Page 55 of Tempting Tessa

I catch her chin between my thumb and forefinger, forcing her to look at me. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” she asks, voice small.

“Pretend this isn’t happening. Pretend I’m not here.” I stroke her bottom lip with my thumb. “I know you’re scared. I know this isn’t what you planned. But I’m not going anywhere, and neither is this baby.”

Fresh tears well in her eyes. “I can’t think straight right now. I need—I don’t know what I need.”

“You need to eat something,” I decide, releasing her chin. “When’s the last time you had a full meal? And don’t lie to me.”

She shrugs, looking away again. “I had some brunch with Natalia before I...before I left.”

“And how much of that did you actually eat before you ran off?”

She has the grace to look guilty. “Not much.”

“That’s what I thought.” I take her hand, guiding her out of the bathroom. “Come on. Let’s get some food in you. And then I’ll get you out of that pretty ass head of yours.”

Chapter 18

Contessa

I’m sitting at Matteo’s kitchen island, staring at the gleaming black marble like it might open up and swallow me whole. I barely remember how I got here—just flashes of his hand on my back, his voice in my ear as he ushered me from my bathroom floor to his car. I spent the ride staring out the window, trying to disappear inside my own head while he made calls and barked orders into his phone.

Now he’s moving around his kitchen like some kind of domestic god, chopping and stirring and doing all the shit I never do because I’m too busy building a company that sells sex toys to women who don’t need men to get off. The fucking irony.

“Eat,” Matteo says, sliding a steaming bowl in front of me. The smell hits me—garlic, chicken broth, something lemony and bright—and my stomach does a weird flip that’s not quite nausea but definitely not hunger.

I stare down at the bowl. It’s some kind of soup with tiny pasta shaped like stars, tender chunks of chicken, spinach, and a sprinkle of Parmesan on top. It looks like something you’d feed a sick child, which I guess is appropriate since I’m apparently carrying one.

“What is this?” I ask, voice still raw from crying.

“Stelline in brodo,” he says, like I’m supposed to know what the fuck that means. When I just blink at him, he adds, “Little star soup. My mother used to make it when we were sick. It’s gentle on the stomach.”

The unspoken “and good for the baby” hangs in the air between us.

I pick up the spoon, more to have something to do with my hands than because I actually want to eat. “I didn’t know you could make soup.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, stellina.” He leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, watching me like I might bolt if he takes his eyes off me. “Eat.”

I take a small spoonful, letting the warm broth slide down my throat. It’s good—salty and rich and somehow exactly what my body wants, even if my brain is still screaming. I hate that he knows what I need before I do.

“Is this some traditional Italian pregnancy food or something?” I ask, taking another spoonful.

His mouth quirks up at the corner. “It’s Italian comfort food. The fact that it’s easy to digest and full of nutrients is just a bonus.”

I roll my eyes. “So you’re already on the ‘feeding the incubator’ train.”

“Don’t.” His voice drops, that dangerous edge creeping in. “Don’t talk about yourself that way.”

“Why not? That’s what I am now, right?”

“What do you want to be, Contessa? You are pregnant, yes. What are your alternatives? Hmm?”

I flinch, but something in me refuses to back down. I’ve spent my whole life trying not to be intimidated by anyone.

“Adoption,” I say, the word coming out before I’ve really thought it through.

“No.” He doesn’t raise his voice, which somehow makes it more terrifying. “If you don’t want to be a mother, then no one can make you. I will raise the baby. There will be no adoption.”