The Two Week Arrangement (Penthouse Affair #1)(35)

“How’s Emilia?” His tone is low and urgent, his expression grave. If I didn’t know better, I’d say there was fear in his eyes.

The voice on the other end sounds like a woman, but I can’t quite make out her words.

I try to eat my muffin without getting crumbs all over the upholstery or making it too obvious that I’m straining to eavesdrop. When he said incident, I assumed it was of a business nature. This sounds like something much more personal.

“What did the doctor say?” he asks.

He listens for several minutes, during which his expression gradually loosens.

“Thank God.” He pulls his hand down over his mouth, suddenly looking much older than his twenty-six years. “So you’re still at the hospital?”

The woman says something else.

“Okay. I’ll go home, then. But first, can you explain one more thing to me?” A silent pause. “When she fell, just where the hell were you?”

I almost flinch at the steel in his voice. Whoever is on the other end, she’s in deep shit.

Several more minutes pass of her talking.

Finally, he sighs. “I guess it couldn’t be helped. See you in . . .” He checks his watch. “An hour and forty-five minutes.” He hangs up.

I ache to ask him what’s going on, but he’s staring out the window with a brooding expression, clearly not in the mood to be bothered. Confused, I fold my muffin paper into a smaller and smaller square as I try to piece together what I’ve overheard.

Who the heck is Emilia? I know from my research that Dominic had a father and an older brother. His mother passed away when he was a toddler, and I’ve never heard about any other important woman in his life. Emilia’s falling made Dominic panic, so unless she plummeted off a building or something, she’s probably either very young or very old. A little sister? A grandmother? An elderly aunt?

Whoever she is, the woman on the phone got this Emilia medical attention right away, and it seems like she’ll be okay. I’m glad to hear that much. But I still burn with curiosity, and I hope all my questions will be answered when we get to Dominic’s place.





Chapter Fifteen


Dominic



Sunlight flashes brightly through the windows of the limo. I keep my gaze on the passing landmarks and road signs, silently noting how much longer it will take to get home. My sweet little Emilia.

Fran called to tell me that the smaller of my twins had fallen and smacked her head on the marble floor in the kitchen. She’d called the pediatrician’s office immediately. Apparently, it’s nothing major. Doesn’t mean I didn’t lose my shit at the thought of my two-year-old having a head injury.

The sounds of the road and the glare of the sun don’t help this throbbing stress headache in the slightest. I don’t realize that my leg is bouncing incessantly until Presley puts a warm hand on my knee. She’s been sitting right next to me this whole time, quiet and close.

At her touch, my knee stills, but I can’t force myself to look at her. I don’t want her to see me like this. I have a hunch that the moment she looks into my eyes, she’ll see through everything I’ve been trying to protect, right past the guarded walls and into my personal life. I’m trying not to panic about that.

Presley is going to have questions. I had to pull her away from our arrangement abruptly, skipping breakfast and good-byes. Dragging her into my personal life was the last thing I wanted to do, at least under these circumstances. I appreciate how understanding she’s been, despite the strangeness of the situation, but she doesn’t need to be a part of this.

But I realize we’re already here, at my apartment.

I open the door before we’ve entirely come to a stop, ready to make a break for the entrance. Presley is scooting out right behind me. Before her feet touch the ground, I catch her hand.

“Don’t worry, the driver can take you home.”

“Is everything okay?” she asks in a small voice. The kindness in her eyes tells me she’s genuinely worried.

That makes two of us.

“I don’t know,” I admit. Eager to get inside, I make a snap decision I hope I don’t regret later. “Come on.”

The car door swings closed behind us, and we move quickly toward the building. I use my keycard to unlock the heavy glass door. I hold it wide for Presley, who then jogs to the first empty elevator and presses the UP button.

She turns to me, her expression serious and calm. “Which floor?”

“Twelve.”

The usually charming ding of the elevator passing each floor is infuriating today as it rises excruciatingly slow and the doors take their damn sweet time opening. I jam my thumb onto the button repeatedly, trying to force the elevator to move faster.

Presley’s warm fingers find mine. My hand curls around hers, and I don’t miss the reassuring squeeze she gives me. When the doors finally open about ten years later, I drag her down the hall, then pull out my keys and unlock the door in one fluid motion.

“Fran?” I call into the empty foyer.

“Daddy!”

The familiar squeals of my girls precede their running feet, and in seconds, I’m on my knees with my arms outstretched. They maul me with their little hands, burying their faces in my shoulders. I examine Emilia’s head, finding a large pink lump on her forehead.