Tangled Innocence

Chapter 3 Episode 3

WREN TURNER: First off, you have a thousand cousins, and myanswer for all of them has been the same: thanks but no thanks. I loveyou but I'm just not in a space to be looking for romance right now.

SYRAH MEHRA: :( I know. I’ll drop it. I just want to make sure youknow how special and perfect you are. You’re gonna make some guy feelso lucky one day.

WREN TURNER: <3 love you. Gonna wrap up and get out of here.Drink a marg for me.

I sign out of the chat and sigh. It only takes a little bit of time to organizemy things and clear my desk. Turns out grief is actually kinda good forproductivity, because I got a lot of stuff done. Dmitri hasn’t been back tothe office since our cringe-inducing encounter this morning, but even hewouldn’t be able to criticize today’s effort.

I open the desk drawer to drop in a sheaf of papers and something catchesmy eye. My heart leaps into my throat immediately, but I can’t stop myselffrom reaching in and pulling out the gilded picture frame.

I don’t really need to look at it—I pretty much see this picture every nightbefore I go to sleep like it’s tattooed on the back of my eyelids.

It’s me and Rose on her wedding day, wearing matching silk bathrobes as Itoy with her hair. We’re looking at each other in the mirror and there’s justsomething in her gaze and in mine that screams “love.”

Come to think of it, it’s weirdly akin to the tenderness in Dmitri’s eyes fromearlier.

I shake that thought off immediately. Dmitri Egorov is not physicallycapable of loving anyone like I loved Rose—except for maybe himself.

Fuck, I can remember this day. The room smelled like Rose’s vanillaperfume and the roses set up on the vanity. She was so happy. This wasbefore the endless procession of doctors, before dozens upon dozens ofnegative pregnancy tests, before the verdict that conceiving was gonna be ano-go for her.

There was nothing to be sad about. The future was bright and beautiful androse-scented. Pun intended.

The longer I look at the picture, the more my heart seems to be stranglingme from the inside out. So I quickly tuck it back in my desk and slam thedrawer closed. But it’s not fast enough to stop a single rogue tear fromracing down my cheek and dropping onto the empty desktop.

I wipe it away, grab my purse, and stand.

I have a meeting with my baby daddy to get to.

When I get to Lifelines Bistro, I order a margarita immediately. If I don’t,I’m gonna have a nuclear meltdown. My nerves are frayed beyond beliefand I can’t stop my hands from shaking.

Alcohol usually does the trick in these kinds of situations.

Unfortunately, no sooner have the words “make it strong” come to the tip ofmy tongue than do I remember that the entire reason I’m here in the firstplace precludes me from getting drunk at all.

So with a sigh, I amend to say, “Make it… virgin.”

I pick a table in the corner with a vantage point of the front door and sitdown. It’s quiet in here tonight, which is a little weird for a ChicagoBusiness District bar on a Wednesday at happy hour, but that’s one of thereasons I picked it.

I want as few onlookers as possible to witness what might be the mostawkward conversation of my life.

Uh, yeah, so we don’t know each other, sir, but it seems like we’re about tohave a baby together.

The virgin margarita disappears down the hatch before I even realize howfast I’m drinking it. I need something to distract myself, even if this isplacebo alcohol.

I order another one, mostly just to have something to do with my hands, andthat goes down even easier. The thorny, recurring thoughts that haveplagued me all day seem to retract their claws a little bit more with each andevery sip.

Mocktail or not, it’s helping.

I watch the door like a hawk, sparing an eye for the time on my phone everynow and then. But fifteen minutes passes by, and no one shows.

I’m wearing a scarlet red blouse, just like I told Dr. Saeder to let the spermdonor know, so I’m pretty hard to miss. But as 5:45 P.M. comes and goes, Istart to lose faith.

Maybe this was silly. What am I even hoping to gain from it? A co-parent?Someone to replace the role that Rose and Jared were supposed to fill? Hellno. Truth is, I don’t even want this mystery man to have anything to do withthis baby.

I don’t even know. I just want to meet them, I guess. To look my baby’sfather in the face so I understand what kind of person has somehow snuckinto the most intimate part of me.

But that’s dumb, isn’t it? It won’t change anything. It won’t bring back myfamily or make my life any less difficult.

This mystery man, whoever it is, can only make things harder.

I’m gathering my bag to go home so I can at least eat some ice cream andput this day from hell to bed when I accidentally knock my phone off thetable. I bend down to scoop it up…

But before I can, a huge male hand grabs it from the floor for me.

Horror fills my gut before I even look up. It takes me a moment tounderstand why.

There’s only one person in the world who smells exactly like that.

So, with my heartbeat pounding in my temples and the blood rushing in myears, I drag my gaze from the tiled floor…

Past a pair of gleaming leather loafers…

Skimming up over muscular legs in well-fitted charcoal gray slacks… and ababy-blue-shirt-clad midsection I was fantasizing about literally thismorning…

To look in the eyes of the last man on this planet that I would ever want tobe the father of my baby.

Dmitri Egorov looks down at me and smolders.

“Seems like you and I have a lot to discuss, Ms. Turner.”

This can’t be it, can it? He can’t possibly be my baby’s father? That wouldjust be too cruel for words and fate can’t be that vindictive a b***h. I mean,surely I’ve maxed out my quota of bad luck for one lifetime.

Dmitri probably just walked into Lifelines, saw me, and decided to fuckwith my head like he usually does. A little after-work entertainment.

I mean, why not? He’s a god amongst men and deities tend to pursue theirown twisted pastimes. Torturing mortals being one.

“‘Discuss’?” I repeat in a croaky, pipsqueak voice that makes me sound likeElmer Fudd. “Did I miss something in the board meeting today? I tookextensive notes. I even —”

“Why are you here?” he interrupts impatiently.

One eyebrow arches gracefully as he slides into the table I was justattempting to vacate. “Sit back down.”

I stare at him uncertainly. “I really can’t —”

“Your meeting has begun.” His gaze flickers over my chest. “Red is eye-catching, but green is more your color.”

I stiffen instinctively. Oh, God. I fall into the booth opposite him and reachfor my empty glass, wishing that it was full of something other than virginanything. This situation requires hard freaking liquor and lots of it.

I stand corrected: Fate? Yeah, she’s a cruel b***h.

And apparently, she’s not done with me yet.

“You are my sperm donor.” It feels weird saying the words out loud toDmitri. It’s like talking to your mother about s*x.

His expression is a cross between annoyance and discomfort. He puts hisforearms on the table and clasps his hands together. Why do I feel like I’mbeing judged? “I’m no donor, Ms. Turner. It seems that I was subjected tothe same spectacular incompetence that you were.”

My hands keep skirting around the table, looking for something to holdonto. Stop fidgeting, for Christ’s sake! Act cool! “I didn’t peg you for thekind of man who wanted to be a father.”

Shit. Did I just say that?

He leans forward on his elbows, his lips curling into a half-sneer. “And Ididn’t peg you for the type of woman who was capable of being a mother.”

It’s like he’s just poured a bucket of ice cubes down my back. That piercinggaze of his skewers me unapologetically, waiting for a reaction.

Well, screw him—I’m not gonna give him the satisfaction.

“I handle your bullshit all day long. Compared to that, a baby’s gonna be apiece of cake.”

His upper lip stiffens and he leans back. I’d like to consider that a retreat,but if there’s anything I’ve learned about Dmitri Egorov in the last fourteenmonths that I’ve worked for him, it’s that the man never backs down.

You don’t amass a billion-dollar company at the ripe old age of thirty-six bybeing nice and deferential. At this point, I’m starting to think that no onegets anywhere by being nice and deferential.

It certainly hasn’t done me a damn bit of good.