “Then have dinner with me tonight.”
What is going on?
The chilly air hits me and I realize I haven’t messaged my driver to meet me. I was so excited about the segment that I just raced downstairs.
Shit, fuck.
This appointment is expensive and important. Time of the essence. I had a friend pull strings to get this time slot. Usually, you have to wait months to get in to see this expert in the field.
“I’m sorry, I can’t,” I reply. “I really do need to go.” I pull out my phone and fumble so much it falls onto the snowy sidewalk.
Ward crouches, picking it up as it beeps and the screen flashes with the appointment reminder.
No!
He hands it to me as his eyes scan the message and I die on the spot.
IVF first appointment with Dr. Qwann.
Our eyes meet, and his face turns ruddy red.
No, no, no.
I want the ground to swallow me up. Having the man I was sleeping with learn I’m going to get artificially inseminated was not on my task list. Today or any day.
I feel ashamed and as if I’ve lied to him. God, what if he thinks I was just trying to get knocked up by him?
I wasn’t.
I wouldn’t do that to a man. Or my yet-to-be-born child.
“I have to go,” I whisper.
Then curse, because I still haven’t messaged my driver and now, I could very likely miss the appointment.
“Pen—”
I spot a cab, shoot Ward an apologetic glance, then dart around him, waving out my arm.