I stand on the threshold, gaping, open-mouthed with shock. I don’t know what to do.
I never had a baby shower. Everything the twins own, I bought myself, because God knows my mother wouldn’t even consider buying them a single present. “Nobody helped me with you,” she said the day they were born, even though I know for a fact that’s a lie. My dad was right by her side every step of the way, taking care of everything—taking care of me and her, right up until the day he died.
Staring at this room feels like stepping into the surprise baby shower I never expected. Everything I need is here, and then some. My surprise only grows when I open the closet and find the old clothes I’d worn this morning gone. Brand new dresses, skirts, shirts and pajamas hang in their place. Even some jeans, which are laughably fancy. I guess that’s Cassius’s idea of casual pants.
More shocking, they’re all exactly my size. A shiver races down my spine, as I realize what that means—how closely Cassius must have been paying attention to my body.
I can’t help imagining his eyes all over me, devouring me, studying me. Figuring me out, better than I know myself.
Fuck.
Luca fusses quietly, which is the only thing that drags me out of my stupor. I unwrap the brand new diapers and change him, then Lucie, dressing them both in duckie pajamas with little footies that are too damn cute. I take my time, tickling them, playing with them, as we get ready. Moments like this, I can’t believe the twins are real—these are my babies, and this is my life. How did I get so lucky?
I feed them with formula I find in the empty kitchen, a better brand than the kind I was using. Once they’re both sleeping soundly, I tiptoe out of the room and to find Cassius.
His study is empty, and his bedroom door is wide open, but when I peek inside, ignoring a little thrill at the sight of his broad king-size bed, and all the thoughts that provokes about the things he could do to me in that bed, it’s empty.
I pace back to the kitchen and find him at the stove, stir-fry sizzling in a pan before him.
“What are you doing?” I ask, noticing how much food is in the pan.
“What does it look like?” he responds, his back to me, not meeting my eye. “Making dinner.”
“Why?” I spread my arms. “Why all of this?”
“You made breakfast,” he replies simply, dodging my question, pretending he thinks I’m only asking about dinner. “Can’t I do something nice for my new employee?”
“Thank you for dinner.” I raise an eyebrow. “But…”
“But what?” he prompts.
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. I should just roll with this, take the dinner, not ask too many questions. But it’s all so damn confusing. The way he’s hot and cold on and off. “Why are you being so nice to me?” I ask, after a long pause, during which he waits, patiently, watching me. “You don’t even like me much.”
“Don’t I?” His eyes meet mine. Searing gray eyes that bore holes through me.
I straighten my back, square my shoulders. I won’t let him distract me this easily again. “You sure don’t act like it. You tell me I need to stay here to be worth hiring, you keep dismissing me or ignoring me—anytime we do talk I barely get two-word sentences out of you.”
He just watches me quietly, until I sputter into silence. Then he turns back to the stove. “With kale or without?”
Frustrated, I collapse into a chair at the kitchen table. “With,” I reply, defeated. Clearly he’s not going to explain what’s going on, why he dislikes me. I guess I just have to appreciate his kind gestures, and ignore his cold-as-ice attitude. Could be worse…
Except that I don’t want coldness between us. I want heat. I want fire. I want his hands all over my body, pulling me to him, his lips crushing mine and his hard body running along my length…
He sets a plate in front of me and I force myself out of that impossible fantasy. I take a bite of his stir-fry, though I can already tell from the scent that this will be frustrating.
It’s delicious, damn him.
Hot, wealthy, a great cook, generous when he wants to be, great with kids… This man has everything.
Which is why I am not convinced he doesn’t have a partner, too. Some lucky woman must have snatched him up years ago. I think about the clothes I found in the spare room this morning, as I pick through the food. “So, Cassius.”
He just looks at me, expectant. God, I love the silent type, but he’s intimidatingly so.
I swallow a bite of stir-fried mushrooms for courage. “Do you live alone?” I ask, once I’ve washed that down with a sip of water.