Carrying Her Millionaire's Baby

The biggest problem was that this—the luxury flat, Ash carrying her suitcases—definitely wasn’t doing things by herself.

She sighed, and made herself remember all the reasons she’d agreed to this.

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t followed through and said no the first time he’d proposed, anyway. But the second time...he’d painted such a perfect picture of their future together, she’d known that they could be happy together.

Although possibly happier if they were sharing the same bedroom...

The point was, she had a future now. A plan. And, more importantly, so did her child. And so did Ash.

This could be the last chance either of them had to find that kind of happiness—together. And while it might not be the happily-ever-after she’d been searching for, she had to admit it was pretty damn good.

Ash wanted this. Wanted her, and their child.

And when he’d looked at her, that longing in his eyes for something he’d never thought he could have again, that was when she’d realised.

She could never turn him down. Couldn’t tear his life apart again and steal away that future once more.

Because she was in love with him.

Properly, truly, happily-ever-after love. And she knew he’d never be able to give her that back, but maybe that was okay. Maybe one of them feeling that way was enough.

He respected her, adored her, even wanted her still, she hoped. He was her best friend and he did love her, she knew. Just not that way.

But love was love. And when that love offered a future, a family, happiness, she was going to take it. For herself, as much as for Ash.

And for the baby. Because he or she was the most important thing in this whole situation now. And she knew that being with Ash would be the best outcome for their child, by far.

‘Want to see your room?’ Ash’s head popped back into the room from the hallway, and Zoey pasted on a smile.

‘Definitely.’

As she followed him down past the main bathroom, she realised suddenly that there were three bedrooms down there.

‘Mine’s the one at the end,’ Ash said, waving a hand. ‘And I’ve put your stuff in here, if that’s okay?’

Zoey nodded. But she was still looking at the third door, slightly ajar. ‘What’s in there?’

Was Ash blushing? ‘Oh, well, I didn’t want to do too much—I was pretty sure you’d have opinions on design and furniture and stuff. But...’ He pushed the door fully open, and Zoey smiled.

The room was bright and sunny, obviously recently repainted in a warm and welcoming yellow. A silver-grey carpet had been put down over the hard white concrete floor. And hanging from the ceiling was a mobile, tiny planets and moons dangling from invisible strings.

‘We can change any of it you want,’ Ash said nervously. ‘I just thought it would be good to have some things in place to start.’

He’d built the baby a nursery. Never mind her room, this was what she’d needed to see to be sure.

She flung her arms around him and hugged him tight. ‘Thank you.’

‘Anything for you,’ he murmured into her hair. ‘And the baby.’

And suddenly Zoey was sure that she wasn’t making a mistake at all.

Everything was going to work out just right.

* * *

Ash stirred the pot on the hob and tried to remember if he’d ever actually cooked here before—something more than reheating last night’s takeaway. Possibly not.

But now Zoey was here, everything was different. And she’d wanted Italian chicken, just like the one they’d eaten in a restaurant round the corner last week. Figuring that home-cooked food had to be good for the baby—even if it was cooked by him—Ash had finagled the recipe from the chef and was attempting to recreate it for her.

In the two weeks since she’d moved in, Ash’s whole world seemed to have changed. It wasn’t just the splashes of colour that filled his flat these days—a bright pink scarf left draped over the back of a chair, or a royal purple cardigan hung on the back of the door, or even the scent of Zoey’s lavender perfume, lingering in a room after she’d gone to bed. It was the whole feel of the place. Hearing her humming to herself as she made them coffee in the morning—decaf for her, full strength for him—or watching her, feet kicked up under her on the sofa, as she leafed through an art catalogue she’d brought home from work. Suddenly, with the addition of an extra person in his life—two, if you counted the baby, and he did—his functional apartment felt like a home.