Page 107 of The Wrong Brother

There’s still a tremor running through my hands when I look down at them, and then at the discarded bag on the floor. Four positive tests; one yet to finish. Should I even bother?

When I finally look up, Rus has moved to the far side of the suite. The physical distance between us isn’t much; ten feet, maybe. But it feels enormous.

For weeks we’ve been fighting, flirting, arguing, chasing revenge, and stumbling into one another despite every reason not to. For weeks I’ve been resisting the urge towanthim to wrap an arm around me at night and pull me close in his sleep.

This is just a job; a contract. It’ll be over soon.

That’s all it has been. Until now.

Now there is something far more frightening between us.

Chapter 29

Ruslan

For forty-eight hours,I have managed businesses, taken calls, reviewed reports, and held conversations without absorbing a single word of what anyone said to me.

I’ve also spent those same forty-eight hours thinking about a baby.

The irony would be amusing if it weren’t so irritating. Frank, still in Denver despite my insistence that everything is fine, steps out into the hallway as soon as I do; his eyes narrow.

He’s been waiting for me. Trying to catch me because I keep insisting that I’m too busy to meet.

“You’re going to get coffee,” he deadpans. We’ve known one another for years. He knows my habits better than anyone else.

I nod curtly, and he adjusts the watch on his wrist, a Longines Heritage.

“I’ll join you.”

Outside, Denver has officially settled into crisp and cold mornings. Frank has a fashionable scarf around his neck, andfor a moment I think to myself,Idiot—eyes are on you now that you’ll be launching a flagship store here. The least you could do is pay attention to what you wear.

Imagine. A fashion mogul out in worn jeans and a t-shirt, again. At least the jacket is a Luca Faloni bomber.

Only two blocks down there’s a coffee shop called Provision, and Frank and I dip inside wordlessly. I’m lost in thought, thinking of Emma; worrying. How far along is she? When will symptoms truly start? Will she be miserable? Will she even want to do this?

Will she let me be involved?

The declaration I made two days ago wasn’t a front. It wasn’t forced. I meant what I said.

I’d do anything for her, for the baby. Anything.

I’d even leave them alone entirely if that’s what she wanted.

Frank nudges me with a bony elbow, and I blink, staring in surprise at the barista patiently waiting for me. With a murmur, I order my usual—a flat white for myself, a mocha for Emma. Then I second-guess myself.

Should she have that? Chocolate? This much caffeine?Canshe have that? I’ve never had to question anything like this before.

“Anything else?” the barista asks after punching in my order. I hesitate, glancing at the display box, and order a myriad of pastries. A plain croissant, vol-au-vent, Bavarian cream bomboloini. I can feel Frank’s eyes boring into me from somewhere to the right; I ignore him, pay the bill, grab the bag, and step aside to wait for the drinks.

Frank orders, receives an espresso and tonic, downs them mere feet away. His gaze never leaves me.

“What’s going on?” he asks as I balance the drink tray on my wrist and we leave the shop.

“Nothing.”

“It’s Emma,” he says frankly, as if he’s a fortune teller. I scowl, but don’t deny it.

“She’s…dealing with something. I’m trying to give her space.”