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This mystery man, whoever it is, can only make things harder.
I’m gathering my bag to go home so I can at least eat some ice cream and put this day from hell to bed when I accidentally knock my phone off the table. I bend down to scoop it up…
But before I can, a huge male hand grabs it from the floor for me.
Horror fills my gut before I even look up. It takes me a moment to understand why.
That scent.
Mint and cedar.
There’s only one person in the world who smells exactly like that.
So, with my heartbeat pounding in my temples and the blood rushing in my ears, I drag my gaze from the tiled floor…
Past a pair of gleaming leather loafers…
Skimming up over muscular legs in well-fitted charcoal gray slacks… and a baby-blue-shirt-clad midsection I was fantasizing about literally this morning…
To look in the eyes of the last man on this planet that I would ever want to be the father of my baby.
Dmitri Egorov looks down at me and smolders.
“Seems like you and I have a lot to discuss, Ms. Turner.”
3
WREN
This can’t be it, can it? He can’t possibly be my baby’s father? That would just be too cruel for words and fate can’t be that vindictive a bitch. I mean, surely I’ve maxed out my quota of bad luck for one lifetime.
Dmitri probably just walked into Lifelines, saw me, and decided to fuck with my head like he usually does. A little after-work entertainment.
I mean, why not? He’s a god amongst men and deities tend to pursue their own twisted pastimes. Torturing mortals being one.
“‘Discuss’?” I repeat in a croaky, pipsqueak voice that makes me sound like Elmer Fudd. “Did I miss something in the board meeting today? I took extensive notes. I even?—”
“Why are you here?” he interrupts impatiently.
“I’m, er… meeting someone.”
One eyebrow arches gracefully as he slides into the table I was just attempting to vacate. “Sit back down.”
I stare at him uncertainly. “I really can’t?—”
“Your meeting has begun.” His gaze flickers over my chest. “Red is eye-catching, but green is more your color.”
I stiffen instinctively. Oh, God. I fall into the booth opposite him and reach for my empty glass, wishing that it was full of something other than virgin anything. This situation requires hard freaking liquor and lots of it.
I stand corrected: Fate? Yeah, she’s a cruel bitch.
And apparently, she’s not done with me yet.
“You are my sperm donor.” It feels weird saying the words out loud to Dmitri. It’s like talking to your mother about sex.
His expression is a cross between annoyance and discomfort. He puts his forearms on the table and clasps his hands together. Why do I feel like I’m being judged? “I’m no donor, Ms. Turner. It seems that I was subjected to the same spectacular incompetence that you were.”
My hands keep skirting around the table, looking for something to hold onto. Stop fidgeting, for Christ’s sake! Act cool! “I didn’t peg you for the kind of man who wanted to be a father.”
