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He sets the table—pulls out my chair, which is new. We’ve been eating at the breakfast bar or on the couch, so this feels different. Intentional. There are two whole roasted chickens, baked potatoes loaded with fixings, and steamed broccoli. It’s better than anything I’ve eaten in months. Years, maybe. I don’t tell him that because I think it would make him angry or sad, and I can’t handle either of those from him tonight.
“This is incredible,” I say, sitting down.
He takes the seat across from me, and for a minute, we just eat.
“So,” I say, smirking over my potato. “How was the meeting? What did the guys say when you walked in with a baby?”
Something flickers across his face. Quick, barely there. If I weren’t watching him so closely, I’d have missed it.
“They had some questions.” He takes a bite of chicken, chews slowly. “Thought she was mine at first.”
I’m smiling. Why am I smiling at that? “Was she good?”
“Perfect. Slept through the whole film session. Better behaved than half the team.”
I laugh. “That’s my girl.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and that tightness I noticed earlier is back—subtle, around the edges, like he’s holding something behind his teeth.
“What?” I ask.
He sets his fork down. Leans back in his chair. Takes a breath. “The guys had some thoughts. About . . . us. The situation.”
My stomach drops. “What kind of thoughts?”
“The concerned kind.” He rubs the back of his neck—his tell, the thing he does when he’s uncomfortable. “They pointed out that we haven’t known each other long. That I moved you in, that there’s no legal arrangement for Ella, that the timing with my contract is . . . complicated.”
He’s choosing his words carefully, and I can feel the ones he’s leaving out. The ones that are probably closer to: they think you’re using me.
“They think I’m running some kind of game on you.” I say it flatly so he doesn’t have to.
“No. That’s not—”
“It is, though. That’s what they were getting at.”
He doesn’t deny it. He holds my gaze, steady, and the fact that he doesn’t lie to me is both the best and worst thing about him.
The thing is, he’s right. We hardly know each other, and from the outside—from where his teammates are standing—this looks exactly like the kind of story that ends with someone getting hurt.
I put my fork down. My appetite is gone.
“They’re not wrong,” I say.
Alexei’s brow furrows. “What?”
“There’re not wrong, Alexei. You don’t know me. Not really. You know the version of me that showed up on your doorstep with a baby and no options. You don’t know who I was before that. You don’t know what I’m like when things are normal.” I swallow. “If things are ever normal.”
“Ryleigh—”
“And your teammates are right to worry. You’re in the middle of a huge contract, and you’ve got some random woman living in your apartment with someone else’s kid, and you’re bringing that kid to team meetings. That’s…” I gesture vaguely at the table, the apartment, us. “That’s a lot. For anyone.”
He’s watching me with an expression I can’t fully read—something between frustration and tenderness. “You’re not some random woman.”
“To them, I am.”
“I don’t care what they think.”
“Maybe you should.” My voice cracks on the last word, and I hate it. I press my lips together and look at my plate.
