3

Apropos of absolutely nothing, my mind immediately fills with images of all the things he and I could do if we “stepped into his office.”

I could plant his toned ass in his chair, wrap his tie around my fist, and shove his face up my skirt to see how well he can tell time with a face full of lady bits.

I could knock him flat on the ground, rip open that infuriatingly well-tailored button-down shirt, and graze my nails down his abs while riding him ‘til the cows come home.

I could make him devour me.

I could make him worship me.

I could make him beg me to let him finish—and beg me and beg me and beg me, just for the sheer pleasure of leaning down, brushing my glossy lips up against the shell of his ear, and whispering one of his favorite words right back to him: “No.”

“ … Ms. Turner?”

For the second time today, there’s a man snapping his fingers in my face and asking if I can hear him. Admittedly, this one is much easier on the eyes than Dr. Saeder.

But despite my little hate-crush on the bosshole from hell, I don’t intend to be any nicer to Dmitri Egorov than I was to the incompetent doctor with the nose hair of a wildebeest.

“I’m as capable of hearing you as I am of telling time, Mr. Egorov.” I throw a little extra sauciness on his title.

“Hm.” He tilts his head to the side and looks at me from a new angle. An inexplicable softness passes over his face. On anyone else, it wouldn’t even be noticeable. But it’s such a departure from his usual “hell hath no fury like mine” broodiness that it captures my attention. “Is something wrong, Wren?”

Wren. When he says it like that, with that tone and that look in his eye, I can’t help but shiver.

It’s wrong for a man to look this beautiful and be this cruel ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time… then turn around and be nice on the worst day of my life.

I’m thiiis close to breaking down and telling him everything. Rose. Jared. The baby. The mix-up. The last time I saw a positive sign on a pregnancy test and the nightmares that followed that. Hell, give me half a dirty martini and I’ll start unloading on him about when Susie Coleman wiped a booger on me in first grade.

But I can’t.

Because he’s my boss.

Because he doesn’t actually give a shit, even if he’s doing an awfully good job of pretending like he does right now.

Because he’s rich and dangerous and too handsome to waste his breath asking after the problems of the feeble little mortals like me who flit around and do his bidding.

So I take a deep breath and give him the only reasonable answer I can afford to give: “No,” I murmur. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine.”

He surveys me for another long minute, that perceptiveness lingering in his silver eyes. He sees more than he lets on, I think. Or at least, it feels that way.

I feel naked. Exposed. Trussed up like a butterfly on a pinboard, completely at his mercy.

And that softness… that tiny, almost-imperceptible tenderness in his face that says maybe there’s a human with a beating, bleeding heart buried somewhere beneath the flawlessly symmetrical bone structure… it stays for just one moment too long.

I turn away. I can’t let him look at me anymore. “If you need anything, sir, I’ll be at my desk.”

Then I brush past him and into the guts of Egorov Industries. I don’t dare look back. But I can feel his eyes follow me all the way.

The rest of the day is a fight to keep my tears at bay enough for me to read the words on my computer screen. I tend to Dmitri’s emails, file his papers, prep for his meetings and his travel and his many charity galas.

My work wife slash bestie, Syrah, pings me on the company chat channel late in the afternoon to ask if I want to hit a happy hour after work.

SYRAH MEHRA: If I don’t get a margarita or five into my bloodstream ASAP, I’m going to put a staple in my eyeball.

My first instinct is to wince. I’m not gonna be having margaritas for a long time, am I? But Syrah doesn’t know that. I’d planned on keeping the whole surrogacy thing under wraps for as long as possible at the office.

SYRAH MEHRA: So are you in or are you in???

Biting back my first half-smile of the day, I type back, Lol, so dramatic. As if your bloodstream isn’t pretty much pure margarita at any given hour of the day anyway.

SYRAH MEHRA: Guilty as charged. Sue me. I like Mexican food.

WREN TURNER: Gonna have to pass today, though. I have a thing after work.

I feel weird as soon as I hit send on the message. A “thing” … Is that the best way to describe going to potentially meet the man who impregnated you from afar without your knowledge? I don’t think English has had the need to dream up such a word yet. I may be venturing into unexplored territory here. First woman on the moon type shit.

My fried-to-hell brain conjures up a brief image of one of Dmitri’s sperm cells planting a little flag in my womb and I bust up laughing.

Mostly because, if I don’t laugh, I’ll cry.

SYRAH MEHRA: a THING??? As in, like, a date????!?!!

She follows it up with a frankly impressive string of emojis depicting how she thinks my night will go. There are a few too many eggplants, peaches, and water droplets for my liking.

WREN TURNER: lol. Not a chance. I’m planning on being a bitter old spinster with all my cats and knitting.

SYRAH MEHRA: I’ve been to your apartment, babes. You don’t have cats and you don’t knit. And you’re too hot to be bitter and lonely. I could set you up with someone if you want. I’ve got a cousin…

WREN TURNER: First off, you have a thousand cousins, and my answer for all of them has been the same: thanks but no thanks. I love you but I'm just not in a space to be looking for romance right now.

SYRAH MEHRA: :( I know. I’ll drop it. I just want to make sure you know how special and perfect you are. You’re gonna make some guy feel so lucky one day.

WREN TURNER: <3 love you. Gonna wrap up and get out of here. Drink a marg for me.

I sign out of the chat and sigh. It only takes a little bit of time to organize my things and clear my desk. Turns out grief is actually kinda good for productivity, because I got a lot of stuff done. Dmitri hasn’t been back to the office since our cringe-inducing encounter this morning, but even he wouldn’t be able to criticize today’s effort.

I open the desk drawer to drop in a sheaf of papers and something catches my eye. My heart leaps into my throat immediately, but I can’t stop myself from reaching in and pulling out the gilded picture frame.

I don’t really need to look at it—I pretty much see this picture every night before I go to sleep like it’s tattooed on the back of my eyelids.

It’s me and Rose on her wedding day, wearing matching silk bathrobes as I toy with her hair. We’re looking at each other in the mirror and there’s just something in her gaze and in mine that screams “love.”

Come to think of it, it’s weirdly akin to the tenderness in Dmitri’s eyes from earlier.

I shake that thought off immediately. Dmitri Egorov is not physically capable of loving anyone like I loved Rose—except for maybe himself.

But this…

Fuck, I can remember this day. The room smelled like Rose’s vanilla perfume and the roses set up on the vanity. She was so happy. This was before the endless procession of doctors, before dozens upon dozens of negative pregnancy tests, before the verdict that conceiving was gonna be a no-go for her.

There was nothing to be sad about. The future was bright and beautiful and rose-scented. Pun intended.

The longer I look at the picture, the more my heart seems to be strangling me from the inside out. So I quickly tuck it back in my desk and slam the drawer closed. But it’s not fast enough to stop a single rogue tear from racing down my cheek and dropping onto the empty desktop.

I wipe it away, grab my purse, and stand.

I have a meeting with my baby daddy to get to.