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“No,” I snap forcefully. “I’m not.”
He nods. “Which is precisely why I’m suggesting that it might be simpler to just end things here. So that we don’t have to resort to the hassle of coparenting.”
Coparenting.
Coparenting with Dmitri Egorov.
That’s the stuff of nightmares.
“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath. “Where’s the waitress? I need another drink.”
Ironically, the moment Dmitri glances towards the bar, a waitress materializes not even five seconds later.
“Vodka for me,” he orders with a smile that doesn’t quite touch his eyes. “And for the lady?—”
“Rum and Coke. Hold the rum.”
The waitress doesn’t look amused by my lame joke, but Dmitri does, if only for a moment. If his mouth relaxes any more, he might be in danger of smiling. And that’s saying something, because a smile from Dmitri Egorov is like sighting fucking Bigfoot.
The waitress throws some seriously suggestive side-eye at Dmitri as she leaves. But I’m pretty sure he doesn’t notice because he’s focused solely on me.
His attention doesn’t feel like the flattering variety, though. It feels more of the how-am-I-gonna-handle-this-inconvenient-little-problem variety.
“Listen… I’m not looking for a co-parent,” I say haltingly. “If that’s why you thought I wanted to meet, it’s not. I guess I… I just wanted to know who the father of my baby was.”
He’s staring intently at me through half-lidded eyes. “I’d like to reiterate: I am not a sperm donor; I am the father. You don’t get to meet me and walk away and never have to think about me again.”
I snort quietly. Fat chance of that. Even if he weren’t the baby daddy I never wanted, Dmitri is still the bosshole from hell. And somehow, fate has seen fit to tie us together in one of the most intimate ways possible.
The most ironic thing about all of this? Fate has me knocked up with Dmitri Egorov’s baby and we skipped right over what would have been the fun part. Which is what I’m sure would have been hot, sweaty, passionate sex. The kind of sex that involved his teeth marks on parts of my body. My claw marks on parts of his.
I meet that severe scowl of his with an unblinking gaze of my own. “Yeah, well, ditto.”
In Egorov Industries, he’s my boss and I’m his subordinate. But right here, right now? We’re on equal footing. I’m not about to let him intimidate or manipulate me into letting him have all the control.
I guess coparenting has already begun.
I want to vomit at the sheer thought of it.
His lips press together in a hard line and he glances at his Patek Philippe as though this meeting has been a gigantic waste of his time.
“So we find ourselves at an impasse.”
I shrug. “Guess so.”
“First thing’s first: we need to make sure.”
Frowning, I start tapping at the table with my nails just like Dmitri was doing a moment ago. “Sure of what? Dr. Saeder confirmed it this morning.”
Dmitri’s lower lip curls with contempt. “You mean the same inept, ancient reptile who mixed up our samples? Forgive me if I’d prefer a second opinion.”
I bite back a laugh. “Point taken. It’s just that they ran several tests?—”
“The tests wouldn’t be for you; they would be to prove paternity. I need to make sure the child you’re carrying is actually mine.”
Mine. It’s weird enough when I say it; it’s ten times weirder when he does.
There’s a whole lot of possessiveness there already. I can feel it skittering along my spine and, weirdly enough, it doesn’t feel totally paternal. Nor is it affectionate. More like… business-minded. Like we’re discussing his intellectual property, not his possible child.
