Page 131 of Angel

‘Rox, I’m home and going straight to change.’

‘I’ll get ready too,’ I answered, wrapping up downstairs as I caught the sound of his shower turning on in the primary bathroom.

Forty-five minutes later, Angel prowled into the doorway to my room, leaning on the open doorjamb.

He wore a tailored black tuxedo, black shirt, and glossy black formal Oxfords.

His thick hair was swept back, a few rebel strands framing his sculpted forehead.

I turned away to stop myself from ogling.

He, on the other hand, scanned me from head to toe.

‘We need to leave soon, Rox,’ he said, checking his watch. ‘The gala starts at seven, with the red carpet on from six.’

‘I’m almost ready,’ I replied, fastening the clasp of my silver earring in front of the mirror.

I wore a floor-length navy silk dress that draped over my hips, the fabric hiding the tiny bump on my waistline.

A sudden, intense hunger flared in his gaze, breaking through his stoic mask.

‘Fuckin’ sensational, Rox,’ he murmured, his timbre dropping an octave, his gaze never leaving mine in the reflection. ‘The dress suits you.’

‘Thank you,’ I muttered, my heart doing a silly flip despite my wariness.

I picked up a clutch bag with my ID, phone, makeup, and a credit card and stepped out to join him.

He gave me another appreciative look as he took my arm all the way to the car and helped me into it.

I, however, remained jumpy around him; the distance between us palpable, driven by my suspicions and unvoiced worries.

He drove us down the winding highway in his Defender.

I stole several glances at his profile, my chest aching with a fierce yearning.

The dashboard lights illuminated the rugged contour of his jaw, the sinewed line of his throat, and his calloused hands gripping the steering wheel.

That he was so freakin’ handsome, and the father of my child, was still hard to believe.

I wanted so much to tell him about the pregnancy, to share the beautiful secret inside me.

The words remained trapped, choked out by the memories of his recent behavior, lacking the courage to trust him with our future just yet.

We arrived at the downtown convention hall, finding the red carpet swarming with prominent city figures and industry executives.

A valet took Angel’s keys as we stepped onto the crimson runner.

Cameras flashed in rapid succession as we made our way into the banquet room with reporters calling out Angel’s name.

He smiled, made a few obligatory stops, and posed for photos before leading me inside.

It was quite the spectacle: thousands of white orchids hung from the vaulted ceiling grid.

Velvet drapes lined the walls, reflecting the warm glow of crystal chandeliers onto ice sculptures carved into abstract shapes.

Guests held flutes of sparkling vintage cider, their laughter echoing through the cavernous room.

‘There are the others,’ Angel murmured, steering us to where the band stood, along with Sofia resplendent in a bold canary yellow gown.