14. Mack

Chapter 14

Mack

She doesn't like the bookstore.

Fuck.

I don't understand.

"Mack," I growl. "Stop calling me Mr. Emerson. I'm not your boss, I'm?—"

"So I'm fired?" Her eyes glitter.

"What? No."

"Then you are my boss. And I am your employee, nothing else."

" Not nothing else. You are my everything."

"Sure doesn't feel like it!" She throws her hands in the air, and her dress shifts across her body. There's something about her that looks different, something about the cut of the dress and the way it drapes across her midsection that teases me, making me think of how she would look swollen with my baby.

In the limo, she asked about protection.

Neither of us wants anything between us, ever, so of course I have to think about what that might lead to…and I want it. Not in some illicit way like she assumes, not as a secret affair by- product, but making her my wife. My equal. My everything…but I clearly haven't shown her enough to make her believe that.

"Then let me take you home. To my home," I quickly add. "And let me show you how I want it to be our home. Of course there's no bed here, little one. I know I haven't shown you that I have any restraint so far, but that will change. I can be the man you want."

"I don't believe you. I didn't want you to hide yourself in your work! I didn't want this!" Her voice goes tight, her eyes blazing now. Hurt radiates off her. "I wanted to work beside you. I wanted your attention. I wanted you to see me. I just wanted you. And you didn't want me back."

The full realization of what I've done to her slams into me like a freight train.

Horror rolls through me.

I ignored her for three months.

I denied her our connection.

"I do," I say hoarsely. "I want all of that. I want to work beside you."

"You literally bought me a business on the other side of town." She sounds so hurt. So fragile.

"Not for you to work at. Not if you don't want to. This is…" I swallow hard. "Think of this like a dowry. That's all. I thought it would make you happy, and give you the safety and security to accept me as your equal, so it can be your choice to work for me, with me, or not. I want your attention, too. Desperately."

Her gaze is still wary, her eyes big and doubting. She shifts back and forth on her feet, and doesn't respond.

"I need to hold you, Isabelle," I say, try to say everything and anything to fix this mistake. "It's killing me to be this close and yet so far from you."

"I told you?—"

"That you wouldn't like it if I pawed at you. I heard that. I won't forget, I promise. But that wasn't what I asked." I press my luck and hold out my hand. "Do you need a hug?"

Fear ripples across her face, clear as day.

I should feel like a bastard for pressing her on all fronts, knowing she can't lie to me.

"I've been so lonely." I let my voice be as raw as my insides feel. "Never felt that way before you. Went decades without caring if I ever held another person. And then I met you and everything changed. I think it's the same for you, too."

She shakes her head. "No."

Pain slices through me sharper than a surgeon's scalpel.

I drop my hand.

My head follows.

"I always wanted to be held," she whispers. "And then I met you and realized I'd been waiting my whole life to be held by you."

With a jolt, I lift my head and she's right in front of me.

"Isabelle," I rasp.

Her expression says everything I need to hear. It says, of course I want you to hold me . But it also says, I don't trust you.

But when she opens her mouth, nothing like that comes out. Instead she says, "I'm pregnant."

And I hear her. Of course I do. I'm obsessed with Isabelle and hang on her every word.

Actually absorbing the words takes a few seconds longer.

She's pregnant?

"And you don't—" she starts to say.

I drop to my knees and press my face to her belly. I wasn't imagining what I saw under the sway of her dress. It's small right now, but there's a secret bump hiding in plain sight. "You're pregnant?"

"It's yours, but?—"

Of course it's mine. I look up at her, hating myself for the uncertainty painted on her innocent face. "We'll get married."

Her gaze flares with alarm. "No."

"What do you mean, no? You're pregnant."

She steps back, leaving me on my knees in front of her. "I'm aware. And you ignored me?—"

I hold up my hand. "I didn't know. I wouldn't have— You should have told me."

"You turned your back on me and walked away after that one time. Why should I have told you? Besides, you just said you were watching me around the clock."

I did. And still, I missed the most important things. I missed that she needed me, and I missed that she was going through this profound change on her own. How did I not know?

Slowly, I stand. I tower over her, there's no way around that. My voice is too stern, too demanding.

There's nothing about me that says you can trust me to take care of you , because I've spent my entire life learning how to be terrifying, to build walls around me that won't let anyone in.

And I accidentally kept the most important person out.

"Let me fix this," I say as softly as I can. "Let me make you my wife."

"No," she says, again refusing the only obvious solution. And it's only one word, the shortest syllable, but it still cracks under the pressure of standing up to the biggest, baddest man in town.

"Why not?"

She laughs, and it's wild. Unexpected. Tearful, but resilient. "Because the only reason to get married is for love, Mr. Emerson. And we don't even know each other. I know that we…" She waves her hands back and forth between us. "Whatever that is? It's nice. But it's not love."

The hell it isn't.

I growl and cross to her in a single stride, picking her up. This time, I don't throw her over my shoulder like a caveman. She's carrying my baby in her belly. I'm carrying her out of this bookstore like the bride-to-be that she is, whether she's ready to accept that fact or not.

Her legs kick in protest as I stalk back out to the limo.

As soon as the bookstore door opens, the driver is out of the car, getting the back door for us.

"Thank you," I say brusquely.

"He's kidnapping me," Isabelle yells.

"Because I love her," I point out with a laugh.

She stops kicking, just long enough for me to set her into the limo, then she scurries away from me as I join her.

"You don't love me," she says.

"From the first moment I laid eyes on you."

The car starts and pulls away from the curb. Isabelle looks out the window. "Where are we going?"

Somewhere we should have gone three months ago. "I'm taking you home."

"Oh." Her voice goes small, then she nods. "All right, I understand."

I frown. "What exactly do you understand?"

"You're sending me home." Her chin lifts defiantly. "After all of…" She gestures around the interior of the limo. "What we did here, I understand. But once you are out of the office again, I intend to return to work. You can't force me out of my job."

"I'm not forcing you out of your job," I snap. "And I'm not taking you to your apartment. I'm taking you home. To my house. Where we can finally be properly alone and talk about our relationship."