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“I do believe you,” she whispers, her voice shaky. “And there’s nothing to forgive.”
As corny as it sounds, my heart soars. “Really?”
She squeezes my hand. “Yeah, really.”
“So, you’ll come home?”
“Yeah, West, I will. But I won’t have your baby.”
“You sure?” I ask, laying on the charm.
Her newly found grin falters for a second. “Yeah, like seventy-six percent positive.”
My first genuine smile of the day peeks. I answer her now the same way I did last night. “I’ll take those odds.”
Chapter Twenty
Stacia
It’s been two weeks since the whole baby mama debacle went down and life with West ever since has been…interesting. He ended up not going forward with any of his interviews. Turns out he’s pretty much dead set on cajoling me into agreeing to be more than just his roommate—he wants me as his wombmate.
On my first night back, he treated us to a catered five-star dinner, which was a definite step up from our usual diet of takeout and college-esque type cuisine—aka Ramen and Uncrustables.
The following morning, he brought me coffee in bed with a note reading: if you were my baby mama, this would be your daily wake-up call. I thanked him and sent him on his way, and despite my refusal, he still brings me a piping mug of goodness every morning.
The past two Wednesdays, he’s had flowers sent to Beauty Box. Oh, and not just for me, but a bouquet for each of my coworkers as well. Apparently Joy is a little traitor who’s easily swayed by a sexy voice and veiny forearms. The truth is, I can’t even blame her, because West’s muscular, ropey arms are a freaking drool-worthy work of art.
Oh, and he even had dinner delivered to the studio one night when we were there late working on a group of ladies who came in to get prettied up for their friend’s fiftieth birthday.
Last night, we did our usual dinner and a movie, and the conniving bastard snuck in a foot rub toward the end. At first, I was like, jackpot! But then he started shooting me sly glances that said I’d do this nightly if you let me knock you up. Once I caught on, I yanked both of my feet out of his lap and moved to the far end of the couch. He pouted like a scolded puppy for the rest of the movie, which kind of made me smile.
Now, the weekend is upon us, and I’m shockingly off. Which is actually a blessing, as I have super important plans at noon. Fingers crossed. For obvious reasons, things with Virtual Kitty didn’t pan out. West tried offering me a corporate job with them, but I know it was out of some sort of misplaced guilt because the only thing I’d be qualified to do in that office is fetch coffee.
“Knock, knock,” West calls out before stepping into my bedroom. Clad in only his boxers with my coffee in hand, he looks as though he was sent by the fertility goddess herself to test my steadfastness.
Judging from the way my ovaries are screaming, it’s working. Luckily, my brain is stronger and far more sensible.
“Got any plans today?” he asks, taking a seat on the edge of my bed.
“I have a job interview,” I murmur, inhaling the delicious aroma of my espresso mingling with West’s spicy scent. The two combined are basically an aphrodisiac; clearly the universe is testing me.
He scratches the back of his neck and the temperature in the room seems to skyrocket. When did the simple action of itch relief start turning me on? “Oh, yeah? Where at?”
“A place out in Dusk River,” I say, referencing the next town over.
West eyes me, taking in the thin material of my sleep top. My nipples pebble under his heated gaze, something he undoubtedly notices if his smirk is anything to go by. He licks his lower lip, following the motion with his teeth, and I just about throw myself at him. Thank God he speaks before I have the chance. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
He stands and heads to the door, but instead of leaving, he lingers.
“Did you need something else?” I ask.
“Let me take you to dinner. Tonight.”
He doesn’t ask; he tells. Which is the only plausible explanation for why I find myself nodding, agreeing.
“Great. Six o’clock. Dress sexy.”
By the time my better judgment kicks in, he’s long gone, and I’m in danger of being late for my interview if I don’t haul my ass out of bed and into the shower.
I arrive at Buck and Lesli with twenty minutes to spare. While working in a restaurant isn’t exactly at the top of my list—or anywhere on it, if I’m being honest—the pay posted in the job listing was too much for me to pass up.
Hopefully it’s not too good to be true.
The outside of the building doesn’t give much away. It’s your typical steakhouse, comprised of an appealing mixture of stone and glass. It looks chic and inviting. The only thing that gives me pause is the sign: Buck and Lesli Steakhouse Plus. What on earth is the plus for?
