Bearing My Boss's Baby (An MPreg Romance) Page 3

  But it was a very nice suit. Claude held up the jacket again, his thumbs sliding over the perfect crease of the lapels. He slipped the jacket on over his t-shirt and marveled at the fit. How did Kevin even know his size? It wasn't as though he'd ever had anything really tailored before: his salary was generous, but that was a bit beyond his means.

  The pants looked equally perfect, but Claude refolded them again without trying them on, quickly removing the jacket before he could manage to ruin something this special. Where on earth was he going to wear these? The takeover meetings had been the first time he'd worn a suit jacket in months—it wasn't exactly a feature of their office set up. And, maybe more importantly, what on earth did they mean?

  Was it a gift? Or was it more of a bribe? A brush-off? Did Kevin even mean anything by it, or was this just another way he threw his money around, not even realizing that paying for the suit he'd ripped would have cost a fraction of the price of this piece of tailoring?

  Claude took a deep, shaky breath, replacing the garments in the box, as precisely folded as he could make them. Whatever it was, it didn't feel personal. There was something so unthinking about the quick scrawl on the card, a sort of afterthought that made Claude's chest feel tight and heavy.

  There it was, here in his hands. The answer to the question that had plagued him for two sleepless nights. If Kevin was this hell-bent on erasing everything about their ill-advised fling, Claude could hardly push him into some kind of a romance. Things were awkward enough between them already; Claude already felt the pain of rejection far too hard. He needed to take this gesture in the spirit in which it was meant and pretend—just as hard as Kevin was—that nothing had happened between them.

  He sank down onto the bed, head in his hands, his eyes overflowing with hot tears that seemed to strike his lap like bullets. As a decision: it was a good one. As a remedy for Claude's broken heart: he felt as though it had cracked anew, splitting like a half-healed wound into a riot of jagged edges. He gulped, trying to pull back the emotion that spilled from him. He had one day left in which to bottle it up and behave himself. There was no point in wasting it with tears.

  Chapter 6

  Kevin

  Kevin tried for a while to pretend that the reason everything was the same at work was pure professionalism. It fit with how he liked to see himself after all, not just a creature of instinct, even when he was faced with some of the toughest provocation he'd ever been hit with. The pretence, however, began to wear thin after days of no acknowledgement at all from Claude.

  His diligence at work never faltered, but Kevin would have expected that from someone so capable. More importantly, he seemed to completely overlook any changes in Kevin's behavior. The glances that Kevin couldn't help when Claude bent over or looked out from under his long lashes for confirmation of some business detail: all of those were glossed over with the same smooth expression as when Kevin clapped Claude on the shoulder and thanked him for preparing the presentation details.

  The suit he'd sent to Claude's apartment was received, according to his bills, but it vanished without a trace. Kevin never saw him wear it or heard him say anything about it.

  A sad truth, but it was staring Kevin right in the face. Claude didn't want anything more to do with him, at least not like that. They'd gone right back to their former relationship. Perhaps it was a little stiffer now, a touch more formal, or perhaps it only seemed that way now that Kevin had seen what it looked like when Claude was truly abandoned, his poise lost along with his clothes.

  If given a touch of encouragement, Kevin could have drawn himself up to fight for what was his—what he knew in his bones was his—but to push for what was not given freely was another matter. He'd have to settle down and lick his wounds in private and accept—at least, on the surface—what his heart could not accept: that Claude was indifferent to him now that they'd shared a night together.

  Stricken, it was too easy for Kevin to throw himself into his work, into the business that he'd built. It needed his attention anyway. The merger was going well, but that didn't mean there weren't a dozen tiny snags every day that apparently needed his personal attention to smooth out.

  He sighed, sending another memo, this one less diplomatically worded than the last. Or at least, it was when it left his desk. Claude would probably smooth out the hastiness of the language and tone down some of the less subtle insults. It was one of the many things Kevin paid him to do after all. He appreciated the freedom to write his fury down on the page, without it actually ruining his working relationships.

  Understandable that the new Seattle branch would want to deal largely with him, the person they were most familiar with, but if they couldn't learn to take the direction of his staff, this move would never work.

  He glared at the email in front of him on his screen. Had the negotiations been this difficult? He didn't remember them being so infuriating, or was that simply that the annoyance there had been overwritten by the celebration afterwards? It was hard to think about Seattle without thinking of Claude in his bed—even with the sweetness of the thought tempered by the inevitable recollection of his rejection: a knife through his still-tender heart.

  As if summoned by Kevin's idle daydreams, Claude's head appeared around the door to Kevin's office. "Any more memos before I take my lunch?" he asked casually.

  There was nothing on his face, on his desk, to prove that Kevin had been thinking about Claude. It didn't prevent him from wanting to hide behind his desk, and he halfway cursed the fact that it was too empty, too tidy, to provide good cover. "Nothing now," he said, his voice deepening to an unnatural degree as he tried his hardest to make it smooth and even. "You can take your lunch now. I'll have work for you to do when you return."

  "Are you not taking your own lunch?" Claude said, one perfect eyebrow arching up towards his hairline.

  "I have a phone call to make," Kevin said shortly. "I'll be fine."

  "I'll send up your favorite then," Claude said, and disappeared with a wave of his long fingers.

  Kevin picked up a piece of paper, crumpled it, and smoothed it again. The thing that hurt the most was imagining that Claude said these things out of some kind of personal concern. But that was most definitely fantasy.

  The whole office was on a casual and friendly basis, started when the team amounted to a half-dozen people at most and Kevin hadn't yet acquired his own office. It would have been ridiculous to hold Claude to some kind of more formal standard under those circumstances, and besides, Kevin didn't want Claude to look on him as a boss. He wanted something far more personal than that.

  Sending something up from the commissary in the basement of the building was practically one of Claude's job duties, however. There was nothing there for Kevin to attach his all-too fertile imagination to. And yet he found himself doing it anyway, looking at the tray that arrived with a fondness that the club sandwich on it didn't really deserve.

  The phone call that Kevin made was hardly as urgent as he had made it seem, but at least speaking to someone else—and venting his temper on the worst of the incompetents in Seattle—brought his mind back to business.

  He hardly thought about Claude the rest of the afternoon—at least not when the other man wasn't in the room, which seemed like victory enough for today.

  Chapter 7

  Claude

  It would have been easier for Claude to reach equilibrium after what he thought of as The Seattle Trip—capitals most definitely included and standing in for the activities that he was least able to think about directly—if he hadn't found himself suddenly taking more sick days than he'd ever taken in his entire working life. Between the bouts of vomiting, and the occasional light-headedness, he'd missed several days of work, and had had to cut others short when he could hardly see his computer screen for the amount that his head was spinning.

  He'd worried to start with that Kevin would think he was avoiding him— despite his perfect attendance in the weeks following The Seattl
e Trip—but Kevin had taken his apologetic calls with his usual calm indifference, telling Claude to feel better and ending the call almost at once. There hadn't even been a huge pile of work facing Claude on his return to the office the next day, his usual duties having been shared out among the rest of the team.

  Claude's friends were the ones worrying about him, a sympathy appreciated but hard to bear when Claude found it so difficult to explain to them the real weight on his mind.

  He sipped his tea slowly, half-hiding behind the wide mouth of the mug in the face of Dimitra’s incisive gaze.

  "You've got to admit that it's unusual," she said, holding her own mug elegantly in one hand, her casual grip at odds with the eagle eyes that seemed to pierce instantly into all of Claude's secrets. "You've been so up and down lately."

  Claude shrugged. He didn't have an explanation either, and he'd told her as much a dozen times already.

  "What does your doctor think?" She took another sip of her tea, her slim legs daintily crossed at the knee.

  "Um." Claude swallowed, gripping the mug between his hands and appreciating the warmth of it.

  Dimitra's eyes narrowed further. "You have seen a doctor, surely?"

  "Um," Claude said again. He had a horrible fear that the doctor would look at him kindly and tell him he was merely lovesick and shouldn't be wasting professional time like this.

  "Men!" Dimitra said angrily, an exclamation she uttered too often for Claude's comfort. "You will go see the doctor, okay? Soon. Or I will make you go see my doctor, and I’ll come stand over you while you do it, too." She meant it, Claude knew that without testing her. Her fine-boned body looked as fragile as the delicate wrought silver that swathed her collarbones, but it was made of pure steel, at least when it came to running her friends' lives, which she did as easily as she ran her parents' company.

  "I'll make an appointment," Claude said, gulping down hot tea until his throat burned. "Honestly. But he's just going to give me antacids or something, I'll bet you that."

  Luckily for him, Dimitra refused to take Claude up on that bet. For, after two separate blood tests, one extremely awkward conversation, and a physical examination that Claude preferred not to think about, his doctor sat back in her chair and said, with a smile that seemed deeply inappropriate to the conversation, "Congratulations, Mr. Hester! You're due in September!"

  "Due?" Claude said, stunned into dumb mimicry by her sprightliness.

  "The baby," his doctor said, beaming at him. "You seem to be handling it well, though I can give you something for the morning sickness that should make your life a little easier. I'll set you up with specialist appointments as well, of course, but those are really just procedure. Nothing to worry about."

  "Nothing to worry about?" Claude repeated.

  "I know it seems overwhelming when it’s your first," the doctor said, leaning forward to pat his hand. Her fingers were almost burning hot against the chill that seemed to be sweeping over him. "But give yourself time to get used to the idea. You've got months to go still."

  Claude nodded, the stiff back of the chair the only thing keeping him from complete collapse.

  The doctor went on, oblivious. "You can, of course, bring your partner to any future appointments, there are some things it would be better for him to know as well."

  "That—" Claude stumbled on his own words. "That might not be possible."

  For the first time, the doctor looked less than terminally chipper. "In that case," she said, her voice slow and sympathetic, "You're welcome to bring anyone who's there to help. Whoever makes you feel comfortable."

  Claude nodded once, short and sharp, unwilling to trust to his shaky voice. She smiled at him, looking pleased again, and continued talking. The rest of the long and interminable interview seemed to last eternity, an endless stream of words that buzzed around Claude's head without ever taking shape into something he could recognize. He nodded at what he hoped were appropriate intervals, taking the various pamphlets she pressed on him in a trembling hand and shoving them haphazardly into his bag.

  When she finally allowed him to leave, he was immediately collared by the receptionist who seemed to have an endless list of other appointments to set up for him, each and every one of them preceded by a long inquiry into his availability. Claude agreed to everything without hearing it, unable to focus. Did it even matter now if he had to take another dozen days off work? He was probably about to be fired.

  He left the building in a state of complete shock, his mind turning over and over like a bottle bobbing helplessly in a current. The next step: that was the important thing. But what was it? Claude couldn't seem to think straight, to come up with any kind of plan. His well-organized mind seemed to be failing him, throwing worries at him at random.

  Kevin would have to be told, that much was certain. It was his baby, and besides, Claude couldn't afford a child now, on his own. But nothing in their previous working relationship—or even in their occasional dalliances in a more flirtatious vein—had given Claude a hint of what Kevin's response would be. He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, unconsciously cupping them around his still-flat belly. Would he be fired? Or worse, ignored and disbelieved?

  The hot tears sprang again to his eyes and he dashed them away with sharp movement, scrubbing his hand clean against the rough wool of his jacket. He should be happy. The doctor was happy for him. Even the receptionist had congratulated him on the happy event. Instead he felt only numb, too much in shock to feel anything at all.

  The only thing he knew was that he had to tell Kevin. However much Kevin seemed to want to disavow their connection, he couldn't hide from his own child. Claude gritted his teeth, striding down the sidewalk furiously. He'd have to say something, and soon. His own broken heart couldn't be allowed to stand in the way of this child, the baby that needed him most in all the world.

  Chapter 8

  Kevin

  He'd almost gotten used to it—or at least decided that he was going to be used to it instead of ruining Claude's life by pining over him like a large storm cloud—when Claude walked into his office one day and closed the door behind him. That was mildly unusual in their very casual office, and Kevin was honestly distracted by trying to remember what important thing he'd clearly forgotten as Claude walked briskly up in front of his desk, his hands behind his back.

  "Hey, Claude," Kevin said, hoping that his smile was disarming enough to get him out of at least some of the trouble he was definitely in.

  Claude took a deep breath, his shoulders visibly rising. "I'm pregnant," he said, his voice quiet, but firm.

  Kevin blinked at him, astonished. "That's...that's great," he said. "Any parental leave you need. I mean, whatever we can do to make this easier..." He trailed off, struck by the look of restrained tension on Claude's face, the look of something that remained to be said.

  Claude looked him straight in the eye. "It's yours," he said, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. "And I expect you to do your part."

  Clutching desperately at the wood of his desk as though it was a lifeline, Kevin stared at him. "Of course," he said, haltingly. "Anything you need."

  Claude looked at him for a long moment and Kevin had a moment of heart-stopping emotion as he realized that Claude had psyched himself up to come in here with the possibility in his heart that Kevin might say no, might refuse to take responsibility. For a second, he was furious, unwilling to accept that anyone could think that of him. But the anger melted away into a deep well of guilt in the pit of his stomach and he found himself staring back at Claude, defensiveness withering on his tongue as he tried to convince his sluggish brain to come up with something to say, some kind of apology for however he'd managed to make Claude think that he might try to shirk his responsibilities.

  Nothing seemed to be coming to mind. At least, nothing good.

  "I'm glad you feel that way," Claude said at long last and the stiffness of his voice made Kevin's heart sink. He'd missed his chance to start over.<
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  "I want this," he said, trying to will Claude to believe him. "Anything you want. Anything you need. We'll arrange it."

  Claude nodded sharply. Kevin thought there might be a little relief in his face, but the ramrod straightness of his back made it hard to decipher.

  "Is there anything now?" Kevin offered. He couldn't think of what it could be, but he couldn't think of much of anything right now. His mind was too busy assimilating the idea that Claude was pregnant with his baby. So far, it wasn't sliding in very well. It wasn't that it seemed implausible that it had happened. Just that it seemed too much like the fantasies that had been dashed by Claude's long silence after their tryst. He had to keep reminding himself that it was all real.

  "I'll let you know," Claude said slowly.

  Kevin nodded, a little frantic. "Of course. Of course. We'll draw up the paperwork. Get it all sorted out. My lawyer can—" He flipped open his desktop calendar, scrolling through appointments to try and find a time to arrange everything. "Uh, Wednesday?"

  He looked up, half-hopeful, into Claude's blank face. Even the hint of relief he'd seen there before seemed to be gone now, leaving only a glassy blankness, unreadable, unresponsive.

  Under the cover of his desk, Kevin dug his knuckles into the meat of his thigh. He'd ruined things again, hadn't he? Made it seem like the only reason he was supporting Claude was his legal responsibilities. How did he keep fucking things up like this?

  "I just want to make sure you're protected," he added, desperation creeping into his hoarse voice, but Claude was already replying, his normally fluid voice oddly creaky as he spoke.