He Wants Her Back: The Billionaire's Leading Lady novel · Chapter 17 of 24

Chapter 17: Seen

Damon reached forward and switched the radio off.

The car was very quiet.

"For the child she's carrying," I said. "She's going to put a pillow on a stage and hand it an award."

"I'll stop it."

"How?"

"I'll call every board member tonight."

"And she'll tell the papers you silenced a pregnant woman in a hospital gown." I opened my eyes. "No. Let her book the room. Let her send the invitations."

"Juno."

"She wants a stage. I've been on a few." I looked at him. "Until then I want something else."

"Name it."

"A date," I said. "Saturday. In daylight. Somewhere with a thousand people and no garage."

He looked at me.

"Done."

On Saturday morning he came with me to the obstetrician.

It was the first appointment he'd ever been to, because it was the first one he'd been told about.

He sat in the plastic chair by the exam table in a navy sweater with his knee jumping.

I'd never seen any part of him jump.

The obstetrician squeezed cold gel onto my stomach and pressed the wand down.

The screen filled with gray static.

Then a small shape, curled like a bean.

Then a sound filled the room, fast and wet and rushing.

"That's the heartbeat," the obstetrician said. "Strong. Nice and fast."

Damon stood up.

He didn't seem to know he'd done it.

He stood there in the middle of the little room staring at the screen with his mouth open, and his hand found mine on the table and held on too hard.

"That's ours," he said.

"That's ours," I said.

The obstetrician printed the picture and handed it to me.

Damon asked if he could have a copy.

She printed him three.

By two o'clock we were on the Santa Monica pier.

It was the first warm Saturday of spring, and every family in Los Angeles was there.

Strollers, teenagers, a man selling churros, a boy crying over a dropped ice cream.

Damon's head of security walked ten steps behind us in sunglasses, looking miserable.

The first person recognized us before we reached the arcade.

Then ten people.

Then phones everywhere, and a girl screaming my name from the carousel.

Damon's hand tightened on mine.

"You can still go," I said.

"Not a chance."

He was terrible at the ring toss.

I mean truly terrible, for a man who'd built a company out of hitting what he aimed at.

He threw twelve rings and landed none.

"These bottles are rigged," he told the teenage boy running the stall.

"Yeah, man," the boy said. "That's the game."

"How much for the stall?"

"Damon," I said.

"I'm asking for a friend."

I took the last three rings out of his hand and threw them.

Two went over the bottle necks.

The boy handed me a huge purple stuffed octopus.

I gave it to Damon.

He carried it the rest of the afternoon under his arm, in front of every phone on the pier, with no expression at all.

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