Page 137 of Diego

The room is small, but a baby is small too.

For a while.

I close my eyes and blow out a breath.

My mind jumps to Diego’s penthouse.

His guest rooms are bigger than my office.

That's a gross understatement. His master suite is bigger than my entire apartment.

I almost laugh.

Comparing my apartment to a multimillion-dollar penthouse is wildly unhelpful, especially when the man who owns it also happens to be the father of my child.

That thought alone is enough to make me sit back against the couch and stare at the ceiling for a second.

My life has become absurd.

I haven't really let myself think too far ahead. Diego and I talked at the penthouse a couple of weeks ago. He told me he wanted to be involved. He told me I would not be doing this alone, and I believed him.

I still do.

But believing him and understanding what that actually looks like are two very different things. I do not know what Diego expects from any of this. I don’t even know what I expect yet, beyond the fact that I want this baby and I am still trying to understand how completely my life has changed.

I look toward the office again, then force myself to shut it down.

I am not solving any of this tonight. I am not mapping out custody arrangements or nursery furniture or what role Diego will eventually have in my day-to-day life. I barely made it through a showing this afternoon without throwing up.

I reach for another slice of pizza and settle deeper into the couch just as there's a knock on the door.

I freeze with the slice halfway to my mouth.

I am not expecting anyone.

For a second, I consider ignoring it. Then whoever is outside knocks again, and curiosity wins. I put the pizza back in the box, push myself off the couch, and cross the living room toward the door.

I look through the peephole, and my stomach gives a strange little drop.

Diego is standing in the hallway in a dark suit and open coat, one hand in his pocket, looking annoyingly good.

I glance down at myself on the way and note the gray sweats, old T-shirt, and bare feet. My freshly washed hair, which dried without the assistance of a brush and is currently doing whatever it wants around my shoulders. No makeup.

Wonderful.

I have never seen Diego looking anything less than put together, and he has never seen me like this. Every time we have been in the same room, I have been dressed for work, right down to the heels and carefully styled hair. Even after the night at the penthouse, I had managed to drag myself back into my clothes before we left.

For one ridiculous second, I consider pretending I am not home.

I sigh.

Oh, what the hell.

I open the door.

His gaze lands on my face first, then moves down. Slowly.

I immediately regret opening the door.