Not the Boss's Baby

He looked at her then, his eyes blazing with a new, almost feverish, kind of light. She’d only seen him look like that once before—on Monday, when he’d put his finger under her chin. But even then, he hadn’t looked quite this...heated. The back of her neck began to sweat under his gaze.

Would he lean forward and put his hand on her again? Would he keep leaning until he was close enough to kiss? Would he do more than just that?

Would she let him?

“I want...” He let the word trail off, the raw need in his voice scratching against her ears like his five-o’clock shadow would scratch against her cheek. “I want to do something for me. Not for the family, not for the company—just for me.”

Serena swallowed. The way he said that made it pretty clear what that ‘something’ might be.

He was her boss, she was his secretary, and he was still married. But none of that seemed to be an issue right now. They were alone in the back of a secure vehicle. The driver couldn’t see through the divider. No one would barge in on them. No one would stop them.

I’m pregnant. The words popped onto her tongue and tried frantically to break out of her mouth. That would nip this little infatuation they both seemed to be indulging right in the bud. She was pregnant with another man’s baby. She was hormonal and putting on weight in odd locations and wasn’t anyone’s idea of desirable right now.

But she didn’t. He was already feeling the burden of taking care of his employees. How would he react to her pregnancy? Would all those promises to reward her loyalty and take care of her be just another weight he would struggle to carry?

No. She had worked hard to take care of herself. So she was unexpectedly expecting. So her job was possibly standing on its last legs. She would not throw herself at her boss with the hopes that he’d somehow “fix” her life. She knew first-hand that waiting for someone else to fix your problems meant you just had to keep on waiting.

She’d gotten herself into her current situation. She could handle it herself.

That included handling herself around Chadwick.

So she cleared her throat and forced her voice to sound light and non-committal. “Maybe you can find something that doesn’t involve beer.”

He blinked once, then gave a little nod. He wasn’t going to press the issue. He accepted her dodge. It was the right thing to do, after all.

Damn it.

“I like beer,” he replied, returning his gaze to the window. “When I was nineteen, I worked alongside the brew masters. They taught me how to make beer, not just think of it in terms of units sold. It was fun. Like a chemistry experiment—change one thing, change the whole nature of the brew. To those guys, beer was a living thing—the yeast, the sugars. It was an art and a science.” His voice drifted a bit, a relaxed smile taking hold of his mouth. “That was a good year. I was sorry to leave those guys behind.”

“What do you mean?”

“My father made me spend a year interning in each department, from the age of sixteen on. Outside of my studies, I had to clock in at least twenty hours every week at the brewery.”

“That’s a lot of work for a teenager.” True, she’d had a job when she was sixteen, too, bagging groceries at the local supermarket, but that was a matter of survival. Her family needed her paycheck, plus she got first crack at the merchandise that had been damaged during shipping. She kept the roof over their heads and occasionally put food on the table. The satisfaction she’d gotten from accomplishing those things still lingered.

His smile got less relaxed, more cynical. “I learned how to run the company. That’s what he wanted.” She must have given him a look because he added, “Like I said—I wasn’t given any choice in the matter.”

What his father had wanted—but not what Chadwick had wanted.

The car slowed down and turned. She glanced out the window. They were near the office. She felt like she was running out of time. “If you had a choice, what would you want to do?”

It felt bold and forward to ask him again—to demand he answer her. She didn’t make such demands of him. That’s not how their business relationship worked.

But something had changed. Their relationship was no longer strictly business. It hadn’t crossed a line into pleasure, but the way he’d touched her on Monday? The way she’d touched him yesterday?

Something had changed, all right. Maybe everything.

His gaze bore into her—not the weary look he wore when discussing his schedule, not even the shell-shocked look he’d had yesterday. This was much, much closer to the look he’d had on Monday—the one he’d had on his face when he’d leaned toward her, made the air thin between them. Made her want to feel his lips pressing against hers. Made her want things she had no business wanting.

A corner of his mouth curved up. “What are you wearing on Saturday?”

“What?”

“To the gala. What are you wearing? The black dress?”