Page 12 of Oops Baby for the Billionaire (Oops Baby #3)

Roman

Willa checks in at a thick plexiglass window, then points to a row of faded plastic seats. “You can wait there.”

I nod and stay standing.

“I’ll be in there for a while.” She hesitates. “They’ll come and get you at the end.”

Another nod.

She frowns, but doesn’t say anything else.

And then her name is called, and she disappears down the hall.

Fucking hell.

I yank my phone out of my pocket and fire off a text message to the OB-on-speed-dial. Then I change her name in my phone, because Willa might see it and I’d like her to know I was listening.

Roman

I need to know more about the fourth month of pregnancy.

Personal Support Obstetrician

Do you know how many weeks she is?

Roman

Weeks?

Personal Support Obstetrician

How about the date of conception?

That I know. Grimly, I give her the exact date. Could give her the time, too, right down to the minute, but that’s probably too much information.

Personal Support Obstetrician

She’s eighteen weeks pregnant, then. Nearing the halfway point. Today is probably her regular monthly check-up. She’s into the second trimester, and you’ll be able to hear the heartbeat.

Roman

That’s what she said. I’m in the waiting room.

Personal Support Obstetrician

Have a seat, then. Read a magazine. That’s what dads do.

Sit? Read?

That’s not what I do.

Instead, I pace. And I text people. I hired an external investigator to catch me up to speed on all things Willa now that I know her full name, and they send me a very brief dossier.

Does that count as reading?

It’s not much more than I already know. She’s twenty years old, and a student in the art department here at Appleton University.

The last line makes me pause, though. Address unknown.

I’m about to step into the hall to phone them about that when a nurse calls my name.

I shove my phone away and stalk down the hallway.

“Just through there,” the nurse says.

I push open the door and come to an abrupt stop.

Willa is on an exam table, her shirt pulled up to just below her breasts, and her pants pushed down to below the crest of her slight bump.

Except it’s not that slight when not covered up with clothes.

There’s a pronounced, defined shape to her belly.

It’s small.

She’s small.

But I think I thought…I don’t know what I thought. That if she lay down, the bump might be less noticeable?

“You can come in,” the doctor says. A subtle suggestion that I should close the door behind me, I’m sure.

I cross to Willa.

“I, uh, explained that you’re just finding out,” she whispers. “It’s okay.”

“Is she doing okay? Is she healthy?” I ask the doctor, but I don’t look up. I can’t tear my gaze away from Willa.

“She’s measuring right on track for eighteen weeks.”

Eighteen weeks. That’s what the obstetrician said. “And that’s halfway?”

“Almost, yes. Do you want to hear the heartbeat?”

There’s a lump in my throat, but I nod. Yes .

“More than anything,” I say gruffly.

“It’s pretty cool,” Willa says as the doctor squeezes gel on her bare belly. She shivers. “Literally cool.”

I reach out and take her hand as the doc moves a wand, attached to a handheld Doppler device, over Willa’s skin. There’s a whoosh, then a thump-thump.

“Is that?—”

“No, that’s me,” Willa says, laughing.

“Too slow,” adds the doc.

I clear my throat. “Still cool.”

There’s more whooshing, and then?—

Oh.

Thudda thudda thudda thudda thudda .

“That’s fast.” I look at the doctor in alarm. “Is that normal?”

“Very. 150 beats per minute.”

I lift Willa’s fingers to my mouth. “Wow,” I breathe against her skin. “Thank you.”

She stares at me.

I know I need to let her go, but I can’t.

I hold her gaze and kiss her fingertips.

“Thank you,” I repeat softly.

The doctor turns away, then returns with a cloth to wipe Willa’s belly.

Shame roils through me at the memory of how I wanted to wipe off her belly that night on the terrace.

At how much I enjoyed painting her with my seed.

And at least some of that stayed inside her and took hold.

She’s twenty.

Fucking fertile as hell.

And I fucked her bare, because she felt like heaven and I wanted her around me.

I wanted to be inside her, nothing between us.

I only pulled out at the last second because I knew I should.

Then I went to get a washcloth, and she disappeared.

I’m still staring at her belly when Willa slides her hand out from my grasp and tugs her shirt down.

“We’ll see you in four weeks,” the doctor says. “And your ultrasound can be done any time between now and then.”

“Ultrasound?” I look at Willa with undisguised panic.

“It’s routine,” she says. “Let’s go.”

“I’m sorry I don’t know any of these things,” I mutter under my breath.

“You’ve got that OB on call,” she whispers back. “Pay her to give you a quick masterclass.”

“I texted her already.”

Willa laughs.

I press my luck. “I put her in my phone as Personal Support Obstetrician.”

She shakes her head, but she’s smiling.

That’s something.

Not much, but…it’s something.

The brief high dissolves into confusion as soon as we return to the car.

Willa refuses to get inside.

“I need to do the next errand on my own,” she says, not meeting my eyes. “Could we have lunch tomorrow instead of dinner tonight?”

I’m planning for us to have breakfast, lunch and dinner together tomorrow, but I’m not going to say that just yet.

“If you want me to wait outside while you look at your new apartment, I can do that.” It’s not like she’s going to be living there. Over dinner, I’ll explain that she can move into my house.

Or I’ll buy her the house next door if she isn’t ready to live under the same roof as me.

Yet.

Yet yet yet.

I’m four months behind, though, so my need to make things right is chaffing at having to be patient.

“I’ll just walk, I’m not going far, just across campus.” She takes a step back.

“Wait.” Something about this doesn’t add up. “You said you were looking at an apartment.”

“I am.”

“On campus?” I frown. “There aren’t residential buildings on campus except for—“ I stop, realizing she probably means a dorm. “You’re looking at student housing?”

She takes another step back. “It’s just for a month or two. I’ll have enough money by the time the baby arrives to move to a proper apartment. I’ve been saving up my money so I can put first and last month’s rent deposit down on a place.”

“What do you mean? Where are you living now?”

“I’m…”

“Willa, where do you live ?”

Her chin comes up defiantly. “That’s not your concern.”

“The hell it isn’t. You’re carrying my child.”

“I’ve been managing fine for four months without you.”

“Managing? Jesus Christ. Tell me you have a safe place to sleep tonight.”

She opens her mouth, then closes it.

My blood turns to ice. “Willa.”

“I have a place,” she says quickly. Too quickly. “It’s just complicated.”

“How is your housing situation complicated?”

“I don’t want to tell you.”

“That doesn’t fill me with hope.”

“It’s a temporary arrangement.”

Everything clicks into place with sickening clarity. The phone call that night—her father, something about rent. Her panic when I found her. Working as wait staff while attending university. Saving for an apartment deposit while pregnant.

“You’re homeless.” The words come out as a growl.

“I’m not homeless.” Her voice cracks. “I have a couch.”

“A couch where?”

She wraps her arms around herself, around our baby. “My studio space in the art building.”

“You’re sleeping in a fucking art studio?”

“It’s fine. It’s safe. There’s a bathroom down the hall, and?—”

“How long have you been staying there?” My voice is dangerously quiet now, because I already know the answer.

She lifts her chin. “Since that night.”

She’s been sleeping on a couch in an art studio since I took her virginity and put a baby in her belly. And she couldn’t get a fucking meeting with me.

I’m going to hell.

“What about your father?” I remember the fury in her voice on the phone.

“He...” She shrugs helplessly. “He has problems. Gambling. Drinking. He lost our apartment. I saw it coming, so I moved my important things to the studio before the eviction.”

“You’ve been all alone, pregnant and homeless for four months?”

“I’ve been managing?—“

“Stop saying that word.” I pull out my phone. “You’re coming home with me tonight.”

“No.” She backs up again. “No, I’m not. This is exactly why I was worried about telling you. You’re trying to take over, and I need?—”

“What you need is a safe place to sleep. A real bed. Proper nutrition. Medical care that isn’t at a student clinic.” My fingers fly across my phone screen, sending messages to my driver, my housekeeper, everyone. “You need someone taking care of you.”

“I’ve been taking care of myself!”

“On a couch. In an art studio.” I look up from my phone, and whatever she sees in my face makes her step back again. But this time, I follow. “Do they even know you’re living there? Or are you hiding that, too?”

Her silence is answer enough.

“You have to know there are rules against that. You could be expelled. Or at minimum, kicked out.” I close the distance between us, my voice dropping to something softer, more coaxing.

“Willa, please. Let me help you. Not because I’m trying to control you, but because the mother of my child shouldn’t be sleeping on a couch in a building where she’s not even supposed to be after hours. ”

Her eyes fill with tears. “I don’t want your pity.”

“It’s not pity.” I reach out slowly, giving her time to pull away, and cup her face in my hands. Her skin is soft, so soft, just like I remember. “It’s... fuck, I don’t care if it sounds wrong, given how I’ve hurt you. But I need to protect you now that I have you again.”

“I can’t go to your house,” she whispers, even though she’s leaning into my touch despite herself. “I can’t lose myself in The Thorne King’s mansion, you know?”

“No,” I say honestly. “I don’t really get that. It’s just a fucking house, Willa. It has real beds in it. Please use one of them.” And then I add, a little less honestly, “Just for tonight, and then we’ll tackle the rest of it tomorrow.”

If I believed in crossing my fingers every time I lied, my hand would be behind my back.

“How many beds?” She shrugs helplessly, and I realize her whole body is shaking. She’s not crying, but she looks like she’s on the edge of a complete meltdown. “Will our baby have a whole wing to itself? I can’t…I just…I can’t compete with that. I don’t want to see that tonight.”

Holy shit, that’s a whole other level.

I still don’t understand, but maybe I don’t need to. She’s twenty years old, and I’m overwhelming her.

The Thorne King.

Fuck my life.

“Fine,” I growl. “I have another idea.”