My brain seems to be doing okay—as okay as it ever is—but I still feel so tired. “How long was I out?”
“Not long.” Titus finishes checking every inch of my head. “Does anything hurt?”
Again, I have to think about it for a second—take stock of all my bits and pieces—before answering, “I don’t think so.”
“Good.” Titus shifts around, barely jostling me as my butt sinks into the cushion of the couch. It’s not until he has me fully on the sofa that I realize I wasn’t only in his arms, I was also curled up on his lap.
Really wish I’d been awake for that, which is probably not a great development.
It’s also not shocking. Between his looks, his voice, his scent, and his lack of hesitation to come help me in spite of his own needs, it’s pretty hard not to feel a little crushy over Titus. But considering my history of falling into shallow pools head first, the last thing I need is to have a crush on the man responsible for signing my paycheck. I have more important things to think about. To focus on.
Like how in the hell am I gonna tell him I’m pregnant.
That was the game plan this whole time. Build a rapport with Titus—check. Blow his mind with my skills in the kitchen—double check. Show him I’m worth keeping on the payroll even though things could get a little sticky for a minute? Hopefully checkmate.
But now that I’m facing him in the flesh, I’m a little reluctant to admit my current situation. For reasons that have nothing to do with my job and everything to do with why I probably need therapy.
“I should go to my room.” I try to sit up. I need to get away from him. All this time I spent trying to lure him out, and now I’m the one trying to hide.
The irony.
Titus shakes his head, expression stern as his hands come to my shoulders, pressing me back down. “Absolutely not.” He doesn’t let me go even once I’m back lying against the cushions. “You passed out. You should probably go to the hospital and get checked out.”
“I’m not going to the hospital to get checked out.” He’s overreacting, but doesn’t know it, and I’m too messy to tell him. “I probably just need to eat something. Maybe hydrate a little better.”
Titus’s lips flatten into a thin line, the scarred edge of his mouth curving upward due to the lack of stretch in that part of his skin. “Why didn’t you eat anything this morning?”
“Well…” I swallow hard, knowing now’s the perfect time. The moment I should spill the truth. Waiting will only make everything worse. It will seem like I was trying to hide it.
“I just wasn’t hungry.” The lie slides right out, a symptom of a sickness I obviously have yet to cure.
There is no reason I shouldn’t tell Titus about Peanut. He likes my cooking enough to threaten hacking into his brothers’ security systems to keep them from eating it. I could probably assume hewouldn’t fire me because I might have a few weeks where I won’t be able to cook the way I do now. Plus, he stays in a sound-proof room. It’s not like a crying baby will keep him up at night.
The only reason I have to keep this a secret is entirely selfish and completely stupid. A sign I’m still just as ridiculous as I’ve always been. That no matter how much gets poured out, I’m still delusional enough to believe my glass is half-full.
“You still need to eat.” Titus straightens, leaning forward to tuck a blanket around my body. The same one he covered me with the night I fell asleep waiting for him to come downstairs. “Stay here. I’m going to make you something.”
I frown up at him. “But you said you couldn’t cook.”
The hard set of Titus’s mouth softens the tiniest bit, hinting at a smile I have yet to see. “I can’t.”
He turns and walks away, like that’s the end of the conversation.
I sit up, confused. And honestly, also a little concerned. “But?—”
Without turning to look back at me, Titus barks out, “Lay back down.” He continues into the kitchen, grabbing the loaf of bread I made yesterday. “I said I can’t cook, but I’m competent enough to make you toast.”
I watch as he opens the drawer where I keep my knives—the only thing I brought with me besides my clothing and a few sentimental items—pulling out the serrated version I use to slice through the loaves. Next, he retrieves the cutting board he ordered me in one of his shopping benders. After sawing off a few thick slices, he pops each into the four slotted toaster and lowers the levers.
As he continues working, it becomes clear Titus was watching me more than I realized. He knows where every item in the kitchen is. Knows what I use and how I use it.
But it’s not just his kitchen he’s been paying attention to. When Titus returns to the couch carrying two plates—one forhim and one for me—it’s obvious he didn’t miss much through the lens of his cameras.
I stare down at what he’s made me, a strange sensation settling into my stomach. “There’s jam on my toast.”
Titus settles onto the seat beside me, biting off a chunk of his own lackluster breakfast. The brow on the unscarred side of his face angles. “Have you gone back to peanut butter already?”
I don’t know what to say, so I just shake my head.
