Baby for the Greek Billionaire: The Baby Project / Second Chance Baby / Baby on the Ranch. SUSAN MEIER
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fluttered through him. “Downstairs? With his gums just waiting to put him in severe pain again?”
“Of course. He still needs his cereal and I’m guessing he’ll want to play a bit. In fact it’s good to entertain him and make him happy for as long as we can.”
Panic was replaced by fear. Yes, he’d rocked this kid, fed this kid, even changed a diaper—much to his horror—but he wasn’t capable enough to be alone with a potentially sick baby all morning.
“Ready?”
He peeked over at Whitney. “You’re coming with us?”
“Sure.”
That’s when he saw it. The sadness that hummed through everything she did was sometimes eclipsed by very normal behavior, but it was still there.
And everything she did for Gino undoubtedly reminded her of the baby she’d lost.
DARIUS WAITED UNTIL they were seated at the table in the sunroom for lunch, while Gino was napping, before he broached the subject they’d come to Montauk to discuss—how they’d share custody of Gino. The wall of windows brought in the broad expanse of the ocean, sloshing sloppily, with no rhyme or reason or organization, against the shore. The scent of warm clam chowder wafted around them comfortingly, but Darius felt more like the ocean. Disjointed. Uneven. Unable to get his bearings.
Not only did he feel uncomfortable about pushing her to tell him about her family, but he also felt awful for her loss. Technically, he and Whitney would be connected for the next eighteen or so years of their lives, maybe longer. Gino would love her as a mother, and, he hoped, love him as a father. But their lives were so different he wasn’t really sure it was possible for them to find common ground.
She’d been married, been a mom and now lived in a loft in Soho and worked at a law firm. He’d spent his entire adult life running from marriage and being groomed to manage a huge conglomerate. He also had an apartment in the city, but Gino had a nursery at this estate, so Darius genuinely believed it was better for him to get rid of his apartment and live here. If Whitney really wanted to make the commitment to Gino that Darius believed she should make, then she should want to give up her loft and live here too.
The three of them living together was the only way to ensure that Gino saw both of his guardians and also lived something of a normal life. Still, he couldn’t hit her with that yet—especially not after the way he’d pushed her the night before. The way he had this figured, the best thing to do would be try to get her to agree to stay another week, or maybe two weeks, and then continue to tack on a week or two at a time until she realized, as he had, that Montauk was Gino’s home.
Because the following day was Monday, the end of the weekend, there was no time left for delay. He had to persuade her to stay an entire week or maybe two and he had to do it now.
He casually picked up his napkin. “I’m glad we decided to spend the weekend here, getting to know the baby.”
She met his gaze, her pretty blue eyes cautious.
“It was good for him to be in a settled environment—especially since this is his home, or had been when his parents came to New York.”
She didn’t even hesitate. “Absolutely.”
“So you wouldn’t mind saying a little longer?”
“How much longer?”
With her being so agreeable, it seemed a shame to ask for a week or two, when a month would be better for Gino. “How about a month?”
“A month!”
“Or six weeks.” Going with his usual tactic of surprising his opponent by asking for more rather than backpedaling, he forged on. “This is Gino’s home. He needs to be somewhere he feels safe. Since he spends half his day sleeping, I also think it’s important he be in his own crib. We’re adults. I think we can make an adjustment or two for him.”
“Okay.”
She surprised him so much he forgot they were negotiating. “Okay? ”
“Yes. We have to hire a nanny, and I need time to turn my spare bedroom into a nursery. So, yes. It makes sense to keep Gino here where he’s happy until I can get some of that done.”
Dumbstruck, he said nothing.
She ate a spoonful of soup. “Layla liked being in her own crib. Especially when she was sick.”
Layla. Her casual use of the name shook him. But the very fact that she’d said it so nonchalantly told him he had to be every bit as casual. Not make a big deal out of it. Not ask questions that didn’t fit into their conversation about Gino. Even though he was burning up with them.
How could a man not remember he had his child with him?
How did a woman deal with the grief, the guilt, of not noticing her husband was slipping over the edge?
Though he tried to hold them back, they tore at him until he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “How did you deal with it?”
“What?”
Recrimination roared through him, telling him he shouldn’t push her again, but he was unable to stop himself. “Your loss. How did you deal with such a monumental loss?”
She glanced up at him. “Therapy.”
He shook his head. “Dear God. It must have been awful. I am so sorry.”
She set down her spoon. “Actually, that’s one of the reasons I held back from telling you. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me. I want you to know. You have to know. You have to understand. But if I really want to get on with the rest of my life, you can’t feel sorry for me. You can’t treat me differently than you would have when you thought I was just a thorn-in-your-side lawyer.”
He laughed. “I never thought you were a thorn in my side.”
She smiled at him. “Of course you did. You probably always will. We’re not going to agree on how to raise Gino. We might as well admit up front that there will be disagreements and maybe set some ground rules for how to handle them.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Well, for instance, there could be some deal breaker things. Like I don’t think he should get a new car at sixteen.”
He laughed, not just at the absurdity of talking about something that wouldn’t happen for fifteen-and-a-half years, but also at the absurdity of depriving Gino of something he’d need.
“Really? No car at sixteen? In case you haven’t noticed, I’m rich. I can afford to get him any kind of car he wants. And he’ll want one. It’s the only thing he’ll talk about the entire time he’s fifteen.”
“Doesn’t matter. Kids that age aren’t good drivers. We should have as much control as possible about when and where he drives. The best way to do that is for him to have to ask permission to take a car.”
He gaped at her. “I have ten cars. He could easily take one without my permission.”
“Then you’re going to be busy keeping track of them. Because, to me, the car is a safety issue. And a deal breaker.”
He scowled, remembering his own driving at sixteen, and realized she was right. “Okay, but then one of my deal breakers is pink.”
“Pink?”
“No matter that you call it rose or mauve or some other flaky name, I don’t ever want him dressed in pink.”
She blinked, then frowned, then burst out laughing. “That’s your idea of a deal breaker?”
He turned his attention to his soup. “Give