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But she also knew she had to try. She’d made this mess, and while Malcolm was helping her clean it up on the professional level, she owed it to Nic, and their baby, to try to fix it on the personal front, as well.
Which meant she would have to call him. And explain the situation. And grovel—a lot. God. She closed her eyes, lowered her head to the desk. She hated groveling. She really, really, really hated groveling—especially when she was the one in the wrong.
But she was smart enough—and woman enough—to admit that she had brought it on herself. She was the one who hadn’t listened to Nic and she was the one who was so wrapped up in her investigation, and the kind of man she’d thought he was, that she’d left one voice mail for him and then given up. Even though she was carrying his baby. And even though she’d known—though she would deny it to her dying day—that there was a good chance that after she’d ignored him for weeks that he wouldn’t listen to any message she left.
Just because she knew what she needed to do didn’t mean it was easy. Desi gave herself five minutes to sulk and then did what she had to do. She put on her big-girl panties and called Nic.
Ten
He brought her to one of his favorite restaurants in LA, a little trattoria in the heart of Beverly Hills. He liked it because the food was great and the owner’s brother had worked for Bijoux for years, but he could tell the moment they walked into the place that he had definitely chosen wrong.
Though Desi didn’t say anything, it was obvious that she was uncomfortable. He thought about ignoring her discomfort so as not to make it any worse, but they already had a lot of strikes against them. This dinner was supposed to be about finding some common ground, and if it would make her feel better to go someplace else, then he was more than willing to do that for her.
But when he asked if she’d feel more comfortable at one of the other restaurants on the street, she just shrugged and said, “This is fine.”
“Are you sure? Because if you don’t like Italian—”
“Everyone likes Italian food,” she told him with a slightly exasperated roll of her eyes. “That’s not the problem.”
“Then what is?”
“This place is expensive.”
“Don’t worry about that. I asked you out—”
“I don’t want your money. That’s not why I called you tonight. And it’s definitely not why I’m keeping the baby. I just want to say that up front and you need to believe me. I don’t need or want you to take me to fancy restaurants and spend a lot on me.”
“Believe me,” he answered with a smirk, “I am well aware that you don’t want my money, Desi. Otherwise you wouldn’t have written an article guaranteed to cost me billions.”
She flushed, and for the first time since they sat down, she refused to look him in the eye. “I know I already said it, but I’m really sorry about that. I wasn’t out to get you. I just believed the wrong person and…” Her voice trailed off as she ducked her head.
He didn’t like this new, humble version of her. Yes, ten hours ago he’d pretty much been out for D. E. Maddox’s blood. But that was before he realized D. E. Maddox was also Desi. The woman he’d spent the most sensual, sexy, satisfying night of his life with. The woman who met him point for point with strength and attitude. The woman who, he now knew, was carrying his child.
“Look, why don’t we just start over?” he told her, reaching across the table and resting his hand on top of hers.
“Start over?” She looked incredulous. “I’m nearly five months pregnant with your son. I think it’s a little late to try starting over.”
He laughed. “I don’t mean that I want to walk up to you in a bar and introduce myself to you while we pretend we don’t know each other. I just mean, let’s have a clean slate. Leave whatever’s in the past in the past and deal with where we are now without any of the junk from before messing it up.”
“You want us to just forget everything?”
“Why not?”
“Do you think we can do that?”
“Do you not?”
She laughed then. “Are we seriously back to this? Answering each other’s questions with more questions?”
“Hey. I asked the first question—you’ve just been piling question on question after that.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it happened.” She eyed him skeptically. “But I’m willing to take the blame this time, as a peace offering.”
He felt himself relax, really relax, for the first time in days. Desi was here with him, they were having a conversation that didn’t involve sniping at each other—and that he hoped would, soon enough, also include real communication. Plus, his company was safe
. At this exact moment in time, what else could he ask for?
After giving their order to the waiter—chicken picatta for him and angel-hair pasta for her—the two of them made small talk. About LA, about the weather, about a band they had both recently seen in concert. But as the meal went on, Nic grew increasingly frustrated. Not because he minded talking to Desi about that stuff—she was smart and funny and interesting, and if things were normal he’d be happy to spend the evening laughing and flirting with her over their dimly lit table.
