Page 13 of Oops Baby for the Billionaire (Oops Baby #3)

Willa

I stare out the limo window as we return downtown. Everything I own is piled in the limo between me and Roman, so I can’t even pretend that I’m going to the Techbridge Worldwide penthouse for a single night.

It’s either move into the apartment where we met, or move into Roman’s house. He didn’t give me a third choice, and I’m tired of fighting against his reasonable offers to help me.

And his argument for the apartment wasn’t just reasonable. It made sense.

The penthouse isn’t being used right now. There’s no staff. It’s literally across the street from work.

And a big bed sounds amazing, I’m not going to deny that.

“How often do you go to the university?”

“Hmm?” I turn back to Roman.

He’s staring at me intently. His phone is in his hand, as it has been the entire time he was moving me out of the art studio. Somehow he managed to direct his chauffeur, herd me around, carry half my stuff, and respond to what felt like a non-stop stream of messages.

“You’re working full time at CurateMe. How often do you also have studies at the school?”

“I’m just taking one class right now.” I flush in embarrassment. “A studio credit so I could continue using that space.”

“Do you want to enroll in more classes? I will make this car available to you as needed.”

I don’t bother to tell him I can take the bus.

That’s a fight for tomorrow.

The car slides up to the parking garage entrance.

“I’ll probably continue to take one credit at a time until, um…” I gesture at my belly. “Well, I guess I’ll see how it goes.”

He taps something on his phone.

“Are you reporting my schedule to someone?” I ask in disbelief.

He raises his eyebrows. “I’m just making a list for myself.”

“Oh. It just seemed like you were doing a lot more than…note taking.”

“I was.” He exhales and puts his phone away as we park next to an elevator. “I work non-stop, Willa. It’s hard to turn off.”

“It’s fine.”

The chauffeur opens the car door and I escape that conversation. I don’t care if he works all the time. He could work more and worry less about me, actually.

Roman follows, lifting the backpack I grabbed off my shoulder.

“I’ve got that!” I protest.

He pushes me ahead to the elevator. “We’ll bring everything up.”

“I think you’re leaving that task to your driver,” I say as he joins me on the elevator.

He hooks the bag over his arm and transfers my art portfolio to that same side. “I’m not empty handed. And I need to get you settled. Here, take…” He pulls a card out of his pocket. “This.”

I swipe it against a censor, and the button for the penthouse lights up.

“You can keep that access card,” he continues. “For coming and going.”

“Oh, you’ll let me leave?” I crack.

A joke that he doesn’t find funny.

“Let’s discuss your need to flee this prison after your first sleep on a real bed in four months,” he growls darkly.

Embarrassment washes over me. “Thank you,” I mutter. “I mean that. I know you don’t know me, Mr. Thorne?—”

My art portfolio and backpack both thump to the elevator floor. His hand shoots out, hitting the emergency stop button. The elevator lurches to a halt between floors.

“What are you doing?”

“I told you earlier, don’t call me that.” His voice is low, dangerous. “Use my name.”

“It’s just... You’re the CEO, and?—”

He crowds me against the elevator wall. “I’ve tasted parts of you that no one else will ever know. You came on my face, then on my cock. And our child is growing in your belly right now.”

My face flames. “Roman…”

“That’s better.” But he doesn’t back up. Instead, he plants his hands on either side of my head, caging me in. “Say it again.”

“Roman.” It comes out breathier than intended.

“Good girl.” His gaze drops to my mouth. “Do you know what hearing ‘Mr. Thorne’ from your lips does to me?”

I shake my head, mesmerized by his intensity.

“It makes me feel like that night meant nothing. Like you want us to be strangers.” His thumb brushes my jawline. “We’re not strangers, Willa.”

“We barely know each other,” I whisper.

“I know you steal strawberries when you think no one’s watching.

I know you make games out of boring situations.

I know you’re fearless, and when offered an adventure, you grab it with both hands.

I know you moan when I suck your nipples.

” His voice drops even lower. “I know you were a virgin before me.”

I whimper, my body trembling as his words hit home.

“And I know,” he continues, leaning closer, “that if I kiss you right now, you’ll kiss me back.”

“That’s presumptuous?—”

He cuts me off by pressing his mouth to mine. Not rough or demanding like I expect, but soft. Questioning. His lips move against mine gently, and my resistance crumbles.

I kiss him back. Of course I do.

My hands come up to grip his suit jacket as he deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding against mine in a way that proves he does know me, at least like this.

He remembers exactly what I like, and when a moan escapes, he growls in response, pressing closer until I can feel the hard length of his body against mine.

Every impressive inch.

When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathing hard.

“No more Mr. Thorne,” he says roughly.

“Okay,” I manage.

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, Roman.”

He rewards me with another kiss, briefer but no less intense. Then he reaches over and releases the emergency stop. The elevator resumes its climb, and he picks up my stuff like nothing happened.

Except for the way his mouth tugs up in an almost smile. No, correction, an actual smile.

I take a deep breath, and he slides a glance across to me.

“Not completely strangers,” I murmur.

The smile broadens to a flash of white teeth, too.

“You remembered the strawberry I ate?”

Dusky heat slashes across his cheeks above his close-cropped beard. “I remember everything, Willa. Absolutely everything.”

The elevator slows and opens directly into the penthouse. It’s surreal to return to this space, this time not by the service elevator.

The last time I was here, I was sneaking around in my wine-soaked uniform. Now the billionaire CEO is holding the door open for me like I belong here.

“The bedroom is that way,” Roman says.

I choke on a laugh. “Yes. I remember.”

“Did you get a tour of the rest of the apartment?”

“Just the service kitchen and this main living space.”

“There’s a regular kitchen, as well. This way.” He puts down my bags, then steers me down a hallway I didn’t use that night. “I had groceries delivered.”

To call the space he leads me into a regular kitchen is a huge stretch.

A huge marble island dominates the middle of the long galley. It looks straight out of a glossy magazine.

And it’s overflowing with brown paper grocery bags.

“Just a few supplies?” I ask dryly. I peek in the first one. Strawberries. I lift out the container, and realize there are five more underneath. “This is too much.”

“I thought it would be easier to keep you trapped in this hellish prison if you were well fed,” he says.

I jerk my head up.

“A joke,” he adds.

The next bag has peanut butter, four other kinds of nut butter that look increasingly expensive as I pull them out, and an eye popping assortment of pickled vegetables.

“Pickles, really?”

“The internet said cravings can be unpredictable,” he says. “There should be some ice cream, too. The concierge would have put that in the freezer already.”

I open the sub-zero. It’s full . And only with ice cream, at least ten different flavors.

And they all look delicious.

Roman shrugs out of his suit jacket and tugs off his tie. “What do you want to eat for dinner?”

“Is ice cream the wrong answer?”

He laughs.

I’m not sure what to ask for. I’m usually a basic ramen and canned chicken girl, so…

“Ramen?” he growls.

I wince. “Did I say that out loud? There’s nothing wrong with ramen. But I eat pretty much everything.”

“Steak? Salad?”

My stomach rumbles.

He nods and rolls up his shirt sleeves, revealing another tattoo on his left forearm.

“How many tattoos do you have?” I blurt out.

He touches the one on his arm. “Three.” He taps his neck, and then reaches around to pat his shoulder. “And one on my back. They’re all from when I was younger. Do you have any?”

I shake my head and unpack the next bag of groceries. “Four kinds of bread?”

“Variety is important,” he says.

“I think that’s vegetables, not bread.”

“I’ve got the vegetables covered, too.” He lifts a few different kinds of lettuce from the next bag. “And if you can’t get what you need from groceries, there’s some prenatal vitamins in here.”

I find that bag. An entire bag of every brand of vitamin in the grocery store.

“I assume you have a preference.”

“You could have asked.”

“Time was of the essence. We’ll give what you don’t want to the food bank.”

“Is this what you were doing on your phone while we packed my stuff into the limo?”

“I’ve always been good at multitasking.”

I hold up a package of menstrual pads. “Do you know I don’t need these right now?”

“Oh, that’s…I may have copied in the wrong list.” He pulls out his phone.

“Okay, that can get put away until the end of your pregnancy. But you’ll find a variety of those products, because the Personal Support Obstetrician sent me a list for pregnancy.

I dumped that into an app I built that cross-references all the grocery delivery services. ”

“Efficient,” I mutter.

He circles the island and grabs the strawberries. After giving them a quick rinse, he crosses to me and holds one out as a peace offering. “Open.”

I part my lips and let him feed me the lush, tart fruit. “Delicious,” I mumble. I swallow, then lick my lips. “Thank you.”

He opens a few drawers, pulling out a cutting board, a knife, and a large bowl. “Tell me what you like in a salad.”

“Lettuce?”

“Good start.”

“I dunno. Whatever you make will be good.” I flush with embarrassment. “I can help, too.”

“You don’t need to.”

“I’ll put this stuff away, then.” Which is an overwhelming task, because there’s so much. “For the record, pickles are okay, but I haven’t had any of those cravings. At least not yet.”

“Okay.”

“You didn’t need to buy all of this.”

He puts down his knife and comes closer. “Yes, I did. I need…” He takes my hand and rubs his thumb over my knuckles. Then he tugs me closer still. I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. “I need to take care of you. Both of you. I know I may have gone overboard?—”

“May have?”

“I’d rather you have too much than risk you going hungry for even a minute.”

My throat gets tight. “I haven’t been hungry. Just... frugal.”

“You’ve been sleeping on a couch and eating ramen, Willa. Let me overcompensate for a while.”

“With artisanal almond butter?”

He squeezes my hand, then lets go and steps back. “You never know. It might be good.”

I grab the jar, then a spoon from the drawer. “Only one way to find out.”

I take a deliberately large spoonful while maintaining eye contact with him. It’s actually amazing, not that I’m going to admit that immediately.

“Well?” he asks.

I shrug, sliding closer to where he’s working. “It’s acceptable.”

He grins. “Liar. You love it.”

I look at everything he’s put in the salad bowl. Lettuce. Green Onion. Celery. Red Cabbage. Corn. “It’s fine. That’s a complicated salad!”

“You’re a complicated girl.” He pushes the cutting board aside and yanks me in between him and the counter. “Tell me more about how that almond butter is just fine .”

“Yeah, it’s…” I trail off. Words have failed me, because suddenly I’m staring up at the man who I fell for, hard and fast, four months ago. This Roman I know.

He’s right. We aren’t strangers. Not exactly.

“What are you thinking?” he asks.

“You hate crowds.” My voice shakes. “You love looking up at the night sky. You’re a big fan of breasts.”

“Your breasts, specifically. Yes. All of that.”

“I remember, too,” I whisper.

“I wanted to spend the rest of that night getting to know you.” He lowers his forehead to press against mine. “Why did you run?”

“I knew you thought I was one of the start up people. When you found out I was a waitress—and a college student—you wouldn’t look at me the same way.”

He winces. “I want to say that’s not true, but you’re probably right. Not because there’s anything wrong with being a waitress, Willa. But you were too young for me. You still are.”

“Then why do you have me caged against the counter?” I glare at him.

“I shouldn’t.” He kisses the tip of my nose, then steps back. “Eat your perfectly acceptable almond butter.”

I scoop another yummy bite. “I mean, it’s just nut butter. How good could it possibly be?”

He laughs.

“What?” I put the spoon in the dishwasher.

Roman grabs a large steak from the fridge, and on the way past me again, whispers, “Your eyes give you away.”

I swallow hard and follow him to the stove. “What do you mean?”

“You get this shocked little flare in them. Like you’re surprised something so expensive could actually be worth it. You had the same look when you drank my champagne.”

“That was really good,” I breathe.

He ducks his head and brushes his lips against mine. The barest of kisses. “I like showing you how good things can be.”

The next thing he shows me is how good a steak can be. He grills it to perfection, then sets it aside to rest—another opportunity for a stolen kiss—before slicing it like a chef.

“This is incredible,” I tell him, not trying to hide how much I appreciate it once we’re sitting in the dining room. “Truly amazing. How are you such a good cook?”

“I worked in kitchens when I was a teenager,” he says.

I clatter my fork to my plate. “Get out.”

“I told you I wouldn’t judge you for being a waitress.

I haven’t always been wealthy. I wasn’t a trained chef or anything, but I did a lot of bussing and dishwashing, then moved up to food prep, and I picked up some skills along the way.

In another timeline, maybe I would have gone into the restaurant business.

But I also picked up some real estate tips, and my life went in this direction. ”

“Is that what your business is? Real estate? Not apps?”

“Everything has a tech component to it now. But yeah, my start was in property.” He flexes his hands. “There’s nothing quite like acquiring a new asset.”

“Like a security blanket, but a building?”

“Sure.” He grins at me.

“Why don’t you live here?” I wave around the space. “It’s fancy enough.”

He frowns. “I don’t need fancy.”

“So your house is a hovel?”

He rolls his eyes. “No. But I don’t care about my house. It’s just another asset. If you want to live here, we can?—”

He cuts himself off, but I heard it.

We .