“It’s beautiful,” he murmurs.
Awkward silence passes between us. I feel like I’ve overshared, so I turn to face him fully.
“What about you?” I ask dumbly. “No kids, no wife… is there a reason?”
He shrugs. “Not really. It’s not like I don’t want a wife and kids. The opportunity just never presented itself.”
“Hard to meet people when you’re busy bossing your assistant around,” I tease.
His lips quirk. “Perhaps that’s it.”
“So, you want kids?”
He nods. “I do. I’m an only child. Well, I am now,” he adds. I raise my eyebrows with anticipation, and he continues. “I had a younger brother. I was five when he was born, and the entire time my mom was pregnant with him, I obsessed over having a little brother.” He swallows, his throat bobbing, and I feel something crack inside of me when I see the anguish flickering behind his pupils. “I even wrote a book with all the things we were going to do. My mom wanted to name him Rocco, so that’s what we called him. Rocky for short.”
“What happened?” I ask, whispering.
He rubs the back of his neck before looking down at his shoes with a pained stare. “His birth was complicated. Long. Drawn out. Shoulder dystocia. That was the official diagnosis. My mom lost a lot of blood, and Rocco went without oxygen for toolong. He came out blue—I’d been in the hospital room with my parents, and all of a sudden, a bunch of doctors came rushing in, pushing me out of the way as they tried to save him.”
My eyes sting with unshed tears. I didn’t have the rushing of the doctors. Everyone expected it, because my baby was already dead. I can’t imagine being a child and not understanding what happened.
“Anyway, we had a funeral for Rocky that next week. My parents stopped talking, and they got divorced a few months later. My whole life disappeared in the blink of an eye, but I still think about what would’ve happened if Rocco survived. Baseball games and birthday parties. S’mores and camping trips.” He looks back up at me, his green eyes emotive and bright. “So, to answer your question, yes. I always imagined having my own,” he adds thoughtfully. “Even if I can’t have that childhood I dreamt of, I’d like to experience it in some other way, you know?”
“I understand.”
“And you?”
“Yes. I’ve always wanted to be a mom. But especially after everything happened…” I look down and pull my lower lip between my teeth. The next thing I know, I’m blurting something out that I haven’t even told Ari. “I actually have an appointment with a sperm bank in a few weeks.”
He’s so quiet, and when I look over at him, his eyes are doing that hypnotized thing again.
“To discuss having a baby on my own,” I add, in case that wasn’t obvious. “I have financial stability, thanks to you and this job. A house. Health insurance. I’m at a great place mentally. I’m almost twenty-nine. Time’s ticking for me, too. I don’t need a man, so why not?” His expression seems to sour slightly.God, why am I telling him this?“It won’t be until later this year at theearliest, and I’ll be sure to find cover for maternity leave when the time comes, if that’s what you’re worried about?—”
“I’m not worried about that,” he nearly growls. “You’re going to need support. Resources.Help.You can’t do it alone.”
“I can,” I counter, narrowing my eyes. “But thank you for the vote of confidence.”
“I just mean, let me know how I can help. I’m your boss, yes, but this is a massive undertaking. Appointments, sick leave, mental health checks… they’re all things to consider.”
“I’ve considered it all. I want a baby, and I don’t want to wait.”
He looks conflicted. His eyes are darker now, and they scan my face. “Braveandincredible,” he murmurs.
It makes me blush, but I don’t respond. Instead, we arrive back at Powell Street and exit the BART station. Dr. Kincaid is quiet as we walk back to the hotel in near silence. Once we’re in the elevator, his eyes peruse my face briefly before running down to my neck. My skin prickles under his attention.
“Did you hurt yourself?” he asks, his eyes locking onto something near my throat.
“What do you mean?”
“You have a very faint bruise around your neck,” he answers, voice low.
My eyes flit between his, searching for a confession—forsomethingto indicate that he’s fucking with me. But his expression is neutral. There’s nothing to clue me in to what he’s thinking.
“Oh, I have no idea. Must’ve been a sleep injury.”
At that, something shutters behind his pupils, but there’s no other manifestation of what happened last night.
He knows. He woke up. And he chose not to tell me. Despite our nice dinner, so he’s either a sociopath who enjoys doing what he does and doesn’t plan on ever telling me.
