Page 9 of Surprise Twins for the Mafia Prince
I singalong with the radio as I turn onto my street, belting out the chorus like I’m auditioning for a show nobody asked to see.
I’ve spent the last two hours at Rosa’s house, enjoying an awesome meal and even better company.
Now that I’ve had a day to wrap my head around the fact that I’m pregnant, I’m less overwhelmed by it. The panic has receded to a dull roar instead of the screeching tsunami it was yesterday.
Rosa and I spent the evening chatting about pregnancy and babies while Trey tried to act like he wasn’t bothered as we discussed bloating, mood swings, and breast pain. His face turned this fascinating shade of green when we got into the details of morning sickness.
He was way more interested in our talk about after the baby is born, since he’s the oldest of five kids and had much more to contribute to the conversation.
I’m smiling as I turn into my driveway, parking my car with a contented sigh. Rosa sent me home with a container ofMexican wedding cookies, her mom’s recipe. I grab them off the passenger seat and get out of the car.
That’s when I notice the lights on inside my house. I know that I turned them all off when I left earlier, and fear skitters down my spine like a spider with ice for legs. Someone is in my house.
Then, I remember. The landlord promised that he’d come by this evening to address the leaky ceiling. It took threatening to report him to the health department to make it happen, but I’m relieved that it’s finally going to be fixed.
I suddenly feel like I’m more than a woman who makes questionable choices in men and works a boring, dead-end job. I’m not just some stressed out woman whose life is a mess.
I’m a woman that gets things done.
My door is unlocked, no surprise. Stepping inside, I drop my purse and keys on the side table by the door. I’m already opening the container of cookies as I head to the kitchen, where I expect to see my landlord working on the ceiling.
“Hello, Paige.”
My head snaps up at the deep voice, my heart dropping straight to my feet and then bouncing back up into my throat where it lodges like a cork.
This can’t be happening. I can’t be looking at Dario fucking Andretti standing in my kitchen doorway. Behind him, I see a mess all over the floor, broken dishes and trash.
Run. My mind is screaming at me to flee, to get the hell away from this man. Every instinct in my body tells me he’s a predator and I’m the prey. A wolf in man’s clothing. If I don’t escape, I might not survive.
I spin on my heel, prepared to run straight back out the door, but I only make it one step before I feel a large hand grab my bicep. The jerk is fast. Faster than seems fair for someone his size.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he growls as he pulls me into the kitchen.
He’s not hurting me, but he’s not gentle either.
There’s a silent threat in the firm grip he has on me. I know without being told that he has the strength and the lack of morals required to cause me pain if he wants.
There’s tension in every line of his body, and anger radiates from him, making my anxiety spike.
What the hell is he doing here?
I can’t imagine why he’d track me down. He can’t be angry that I left the hotel without saying goodbye, right? Skipping out in the morning after a hookup isn’t that big of a sin, and a man like this can’t possibly care about that.
Does he know who I am? My mother changed our last names when we left Vegas nearly fifteen years ago, so I don’t see how he could make the connection.
Even if he did, I was only a kid when my father worked for his family. There’s no reason he should come for me.
I stare into his eyes for a moment, trying to read his intent in those deep green orbs, but it’s pointless.
All I see is anger, but that doesn’t tell me why he’s here or what he wants from me. His thick brown hair is a mess, as if he’s been running his hands through it in agitation, and a muscle ticks in his strong jaw as he clenches his teeth.
Despite the aggression pouring off him, he’s every bit as attractive as I remember with his straight nose and the dimple in his chin. His muscular body, which caught my attention so easily the night we met, is tense, and I tell myself that it’s really not the right time to appreciate the way his broad frame fills out his simple black T-shirt.
But apparently my hormones didn’t get the memo about our impending doom.
“What the fuck is this?” he asks, gesturing to my pregnancy test.
It’s on the kitchen island, obviously dug out of the trash after he spilled it all over the floor. I wrinkle my nose.
