Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63391 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63391 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
“I’m not angry about the marriage anymore,” I say softly. “And I love the life I have with Isaac. But I can’t be your spy. I won’t.”
His expression hardens at that, but just as quickly, he forces a smile. “That’s not what I’m asking.”
Isn’t it? I don’t press the point. Maybe it’s the pregnancy hormones. Maybe I’m just tired. But something about this whole conversation sits wrong in my gut, and I’m not ready to dissect it.
I retrieve my coat from the chair, moving slowly. Papa rises with me, ever the gentleman, yet stiffness clings to his posture, something unreadable shadowing his eyes.
“What are you doing this weekend?” he asks as I sling my purse over my shoulder.
I pause, caught off guard. “Evie and I are hanging out,” I tell him. “We’ll probably go shopping and grab lunch.”
He nods, and for the first time all evening he seems genuinely at ease.
“That’s good. You need time with your friends.”
I nod slowly. “Yeah.”
He walks me to the door and opens it with a quiet flourish. Cool, crisp night air wraps around me the moment I step onto the stoop.
“Stay safe, sweetheart,” he says, resting a gentle hand on my shoulder.
Something in his tone makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise, more warning than farewell, maybe even a plea.
I glance up, searching his eyes. “You too.”
He nods, and the door clicks shut behind me.
25
ISAAC
Iglance at the clock. It’s barely past noon, yet I’m already halfway through the stack of files Mikhail dumped on my desk this morning. Everything has run smoothly lately. For once there is no urgent fire to stamp out. Even so, an itch crawls beneath my skin, a gut-deep certainty that this is only the calm before the storm.
It has to be self-sabotage. The baby will be here any day, stirring equal parts joy and panic. I’m convincing myself something will go wrong simply because I’m overwhelmed. That’s all.
A soft knock cuts through my thoughts. I look up, expecting Maude or one of my men, but the door creaks open and Katya slips inside, her loose hair spilling over her shoulders. A rosy flush warms her cheeks, proof she has just come in from the cold.
My brow furrows. “What are you doing here? I thought you and Evie had plans.”
She shrugs and steps deeper into the room, a soft smile curving her lips. “Evie woke up with a stomach bug,” she says. “She texted me this morning and didn’t want to risk getting me sick.”
“That was thoughtful of her,” I murmur.
I set my pen aside and push back from the desk, letting my gaze sweep over her. She’s wearing one of those flowing maternity dresses that hug her belly in the most distracting way, a living countdown to the moment everything changes.
“So I figured I’d spend the day here,” she says, her voice light. “Maybe catch up on some reading or steal a nap.”
I stand and close the distance in three long strides. My hands bracket her waist as I lean in and kiss her, soft at first, then lingering until her fingers curl against my chest. When I pull back she’s smiling, but a flicker of weariness swims behind her jade eyes, tender and tired at once.
“I don’t suppose I could talk you into a quickie,” I joke.
“You’re insatiable,” she says around a yawn. “I thought you would have gotten your fill last night.”
Her eyes flash as we are both picturing last night’s wild, all-night sex. She has reached the stage where she will try anything, including marathon lovemaking, to jump-start labor and finally coax the baby out. We spent hours testing every surface in the house, but her water stayed stubbornly intact.
“So.” Her tone sharpens with mock irritation as she has caught me fantasizing. “I’m going to lie down.”
“You could lie down in here,” I offer, aching to keep her close.
With the due date looming, I crave every second alone with her. Soon we won’t even remember what privacy feels like, so I’m determined to savor it while we can.
I guide her to the leather sofa tucked against the far wall of my office and ease her down. Then I fetch a throw blanket from the armchair. She leans back, wedges a small cushion behind her lower back, and sighs with contentment when I drape the blanket over her lap.
“You sure you’re okay?” I ask, crouching in front of her. “You looked a little pale when you walked in.”
“I’m fine,” she insists, threading her fingers through my hair. “Just tired. I didn’t sleep well. Your son was practicing karate at two in the morning.”
I chuckle and rest my palm over the curve of her belly. “Maybe your daughter was practicing her gymnastics.”
It’s a standing joke now. We chose to wait until birth to learn the baby’s sex, so we bicker over it whenever we can. Katya rolls her eyes but leaves my hand exactly where it is.