Page 97 of At His Beck & Call

My eyes meet hers.

Yes, I imagine she knows all about me.

“It was nice to meet you too, Bethany.”

We walk out of the apartment toward the elevator, a plan forming in my mind that I know I should forget about and delete from my head. But as I look at Henry’s vulnerable little body, curled up in his mother’s arms and the snow falling so heavily outside, I can’t help myself.

“Come back to my place,” I blurt out. “Stay with me. It’s close by, and you’ll be better off not traveling back to your place in this storm.”

She looks at me, seemingly confused. Henry grumbles, shivering a little, and I place the blanket over his shoulders. She looks at my hands resting against her son’s back and then bites her lip.

“It’s close?”

“Very,” I say, relief filling my whole body as we step into the elevator.

Chapter 34

Lissa

As we step out onto the street, Oliver looks down at me and Henry, who is fast asleep in my arms.

“Do you want me to carry him?” he asks, and I shake my head, nervous about transferring him from my arms in case he wakes.

Oliver frowns, tugs off his thick scarf, and places it around my neck. It flutters down over my chest, and it’s warm and cozy. It also smells like his cologne, and I start thinking about what happened in the alley tonight…

We head off up the street toward Central Park, which is still a few blocks away, and Oliver walks just a step ahead of us, his wide shoulders preventing Henry and me from being pushed around by those walking past. He keeps glancing back to make sure we’re right behind him.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to carry him, Lissa? He’s got to be getting heavy…”

“I’m really okay. I guess I’m just used to it.”

As we move along the sidewalk, the level of anger on the street is increasing. Beeping horns and curses fill the air. In a few minutes, Henry’s little head rises from my shoulders, his cheeks pink from the cold.

“Where are we?” he mumbles, sounding exhausted.

I should have just taken a cab home.

But just as I have that thought, there’s another expletive-studded altercation on the road as two Ubers collide, and I decide walking has to be safer.

Oliver turns sharply left up ahead into a side street where the sound from the main street is deadened, and we come upon a row of houses. Most of them are brick, with huge arched windows, and Oliver stops in front of one, pulling out his keys from his coat.

The exterior is beautifully kept with pansies on the steps at the top as we ascend, and a warm glow coming from inside.

Am I really going to go into this man’s home with my son? What do I actually know about him—other than the fact that I can’t get enough of him?

Oliver turns, his eyes soft, the snow in his hair making him look so sexy in the streetlight.

“Let’s get you both in and warmed up.”

“Thank you,” I say, and a strange expression flits over his face for a moment before he turns back and walks inside.

He opens the door and motions for me to come in.

“Wow,” I whisper. The high ceilings and the wide white floor make it feel like the entrance to a library.

Oliver smiles at me. “I keep meaning to update, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

I can see what he means. The white marble on the floor is lined with black tiles, making the whole space look dated. The ceiling has crisscrossing beams above us against white paneling.