Page 73 of Desperate Games

“I’ll walk you in,” he says, killing the engine, already moving to get out.

Gentlemanly. Controlled. Too much.

I fake a smile that doesn’t come close to reaching my eyes.

“No need. I got it.”

His gaze sharpens, narrowing like a predator clocking prey. For one terrifying heartbeat, I think he’ll argue.

But then he gives me a single, deliberate nod—like he’s letting me think I won.

Spoiler: I didn’t.

Because when I swing the door open myself and try to bolt for the elevators like the car is literally on fire, he’s right there.

Matching me stride for stride.

Of course he is. He’s the tallest human I know, for fuck’s sake.

“Here, I’ll hold that.” He plucks my pocketbook right off my shoulder before I can even protest, the damn thing looking ridiculous in his massive hands.

“I can?—”

“Andy.”

Just my name, in that low, warning growl that strips the air right out of my lungs.

So I shut up.

The elevator ride is claustrophobic.

My pulse thunders in my ears. The whole time I can feel his heat, his presence, like he’s wrapped around me without touching me.

Except—no, he is touching me.

The second we step off, his palm is at the small of my back.

Firm. Proprietary. Possessive.

Hostage.

That’s what it feels like. My spine is strung so tight I think I might snap.

We walk through the marketing department, and sure enough, heads turn.

My coworkers—bright, ambitious, nosy as hell—pretend to keep working, but I see the sly glances. I hear the whispers.

And fine, maybe it’s not exactly a secret. Being married to Remy Falco. Pregnant.

The whispers were inevitable. But we haven’t made any announcements yet.

My mother is still waiting on me to make that phone call.

And every step I take with his hand on me is a reminder that I’m not ready.

Not ready for the questions.

Not ready for the judgment.