“Don’t worry, I’ll clean up every drop when I have you alone.”
I don’t have a chance to respond. We’re in the ballroom, and there are people everywhere.
I take slow steps, careful not to jostle the egg inside me. The room is lavish. High ceilings, vaulted and painted with murals like it’s the Sistine Chapel. The marble floors and walls reflect the light from the chandelier, making it look like everything is encrusted with diamonds. There are heavy drapes at the windows designed not to shift in the breeze coming in from the gardens.
There’s a buzz in the room, the low hum of voices drenched in Champagne and money.
Everyone here can change the future of my gallery. I want to invest more in small artists, and create mentor programs for up-and-coming talent. I want to expand my operations so I can give back to community programs.
I scan and spot Juno on the other side of the room, talking with a group of people. She’s easy to pick out with her platinum blonde hair streaked with hot pink. She’s also ignored the black tie part of the event. Instead, she’s wearing an electric blue swing dress, the only splash of color in a sea of monochrome.
“I don’t know if I said it yet,” Jensen says, his arm still hooked in mine, “but I’m so fucking proud of you right now. Look at all these people here for you.”
This time my cheeks are hot for a different reason. My husband is ambitious and sometimes trying to keep up with him is an impossible task. So hearing him say he’s proud of me?
Yeah, I might melt into a puddle.
“It was your investment that got the gallery going,” I murmur.
“Don’t do that. Don’t sell yourself short. And the investment wasn’t mine. It was both of our money, Mia.”
I glance around, a smile tugging at my lips. Pride swells, because he’s right. Even if I had a hand out to get started, I built the rest of it from the ground up. All the programs, all the funding—that was me and Juno. I’d be lost without her.
“Maybe you should tell that reporter, since he thinks I’m only useful if I’m pregnant.”
He makes a low hum in the back of his throat. “Men like him always underestimate women like you.”
My heart warms at his support, not that I doubted I would have it. Jensen would fight the clouds if I told him they were going to rain on me. “He was such a jerk.”
“He was.” His lips press to my temple, like he has to be touching me at all times. “But I do like the idea of you barefoot and pregnant, sweetheart. Though definitely not in the kitchen. I’m not suicidal.”
I jab a finger into his ribs, even if his words are fair. “I am not that bad at cooking.”
“You burn water.”
I roll my eyes. But there’s a reason he invested in a housekeeper the moment we could afford one. I don’t blame him, not really. There’s only so many times someone can be served food that tastes like it crawled out of hell before they throw in the towel. If I hadn’t known Jensen for so long, I’m pretty sure he’d think I was trying to kill him.
Death by undercooked vegetables.
What a way to go.
“You’re so dramatic, and you like the idea of me pregnant more than you’d like the reality of having a baby.”
I freeze as his hand splays over my lower belly, as if we’re not in a room full of people, all with camera phones. The last thing we need is a media frenzy thinking I’m expecting.
“Jensen.” I try to move his hand, but he doesn’t let me.
“You think I don’t want to see you round and swollen with something unmistakably mine?”
The heat in his eyes is primal.
Oh…Oh. He really likes the idea.
We’ve talked about kids, sure, but in the abstract. We’ve both been so focused on our careers—him on building his company, me on expanding the gallery and my art programs—that it never seemed urgent.
I know we’ll have a family eventually, but the way he’s looking at me? The pressure of his hand on my stomach?
I blink. “You want… you want to have a baby?”
