POV Xander
* One month later *
Thirty days of living with her. Thirty days of pretending she was just a contract.
Thirty days of failing miserably.
Somewhere along the way, my walls had started to crack. Against my will. Against my better judgment.
She’d made herself at home in my penthouse in the smallest, most dangerous ways. Her books stacked on the end table, her tea kettle whistling in the kitchen, the faint scent of her shampoo lingering in the hall after she’d walked through.
I told myself it was fine. Temporary.
So why had I given her my spare Mercedes?
“For the baby’s safety,” I’d said, tossing her the keys like it was nothing.
Her eyes had gone wide. “Xander, this is—”
“Reliable,” I interrupted, walking past her before she could thank me. “And fast. Keep it in the garage when you’re not using it.”
Truth was, the thought of her in that rusted sedan she’d been driving made my jaw clench. One reckless driver, one bad storm—
No. She was carrying my child. My heir.
I wasn’t leaving anything to chance.
The tea was another mistake. I’d overheard her in the kitchen one morning, muttering that she missed her favorite blend. The next day, the pantry was stocked with it.
She’d looked at me suspiciously when she found it.
“You don’t drink this.”
“I don’t,” I’d agreed, flipping through the financial report in my hand.
“So you bought it for me.”
I didn’t look up. “It’s not a crime to keep my tenant alive and satisfied.”
Her laugh had been soft, almost disbelieving, and it had followed me into my office, echoing longer than it should have.
And then there was the way she handled herself at work.
I’d expected the usual—competent enough, but distracted, given the circumstances. Instead, she was better than half my full-time staff.
The week before the conference, I’d passed by her workspace and stopped, unnoticed, to watch her.
Her desk was a fortress of neatly organized folders, her laptop screen split between legal briefs and her meticulously crafted talking points. She was focused, tapping her pen against her notebook in thought.
When she noticed me, she straightened. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” I said. “You’re… prepared.”
Her brow furrowed. “You sound surprised.”
“I am,” I admitted. “Most people take months to learn the kind of groundwork you’ve done in weeks.”
Something flickered in her expression—pride, maybe. “I just… don’t like failing.”
“I’ve noticed.” And God help me, I liked that about her.
The conference was supposed to be routine. A necessary evil, nothing more.
Instead, it became torture.
From the moment she walked in, I couldn’t stop looking at her.
She wore a sleek navy dress that hit just above the knee, modest but unforgiving in the way it hugged her curves. Her hair was pulled back, leaving the sharp line of her jaw exposed.
Every time she smiled at someone, my chest tightened.
And the men noticed her. Of course they did.
“Norah, right?” One of the senior attorneys leaned a little too close as they spoke between panels.
I could see the way his eyes tracked down her body before meeting her gaze again.
I wanted to break his hand.
Instead, I stood across the room, drink in hand, and reminded myself that I had no claim. She wasn’t mine. She was my employee.
My surrogate, my responsibility. Not my possession.
Still, I positioned myself beside her when I could, an unspoken warning in my stance. Each time she spoke up during a discussion, her insight was sharp, her delivery confident.
I caught myself staring more than once, not at her body but at her mind—the way it worked, the way she pieced together arguments in seconds.
She had no idea what it was doing to me.
For hours after, I was useless.
I’d be in the middle of discussing a contract with one of the associates and find myself wondering how her hair would feel tangled in my hands. How her voice would sound, gasping my name.
I’d walk past her and catch the faintest whiff of her perfume, and my body would respond before my brain could shut it down.
I didn’t touch her. I didn’t even let my hand brush hers.
But I thought about it. Too much.
It was worse at home.
We’d cross paths in the kitchen, her in an oversized sweater, me in my shirtsleeves, and I’d have to focus on the coffee maker like it was the most interesting machine in the world just to keep from staring at her.
So when at some point she vanished from my sight during the conference, it was almost a relief. Until my phone buzzed. A text from her.
I opened it without thinking and froze.
The image was simple: a white plastic stick, the word ‘Positive’ glowing on its tiny screen. The background was the tiled wall of what looked like a restroom.
For a moment, I just stared at it. My brain struggled to process, my chest tight, my breath slow. And then it hit me.
She was pregnant.
She was carrying my child.
I was out of my chair before I realized I’d moved, phone still in my hand. I didn’t care about the conversations I was supposed to be in, the people waiting on me.
I needed to find her.
I needed to see her.