“It makes whatever you want,” he said. “I usually use it for cappuccinos — see the setting there? But you can change it to prepare your coffee any way you like it. Trudy can show you how to do that, too.”
He took her to see the movie-screening room — she sat down in one of the front-row chairs and reclined — and the indoor pool, where she bent down and trailed her fingers in the water. “It’s all right for me to swim here?” she asked.
“Sure. Whenever you want,” he said.
“All right. You’ve convinced me.”
“Convinced you of what?”
“I’m moving in for good,” she said, flashing him a grin. “You’re never getting rid of me, not even when the baby is born.”
He laughed. “I’m glad you agreed to stay here. I really do think it’s going to make all this a lot easier, especially when it comes to convincing my father of the legitimacy of what we’re doing.”
She straightened up, looking hard at him. “Do you think he’s going to believe our story?”
“We’ll find out soon enough. I’d like you to come to the hospital with me to meet him tomorrow.”
Chelsea’s face turned serious. “Are you sure it’s time for that? I think it’s going to be difficult.”
“It will be. But time is the one thing that’s working against us. You need to meet him as soon as possible. Will you come to the hospital with me tomorrow?”
Chelsea nodded. “We’ve come this far,” she said resolutely. “I’ll do it.”
CHAPTER 8
CHELSEA
The following morning, as the two of them made their way down the hall of the hospital, Chelsea found herself wishing she hadn’t agreed so easily to Miles’s request.
Her heart beat madly against her ribs as he pressed the button that would take the elevator to the very top floor. He’d prepared her a little, letting her know that his father was housed in a private suite. He had seemed to think that would be reassuring. “You won’t have to deal with people rushing in and out all the time, and the hustle and bustle of a busy hospital,” he’d told her. “That will make things easier, right?”
No, it wouldn’t. That would mean Miles’s father would have nothing to focus on but her, nothing to think about but the surprise of finding his son in a relationship and expecting a child out of nowhere.
Not to mention that I’ll be lying to the man—about everything.Not only was she not romantically involved with Miles, she also wasn’t carrying his baby yet. And she might never be. Though Miles had the resources to go through the fertility procedures as many times as it took, Chelsea had developed a horrible fear thather body might let them down. What if she never got pregnant? Eventually, Miles would have to move on to someone else. The feeling she’d had the day she had met him, the sense that she was running short on time, was more powerful than ever. Chelsea wasn’t old, but she certainly wasn’t getting any younger, and if she didn’t get pregnant easily, he might give up on her.
Well, in that case,she told herself firmly,maybe it’s good that I’m meeting his father now. It’s an insurance policy. That will give Miles an incentive to stick with me if things don’t work right away. His father will already believe I’m carrying his child, and that’ll make it awfully hard for him to write me out of the story.
She turned to face him. “So, you said your father had a stroke?”
“Yes, he’s doing a lot better than he was at first. I was here early this morning. I told him you would be coming to meet him — he’s excited about that. He’s able to communicate pretty well now. He’s slurring his words a little, but his memory is intact,” Miles smiled fondly. “He’s as sharp as he ever was. I was afraid for a minute there… but he’s himself, and he’ll be able to talk to us. I know he’s eager to meet you.”
Chelsea nodded slowly. “I’m glad he’s doing better,” she said sincerely. Shewasglad. It was awful to think of someone suffering. But the fact that he was alert and would be able to ask questions did make her job here a little bit harder. She would have to face those questions. She would have to satisfy his curiosity about her — and who knew what kinds of things he would want to know?
We should have planned a story together. We should have thought through what we were going to tell him.
Too late now. The elevator dinged, signaling its arrival at the top floor of the hospital, and the doors slid open. Chelsea determined to follow Miles’s lead. This had been his idea, so he would have to manage things. He could handle that. She would just keep quiet and agree with everything he said, and that would have to be good enough.
The hospital suite turned out to be a vast, sprawling affair that reminded Chelsea more of a hotel room than a hospital. The only thing that broke the illusion was the presence of a medical bed in the center of the room — though this had been spruced up with the addition of blankets that were obviously Silas Aspin’s personal property, brought from home — and a couple of machines tracking vital signs.
She had seen Silas Aspin’s photo before, of course, in various news publications. He was one of the most famous faces in America. But she had never really thought about him. To Chelsea, he had been like the star of a movie she was never going to see. Famous, yes, and a name she knew, but not someone she spent any time thinking about.
And now he’s going to be the grandfather of my child.
The man lying in the bed looked different from the man whose face was plastered on magazines and internet articles. He was paler and skinnier. He looked older. How much of this was his illness, and how much had to do with photo editing? She couldn’t be sure.
He also wore striped pajamas, which was disorienting. At least he wasn’t in a hospital gown. That would have been downright awkward.
As they walked in, Miles reached out and took Chelsea’s hand. That could have been awkward too, but she found that she needed something to hold on to as she approached the old man’s bed. Miles’s big, steady hand was a comfort to her. He was doing this in order to put on a show for his father, she knew, but that was a show she was willing to play a part in. They stopped beside the bed, where Silas sat propped up against a few pillows.
