Of course he did.
My fingers close around the mug’s handle. “Thank you.”
Our fingers brush, and my body instantly comes alive, nipples tightening.
We stand there in the cavernous, immaculate kitchen—me half-naked in his shirt, him looking like he’son his way to run a Fortune 500 company—and the silence settles, heavy and unavoidable.
This isn’t just post-sex quiet.
This is “we probably need to talk” quiet.
I take a sip of the decaf, trying to calm the wave of tingles sweeping across my neck and breasts.
“Donovan—”
“Emma—”
We stop at the same time.
He gestures with his mug, a ghost of a smile touching his mouth. “Go ahead.”
I inhale. “I should go home. Get ready for work. We have the strategy meeting at ten.”
Something shifts in his expression—a control snapping back into place.
“You could get ready here,” he says carefully. “I have a guest bathroom. You couldbring your things—”
“Don't.” I set the mug down before my hands can start shaking. “This weekend was… incredible.”
One corner of his mouth curves. “That’s one word for it.”
“But,” I press on, “we can’t pretend everything’s solved just because we had really, really great sex.”
His gaze sharpens. “I’m not pretending anything’s solved. I’m suggesting you stay.”
“For the weekend? Fine. But I have a life. I have an apartment.” I exhale. “I can’t just move in with you because we slept together.”
“We didn’t just sleep together,” he says, voice lower now. “We made a decision to try this. Together. That includes figuring out logistics.”
“Logistics like whether we’re actually dating? Or whether this was just… weekend stress relief in thousand-thread-count sheets?”
That lands, and his impossibly sharp jaw tightens. “Is that really what you think this was?”
“I don’t know what to think,” I admit, skin still heated, still prickling. My heart pounds. Probably because I’ve been practicing this spiel all morning. “Four days ago you weren’t sure you wanted this baby. Now you’re casually offering closet space. That’s… a lot, Donovan.”
“I know it’s a lot.” He sets his mug down. “But I meant what I said. I want this baby. I want you. And I want to figure out how to make this work.”
“Then we need boundaries,” I say softly. “Especially at work.”
He studies me. “Go on.”
“We can’t let people know about us. Not yet. Maybe not ever.” I swallow. “Rumors alone could destroy my credibility.”
Understanding flickers behind his eyes.
“You’re worried about perception.”
“Of course I am.” A strained laugh slips out. “I’m twenty-six, pregnant, and sleeping with my boss. That’s not a great look on LinkedIn.”
