Page 83 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

The self-deprecation in her voice is painful to hear. Because maybe… maybe she wasn’t entirely wrong? Back then? Before Mia?

Fuck I don’t know.

“I was mortified,” she whispers, finally looking directly at me again, her dark eyes filled with a mixture of shame and defiance. “Humiliated. Convinced you’d just… dismiss me. Politely, maybe, but dismiss me nonetheless. Like my father did. Just… disappear.” She takes another shaky breath. “So I ran. And finding out I was pregnant weeks later… and then when I looked you up, it just cemented everything. You were the reckless, danger-seeking playboy. The guy who wouldn’t remember, wouldn’t care. Telling you felt… impossible. Dangerous. Not just for me, but for her.” She gestures towards the nursery.

Her confession hangs in the air between us. The raw honesty of it. Her insecurity, her fear… mirroring my own goddamn fears about becoming my father. We’re both fucked up by our pasts, just in different, destructive ways.

And she remembers the night I don’t.

The night that created our daughter.

The night that apparently ruined her for other men.

Something shifts inside me. The residual anger evaporates completely, replaced by a confusing mix of guilt, regret, and… a powerful, unexpected pull towards her. Towards the woman who saw me at my worst, maybe, but still felt something incredible.

And she ran because she thought she wasn’t good enough for the sober version of me.

Without conscious thought, I reach across the space separating us on the couch, my hand covering hers where it rests on the cushion.

Her skinis soft, cool.

She flinches slightly at the contact but doesn’t pull away.

“Sabrina,” I say, my voice rough with emotion I don’t understand. “I… I wish I remembered.” And it’s the truest fucking thing I’ve said all night. I wish I rememberedher. Not just the hazy Vegas image, buther. That night. What it felt like. Whatshefelt like. Making her feel… incredible. I’m getting turned on just thinking about it. I want to make her feel incredibleagain.

She looks up at me, her eyes wide, searching mine. There’s an electric current in the air between us, and this time it’s undiluted by chemicals of any kind.

It’s just… us.

I smile as tenderly as I can. “You told yourself that sober, I wouldn’t look twice at the sensible PR consultant who makes killer lasagna? Well... I have news for you,PR consultant. I really fucking like lasagna.”

She giggles then, and there are obvious tears glistening in her eyes.

I lean closer, drawn by the vulnerability in her gaze, by the shared history, by the undeniable connection humming between us. My gaze drops to her lips. Those lips I apparently kissed, tasted, and savored twenty months ago.

Her breath hitches. She doesn’t move away. Doesn’t pull back.

And then I’m kissing her. Not the rough, possessive claimingher words painted of that night in Vegas,but something else. Tentative. Questioning. A slow exploration.

Her lips are soft, yielding.

She tastes like expensive red wine and… Sabrina.

She makes a soft sigh, and her hand comes up, resting hesitantly against my chest, right over my heart.

This kiss… it’s conscious. Deliberate. The firstrealkiss we’ve ever shared, as far as I’m concerned.

And it feels like coming home to a place I never knew existed.

Like maybe the real journey didn’t start in Vegas, but it begins right here, now, tonight.

24

Sabrina

His lips are soft.

Questioning.

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