Page 41 of Silver Fox's Christmas Scandal

My fork paused halfway to my mouth. "Lucian?—"

"I'm not judging you. I just want to understand."

I set down my fork, my appetite completely vanishing at that point. "Understand what?"

"Your timeline. What you're planning for your future."

The careful way he phrased it made me even more nervous. "I've been thinking about having a baby for a while now. IVF seemed practical."

"Practical?"

"I'm twenty-six. I have a stable job, health insurance, some savings. And I'm tired of waiting for the perfect situation that might never come."

He was quiet for a long moment, swirling wine in his glass. "What about a partner? Don't you want that?"

The question was natural, but it did hurt a little that he didn't make it personal. "Of course I do. But I'm not going to put my life on hold indefinitely hoping someone will show up."

"So this would be completely on your own."

"Yes. I've thought it through carefully. I can afford the treatments, and I have support systems in place."

"What kind of timeline are you looking at?"

I studied his face, trying to read his expression. He seemed genuinely curious, not judgmental, but there was something else beneath the surface I couldn't identify.

"I was hoping to start consultations this spring. Maybe begin treatments this summer."

"That soon."

"Is there a reason I should wait?" My heart pleaded with him to say yes, that I should wait because maybe something between us would blossom and this no-strings thing would shift, but his expression shuttered, and I had my answer.

Lucian Cross was not interested in a baby, and if that hiccup occurred in his life, it would be an unpleasant one for him.

"I think it's admirable," he finally said. "Taking control of your future. Not many people have that courage."

The words were supportive, but there was that coldness to his tone again. The warmth from earlier in the evening evaporated, replaced by the careful politeness he used with colleagues.

"You seem upset about something," I said carefully.

"I'm not upset. I'm just thinking about the implications."

"What implications?"

"If you're planning to get pregnant, that changes things. Your career trajectory, your availability for travel. Your priorities."

The clinical way he discussed it made my chest tighten. "Are you worried I'll trap you somehow? Because that's not?—"

"Of course not. I know you better than that."

But his voice remained cool, controlled. Whatever connection we'd built over the past months seemed to be dissolving before my eyes. I started to feel anxious; tears stung my eyes but I blinked them back.

"Maybe I should go," I said, starting to stand.

"Finish your dinner, Tessa. Please."

I settled back into my chair, but the atmosphere had fundamentally shifted. We ate the rest of our meal in strained silence, both of us lost in our own thoughts.

When I offered to help with the dishes, he accepted, and we moved around his kitchen, but the chill remained between us. Sadness clouded every action and I just wanted to go home and cry. We were almost finished with cleanup when he started talking.