True North (Compass series Book 4) (31 page)

She looks tired.

Maybe the senator’s been keeping her busy. God knows my office has been hopping. I had to have Jenny block out a few hours to come here, and I know when we’re finished, I’ll have to jump right back on the laptop, phone, wherever the most urgent messages are hounding me from.

For now, though, I’ll do my best to make us both forget. I drop the bag by the desk—enough time to dig into that after I’ve checked in with her, because we haven’t planned out this scene at all. Maybe she has something in mind. When my hands are empty, waiting to be filled with her, I head over and debate where to sit. If this were some other time, I’d sit on the floor beside her and let her scratch her nails over my scalp while we talked about our days. But I don’t think that’s the precedent I want to set tonight, so I motion for her to take her feet off the ottoman so I can take their place.

When she has, I straddle it, bracketing her knees with mine and settling my hands on her thighs, fingertips delving under the pencil skirt she’s got on. Even this small incursion feels illicit, delicious—gets my blood pumping.

But the look on her face, pinch-lipped and serious, stops me from going any further.

“What’s the matter, Press?” She’s not the most subtle, and even the times when she’d try her hardest to persuade me nothing was bothering her, I could always tell. I wonder briefly if it’s something to do with Clay, the fucker, and rage swims in my stomach. If he hurt her—

“We need to talk.”

Her voice is soft and a little unsteady, not the usual brassy Press I know and love. So I brush my fingers over her thighs, hopefully soothing her. “Of course. What’s going on?”

“I—” She breathes a harsh exhale out her nose and takes a hard swallow before straightening in the seat. “I’m pregnant.”

What?

At least I have enough sense to bite down on the word before it can make its way out of my throat. But seriously,
what
?

“You’re…” I dip my head, angling it slightly because I want to make sure I hear this right. “You’re pregnant?”

“Yes.”

“But…” Fuck all, I knew this was about Clay. That chewed-up piece of gum masquerading as a person knocked up my wife. Fuck, dude, at least have the decency to marry the girl first. Though that pisses me off even more. “What’s he going to do about it?”

“Who?”

An echo roars in my head, louder than any echo has a right to.
Who?
I didn’t know she was seeing anyone else besides Clay and me. I mean, it’s her body, and we’ve never said anything about being exclusive, so she can do what she likes but…

“Clay. Who did you think I was talking about?”

“It’s not Clay’s.”

“Then who?”

“It’s yours.”

How in the hell is that even possible? We used condoms every single goddamn time. They’re not fail-proof, certainly, but why is she so sure it’s mine and not Clay’s? A condom could’ve broken just as easily with him as it did with me.

“Why are you so sure it’s mine? You’ve been with your golden boy too.”

Her expression is fierce with challenge, and then she looks away and mumbles something under her breath, something that sounds a little like “we never had sex.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

The look on her face is nothing short of murderous rage. She might scratch my eyes out instead of repeat herself. But no. “I said, we’ve never had sex. We’ve never fucked. Did you hear me that time?”

“But you said—”

“I didn’t say anything. I merely let you draw your own conclusions and didn’t correct you when they were wrong.”

“Why would you do that?”

Her brows form an angry V and her mouth thins into a line. “I wanted to make you jealous.”

Well, well, Little Miss Perfect is human after all. I’d rather remind myself through other means that’s true, but it’s bizarrely flattering. And it makes me like Clay even less. All his posturing like some goddamn alpha at that party, and he wasn’t even getting laid. Asshat.

“Don’t think I’ve been all celibate and pining for six years, though. I’ve had lots of sex. Okay, maybe not lots. But some. Since you came back though…” She shakes her head. “I don’t know what it is about you. The way you look at me—it strips away all my good sense. Which is the only thing that could possibly explain me being here because you’ve hurt me so many times.”

I’m fumbling for something to say between the guilt and the elation: she wants me still, but it’s against her better judgment. I want to be better than that for her, be the kind of man that makes me a good choice for a woman like her. Something about the ferocious look on her face stops me from getting down on my knee, though, and I’m glad I haven’t when she opens her mouth and brutal words spill out.

“Decision time, Slade. Am I a Madonna or am I a whore?”

It rocks me back, the vicious way she says it. “Why do you have to be just one of those things?”

“I don’t think I do, but you seem completely incapable of accepting that I can be both at one time. The proof is in the pudding. So what do you want? Do you want me to get down on my knees and suck you off like a pro while you tell me I’m a debased little slut? Pull my hair and shove your dick down my throat until I gag and cry and then fuck me over that desk because you know I’ll be soaking wet afterward? Or do you want me to put on maternity clothes and pearls so you can parade me around like we’re the power couple of this town and be the mother of your child? Which is it?”

The enormity of the news hits me.
My child.
I was starting to believe that I might someday be worthy of Press, that I might be able to earn her. But a baby changes everything. Being a parent requires infinite patience, and that’s something I have in short supply. Not to mention, what the hell kind of role model would I be? In truth, she might be better off without me, and that idea stirs up the self-loathing that always lurks beneath the surface.

“I can’t—”

Pressly’s eyes have always been cool, soothing, but now they’ve taken on a searing quality, like the bluest, hottest fire. She’s naturally mild-mannered and never have I seen her quite this angry.

“You can and you choose not to. It’s not the same.”

“You have to give me some time, Press. This is…unexpected.”

“It wasn’t exactly on my list of things to do either.”

Fuck. I’m not even going to suggest an abortion because Pressly would never have one. And there’s no way she’d give the baby up for adoption either. She gets so attached. Once she’d volunteered at an animal shelter for a week and we’d ended up with half a dozen of the sickest, oldest, mangiest animals they had living out their days in our house. If she couldn’t stand to leave animals she’d only known for a few days, there’s no way in hell she’d be able to walk away from a baby she’d been growing in her body for nine months.

But it’s not like her job pays particularly well, and I’m not sure how Ma and Pa Allwyn are going to feel about this. Her father especially is really conservative, and I don’t know how an out-of-wedlock baby will play out. At the very least, financial support is something I can help with while we sort the rest out.

“Hey. You know whatever happens, I’ll take care of you and the baby. You won’t have to—”

“I don’t need money. Mama and Daddy are going to be over the moon. They’ve been waiting for a grandchild for years. I think that’s what they were most upset about when we got divorced—an even longer wait for grandbabies. What this baby needs is a father. And if you don’t want to do that, I’ve got other options.”

“Are you talking about Clay? You’d honestly marry that guy so you wouldn’t be a single mom? What the fuck?”

“Don’t you swear at me. I’d marry him to give my child a family, a stable home.”

“And what about this?” I fling my arm out, encompassing the hotel room, the gym bag sitting oh-so-innocuously on the floor.

She shrugs and puts a defensive hand on her hip. “What about it?”

“You can’t live without this any more than I can, and your boy Clay is vanilla concentrate.”

“Why can’t I keep doing this?”

“With me?”

“Sure. Leave the baby at home with my new husband while I come here so you can beat and humiliate me before you fuck my brains out. That’s what a mani-pedi is code for, right? Don’t fret. You’re not going to lose your fuck-toy if that’s what you were worried about. I mean, for a while, unless you’ve got a pregnancy kink, and I hear the first couple of months with a newborn are pretty rough, but after that, why not? Or should I find someone else to fulfill those needs too?”

My head is pounding with rage, red and black fury hammering my skull. I don’t know what’s pissing me off more—the idea of another man marrying my wife and raising my child or another man marking my plaything, telling her what a filthy disappointment she is before sinking into her balls-deep. Trying to quell the frenzy of indignation and inadequacy, I close my eyes and rub the bridge of my nose.

“I need some time.”

“Then take it. You’ve got a month because I don’t want to look like a beached whale in my wedding pictures.”

And then she gets up and heads for the door.

“Where are you going?”

Her hair whipping around her face, she turns on me. “Home to lie down.”

“Are you not feeling well?”

“Morning sickness. I’ve been queasy. And tired. This whole growing-a-human-being-inside-you isn’t for the faint of heart.”

The way she doesn’t meet my eyes as she mumbles her response makes me want to take her face in my hands and force her to talk to me. Look at me. And then hold her. Tell her I’ll take care of her. But something holds me back. Something I fear is that I’m a fucking asshole who doesn’t deserve to touch her, never mind have her lick my shoes.

“Then stay here. Order room service if you can stomach it. I’ll go.”

She doesn’t protest like I thought she might. She must be really worn out not to argue with me, and that impulse to cuddle her, coddle her fills me. But I don’t want to make promises I’m not going to keep, and at this point I’m so fucking terrified—me, a father?—I can offer no guarantees. So I watch her put her bag down, slip off her shoes, and turn down the covers to climb into the bed. It was less than an hour ago I thought I’d be having a tussle with her under those sheets.

I start toward her, wanting to at least touch her hair, smell her one more time, because even though she’s made the offer, I can’t honestly picture being able to look her in the face again if I tell her I don’t want all of her. It’s all or nothing, and she deserves everything. But maybe I’m not qualified to give that to her.

My hand’s on the door handle when I realize I left the gym bag on the floor. There’s a split-second where I consider leaving it there, but then a thought kicks me.
For fuck’s sake, Lewis, don’t make the pregnant woman deal with your kinky sex toys.

I stride past the bed where Pressly’s already curled up under the sheets, her blonde hair draped over the pillow instead of my chest, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. I don’t stop until the door of my house slams closed behind me and I sink to the floor, head in my hands.

Now what?

‡

I
t’s been three
weeks. I haven’t seen Pressly, haven’t talked to her. My head is flooded with her; she swamps my dreams. I imagine seeing her in the streets, hallucinate the smell of her in my house when I step through the door at night.

I’ve also been doing some research. Reading pregnancy and baby books on my phone in between meetings and before I go to bed. Picturing how big the baby—our baby—must be. It’s hard, though, because Press didn’t tell me when she was due. I’m guessing somewhere between a blueberry and a cherry.

I’ve written her letters too. Calling seemed too intrusive somehow, even though I’ve been inside every part of her. But notes showing up in her mailbox—
Pressly, I’m sorry I reacted so badly. I was surprised, but that’s no excuse. If you want to talk, I’ll drop everything. I’m sorry
—that seems okay.

Another prong of my stop-fucking-this-up campaign has been to start stalking those mommy boards. Learning what pregnant women worry about, what the hot new toys are, which baby carrier they’re lusting after. After I’ve done my own research on the latest and greatest items, I buy some and send them to Press. A stroller. The highest-rated car seat. A co-sleeper. Three different kinds of swaddles. A state-of-the-art video monitor. Copies of every single Caldecott-medal-winning book from the past five years.

I’ve been distracted and angry and even more temperamental with my staff than usual. Even Cooper is avoiding me. Knowing I’m being a complete and utter dickwad makes me more frustrated, and lacking the control to do anything about it makes me even angrier. Because if I lose my shit completely, I’m going to be barred from the only thing that makes my strung-taut existence bearable.

I know how to do this properly. I know that there are, as India promised, people who are into that shit, and it’s so much better to do those things with them. Willing victims as opposed to whomever happens to be unlucky enough to fall in my path. I’d rather be doing them with Pressly. But instead I’m avoiding her and risking everything I’ve built. This everlasting meeting isn’t helping any. I got into government why again?