Page 16 of Baby Bump for the Mafia Boss

The urge is there to buy five more pregnancy tests, and be sure, but honestly, I don’t need that. I’ve been sick nearly every morning for the last two weeks. I thought I had a weird stomach bug.

I guess it sort of is. A very surprising little life, in my tummy.

It will be Dane’s baby, eventually. There’s no choice. I’m having this child. It wasn’t planned, but now it’s a tiny spark of hope, I’m clinging onto it. I want to be a mother.

Would Dane like to be a father?

The question sours in my mouth. I haven’t seen him for a month, not since we were stranded and made some eyebrow-raising decisions in the cabin.

This is my baby, and I’m suddenly so protective of it, even though it’s the explanation for me feeling terrible every morning and will cause a lot of trouble.

I have to tell Dane.

I breathe in shakily. That’s easier said than done.

As soon as he’s in the country, and in the office, I’ll get a meeting with him face to face. I’ll tell him everything. About the night in Scotland, about the pregnancy, and that I’m keeping it. He can afford to help out, so surely it won’t be an issue?

Well. Aside from the fact he might not want a child.

I have to tell him in person. Informing someone via email that you’re not going to let them get away with pretending they can’t remember having sex with you and that you’re pregnant, sounds like a good way to be fired.

I don’t want that. I’ve got money saved because Dane pays generously, but I’d rather not be job hunting with a newborn baby and no reference.

Dane wouldn’t have suddenly disappeared for a whole month unless he knew we’d had sex. Shoving it in his face with a baby isn’t likely to go well.

But I’ll tell him. There’s no other option.

8

STEPHIE

Present

I shouldn’t have let on.

Dane leans forwards, braced on the desk. His brows are so low on his face I’m surprised they haven’t turned into chest hair—although he has plenty of that too—he crooks his finger and beckons me back towards him.

“How long?” he rasps.

“Sixteen weeks.” My cheeks stain red. He’s going to know. He can’t not, right? “Well, technically, eighteen weeks.” The thing about counting your pregnancy from your last period rather than the date of conception makes no sense to me, but that’s how it is.

I should have done something to prevent pregnancy, and I almost blurt out an apology. Instead, I bite my lip. Nearly dying is distracting. As are snowstorms that leave you stranded with your kingpin boss.

He said that fateful morning that he couldn’t remember, and I thought I could save us both humiliation and job inconveniences, but now my hand is forced.

I knew I would tell him eventually. I’m not a monster, and I wouldn’t keep him from his child. But when he denied that we had sex, a part of me died inside, so hurt.

“Who’s the father?” he demands.

All the blood drains from me.

We’re not… This isn’t real.

He’s still maintaining we didn’t have sex? He’s looked at me getting pregnant four months ago, exactly when we had sex, and gone, no idea who the father is? I meet his steely eyes and try to remain calm under his scrutiny. He’s grumpy and murderous, yes, but he’s always been reasonable with me.

The truth is, he doesn’twantto be the father. That’s the only logical reason for him looking so nauseous that morning after we had sex, and then leaving for four whole months.

“No one.” I give a careless gesture.