Page 7 of Oops Baby for the Billionaire (Oops Baby #3)
Willa
Four weeks later
I didn’t want to go looking for Roman again. I didn’t even look him up online until I missed my period.
And then I felt like a complete idiot.
I knew that the guy I hooked up with was definitely out of my league because he had his life sorted out. A career. A nice suit. Very talented with his tongue.
A career turned out to be the understatement of the century.
“What do you mean, I can’t make an appointment to see Mr. Thorne?” My voice shakes. “I need to see him. It’s…important.”
“Miss, it’s just not possible to—” The receptionist at Thorne International cuts herself off, pressing her hand to her earpiece. Then she takes a deep breath. “Miss, you can wait over there.”
“He’ll see me?”
She flicks a dismissive glance over my…everything. My frantic expression, my messy hair, my tired outfit.
And yes, I know there’s a streak of paint on my jacket, but I only own one and it’s getting cold. I pull it tight around me, feeling defensive.
“His head of security will see you,” she says. “And then probably escort you out of the building.”
That’s probably true.
The Thorne King is ruthless, people say.
My stomach turns, the now very familiar nausea bubbling up.
“Is there a restroom I could use while I wait?” I ask weakly.
She points to a sign near the elevators.
“Thanks,” I manage to get out before I dash in that direction.
I barely make it before I lose my breakfast.
“No, no, no,” I whisper, tears threatening. “Baby, stop it. We need to keep that food in our belly so you can grow big and strong, don’t you understand?”
Except it doesn’t understand. It’s not even a baby yet. It’s just a tiny little microscopic promise of a baby.
My baby.
And apparently, billionaire Roman Thorne’s baby.
I sob into the toilet bowl.
Just for a second, just long enough to truly feel sorry for myself.
Because I know what his security guard is going to say. He’s going to either ban me from the property, or he’s going to demand a paternity test.
I don’t look like I belong here.
I don’t look like a girl that Roman Fucking Thorne might impregnate.
Over the last two weeks, I’ve spent a lot of time reading up on Roman .
I feel like quite the dummy for not recognizing him the night of his party. I think I didn’t want to see it. I pretended all the things he said could have been said by anyone else attending the party. But in hindsight, it’s painfully obvious that he owned the building across the way.
And he thought everything inside it was his to take that night.
Well, I guess you showed him just how wrong that was by…thrusting your hips into his face repeatedly.
Dumb dumb dummy.
I clench my tired hands into tired fists and silently shake them at the ceiling, which is probably fifty floors below where my baby daddy might hold court in a boardroom.
I can’t imagine him doing anything as civilized as chairing a meeting .
After washing my hands and face, and taming my hair back into something slightly less wild artist, I take off my coat and carefully fold it over my arm so the paint is hidden.
Then I square my shoulders and head back to the lobby.
There’s no sign of anyone looking for me.
The receptionist is gone, too, replaced by a young man wearing an identical headpiece.
Sighing, I stride up to him to repeat the same humiliating exercise again.
“Hi, I spoke to the girl before?—”
“Are you here for the CurateMe job interview?”
“N—” I cock my head to the side. “Sorry?”
“CurateMe,” he says slowly. “You’re an artist, right?”
Apparently I didn’t tame the aesthetic enough, but maybe that was a good thing. “I am.”
He hands over a pass. “Third floor.”
Heart beating fast, I grab it and head for the elevators.
Unfortunately, the pass only seems to work to access the third floor, so I can’t use it to get up to the top floor—even if Roman is up there.
But a job interview…
That might get me in the door. Literally.
And it might also get me off my studio couch.