“I’m not pushing, baby.” His voice drops to a low rumble, threaded with something that feels more like a vow. “I’m reminding you what’s already real.”
My heart hammers so hard it drowns out every rational thought.
When he finally pulls back, the air feels too heavy in a room that’s too small.
Restlessness buzzes under my skin, every place he caressed still alive with it.
I force myself to calm.
To remember where I am—my office at work, not alone in his penthouse.
I smooth my skirt, grab the tablet, and pretend my world hasn’t just tilted on its axis. But the ghost of his touch continues to linger. It’s a silent promise I can’t seem to forget.
No matter how much I want to.
28
Oliver
Note to self: cooking is way harder than it looks when celebrity chefs do it on TV. Whoever said just follow the directions clearly never had to juggle three pans at once.
Some of the guys on the team enjoy cooking. Like River, the weird motherfucker.
I’m not one of them, though.
Hell, I can barely boil pasta without it turning into glue. But Rina’s here, and I’ll be damned if I don’t take care of her.
So, I follow the recipe on my phone like it’s gospel. Vegetables sizzle in one pan, quinoa simmers in a pot, and chicken bakes the way some smug food blogger swore would come out juicy.
Yeah, I’ll be the judge of that.
I stir and check the screen for the umpteenth time, praying I’m not about to ruin the whole damn dinner.
Still, I have to admit, the kitchen smells pretty good. Notes of garlic and herbs rise from the skillet, blending with the nutty scent of quinoa.
That alone feels like a win.
I glance over my shoulder and find Rina perched on a stool at the island, elbows propped on the counter, chin tilted to one side. She’s watching me with a skeptical frown.
The sight makes me grin.
When I set a plate in front of her, she stares down at it like she can’t decide whether to laugh, poke at it, or applaud. Before she can choose, I slide the fork into her hand.
“Dig in, baby. You’re carrying my kid, which means my job is making sure you eat.”
Her brows lift. “You’re incredibly bossy, you know that?”
“Yup.” I lean close enough to catch the faint, sweet scent of her shampoo. “And I’m starting to suspect you like my bossiness.”
Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t argue.
Surprise flickers in her eyes as she takes a bite. “This is actually good.”
Pride swells inside me. I’ve scored game-winners that didn’t hit like this.
Who knows, maybe I’ll start cooking more often.
While she eats, I drag the oversized box from the entryway and set it on the counter. Inside is the haul from my early-morning panic shopping spree. Three pregnancy books, prenatal vitamins, ginger gum, and a handful of teas for nausea. I line everything up on the island.
