Page 11 of Oops Baby for the Billionaire (Oops Baby #3)

Willa

As threatened, Roman strides back into the CurateMe offices as I’m finishing work for the day.

“Willa, Mr. Thorne is here,” my boss says, gushing as if this is a gift instead of a deeply stressful complication to my already complicated life.

But since I like my job and they don’t need to know the boss is my baby daddy, I just nod and say thank you.

I told my co-worker that there had been a misunderstanding earlier, but I sorted it out.

It’s wild what people will accept if you say nothing with enough confidence.

I grab my bag, my heart pounding. Roman—Mr. Thorne, fuck —silently opens the door for me, and I’m hit by a wave of deja vu. The way I followed him onto the terrace that night, thinking he was a stranger I would never see again. Desperate to escape, to feel, to bask in his attention.

Now his attention is terrifying.

He calls for the elevator, and silence stretches as we wait.

When it arrives, he gestures for me to step on first, then follows, moving to the far side of the reasonably big elevator car.

It’s still not big enough for the two of us, and the baby in my belly, and the full weight of all of his questions that I don’t have answers for.

“What time is your appointment?” he finally asks, breaking the silence.

“Six-thirty.”

He glances at the watch on his wrist. “Is the clinic on campus?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to go home and change? Or get something to eat?”

I shake my head. I want to cry.

He says my name softly, low and quiet.

I shake my head.

He steps forward, reaching for me—but the elevator arrives on the first floor.

The doors open, and I twist past him, blindly heading outside.

“This way,” he murmurs, suddenly beside me, his arm ghosting around my shoulders—guiding, but not actually touching.

A black limo is waiting at the curb.

A man in a suit opens the door for us. I stumble onto the nearest seat, and Roman follows me in, taking the bench across from me.

The door closing, with a heavy click , makes me jump.

Roman holds up his hands, his gaze locked on my face. And then he sighs.

“It’s okay,” he says wearily, at the same time as I stammer out, “I’m really sorry.”

We stare at each other.

The car starts, then pulls away from the curb.

“Do I need to give him directions?” I ask.

Roman shakes his head. Then he says, “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

As I don’t know what to say to that, I stay very still. Very quiet.

He tips his head back and curses under his breath.

“I am the one who owes you all the apologies,” he growls, lowering his head so he can pin his hard gaze on me again. “I should not have done…anything I did that night. I will make it right for you, and the baby.”

“Mr. Thorne, you need to know I was willing.” My breath puffs out of me, shallow and panicked. I can’t let him re-write what happened. That night being so beautiful has kept me going these four months.

“I am not in the habit of taking the virginity of twenty-year-olds.”

“I know. I didn’t tell you…” I try to take a deeper breath, but it doesn’t help. I need more air.

He leans forward. “Please don’t hyperventilate.”

“I’m not,” I say faintly. Except my shirt feels too tight, because it is too tight, because I can’t afford maternity clothes and a new apartment at the same time.

My head spins, and I gasp desperately.

I tug at my shirt, and then he’s moving across the limo toward me and everything is fading away.

When I come to, I’m cradled against a hard, unmoveable wall—his chest, I realize—and a woman is talking about me.

To me, sort of, but also to him.

I blink my eyes open, disoriented.

But we’re still in the limo, and we’re alone.

“She’s waking up,” Roman says, his chest shuddering against me. “Willa, you gave us a good fright.”

“Have you had any light-headedness in your pregnancy so far?” the woman asks.

“Who is that?” I ask, groggily, because I’m not answering disembodied questions without more context.

He shifts his hold on me, showing me his phone screen. A woman in a white coat smiles at me. “Hi Willa. I’m the chief of obstetrics at Memorial Hospital.”

I try to scramble to sit up, but Roman has a very firm hold on me. “No, that hasn’t happened before. I think I’m fine.”

She smiles. “I can see that. Your husband was just worried?—”

“Oh, no, Mr. Thorne isn’t my—” Roman ends the video call before I finish the protest. I puff out my cheeks and glare up at him. “Hey!”

“Me taking care of you when you have a health emergency is not negotiable,” he growls.

“Cool. I don’t think I’m having a health emergency anymore, though.” I wriggle. “Maybe let me go now?”

He frowns, but loosens his grip, and helps me sit on the seat next to him.

His body is warm, and I’m still cold, so I don’t move over. I don’t want to admit how much I like his size, the thick tree trunk thigh beside me, the solid, heavy arm reaching across me to hold my hand.

But I don’t like the idea that he thinks I’m fragile. “That really hasn’t happened before, you know.”

He tugs at his beard. “So it’s just my presence, then. Good to know.”

“You didn’t need to call a doctor.” I frown. “How did you get her on the phone so fast?”

“I spoke to her earlier.”

“When?”

“After I found out the mother of my child is currently travelling across the city to be treated at a student health clinic.”

“Staffed by doctors,” I say dryly.

“That’s what she said.” He shrugs. “But she was also agreeable to being put on retainer in case you had any questions.”

“I don’t.” Because I’ve known about this pregnancy for four months now.

And it’s brand new information for him.

“It’s okay if you call her, though, I guess. She can be your personal support obstetrician. You can probably afford it.” I’m blathering now. “Look, Mr. Thorne, I don’t want your money?—”

“Stop calling me that.”

I blink at him.

A muscle twitches at his temple. “As wrong as it was, Willa, I’ve been inside your body. You should call me Roman.”

My mouth falls open.

He’s been inside my body.

Heat races up my spine.

“And I won’t let you be foolish about resources, either. You should want my money. It will make your life better, immediately.”

“You aren’t going to ask for a paternity test?”

That muscle twitches again, and he doesn’t answer the question.

The car comes to a stop and I look out the window.

We’re at the university.

He doesn’t wait for the chauffeur. He vaults out of the car with more agility than I’d expect for a man of his size, holding the door for me, and avoids my gaze as I point the way towards the health clinic.