Page 158 of Nine Months to Bear

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Why?”

He sets down his fork. “Because she hurt you. She tried to destroy something you built and if there’s one thing I don’t tolerate, it’s a fucking bully. She deserved to burn for it—all I did was light a match.”

I don’t know whether to shiver at the casual violence or smile at the overprotectiveness. “Still. Thank you.”

Stefan shakes his head. “You don’t need to thank me for doing what’s right.” After a tense pause, he clears his throat and looks away. “The article serves a purpose anyway. It puts our situation in context.”

“Our ‘situation’?”

“The pregnancy. Us.” He gestures between us. “When people find out the full scope, they’ll need a story. Something that makes sense.”

“And what’s our story?”

“Simple. I was an investor interested in your clinic. We met, worked together, and…” He pauses. “Fell for each other.”

Another pause. A longer one. A more confusing one.

“Fell for each other,” I repeat numbly.

“It’s believable.”

“Is it?”

“I think so.” His eyes meet mine across the candles. “Do you?”

My heart pounds so hard I’m sure he can hear it. “I think people will believe whatever we tell them.”

But that’s a cop-out answer and he knows it. “That’s not what I asked.”

I’m fully aware of what he’s really asking. But I just can’t. Not yet. Not when everything’s so fragile and new and terrifying.

“I think the stroganoff’s getting cold,” I say instead.

He lets me have the deflection. We eat in silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s just quiet. Peaceful, even.

But something in me refuses to accept that this easy peace could be mine. It rebels, mentally at first in the form of this wriggling uncertainty, and then physically. When I bend down to take another bite of my food, the smell hits, stronger than before. My stomach recoils.

“Shit.” I push the plate away, pressing my hand to my mouth.

Stefan’s on his feet instantly. “Bathroom?”

“No, I just… I need it gone. The smell.”

He doesn’t hesitate. Grabs both plates and disappears into the kitchen. I hear the disposal running, then water. When he comes back, he’s carrying a loaf of sourdough and butter.

“This should be easier on your stomach.”

“You don’t have to?—”

“I want to.” He tears off a piece of bread. “Here.”

I take it, nibble the edge. It’s good—yeasty and mild, nothing that triggers the nausea.

“Better?” he asks, eyeing me carefully.