Chapter 9 Nine

• The kitchen is dark except for the light from the refrigerator. I stand there in my nightgown, staring at the shelves, looking for something to satisfy the strange hunger that woke me up. My stomach growls, demanding a combination of flavors that would have disgusted me before the pregnancy.
• I grab the jar of pickles and a container of vanilla ice cream. The clock on the microwave reads 2:38 AM.
• "This is ridiculous," I mutter to myself, scooping ice cream into a bowl.
• I add three pickle spears on top and mix them together. The smell makes my nose wrinkle, but my mouth waters. I take a bite and close my eyes. It's disgusting. It's perfect.
• My body doesn't feel like my own anymore. Four months pregnant and I'm already a stranger to myself. My breasts are tender. My moods swing wildly. And now these cravings that make no sense.
• "Couldn't sleep?"
• I jump at the sound of Dante's voice. He stands in the doorway wearing silk pajama pants and a t-shirt. His hair is slightly mussed. I've never seen him looking so casual.
• I try to hide my bowl behind me. "Just hungry."
• "At two in the morning?" He walks closer, peering around me. "What are you eating?"
• My face burns. "Nothing."
• "That doesn't look like nothing." He's close enough now that I can smell his sleep-warm skin. "Pickles and... ice cream?"
• "It's weird, I know." I stare at the floor. "I woke up craving it."
• To my surprise, he laughs. Not mockingly, but with genuine amusement. "Is that the secret to a happy pregnancy? I had no idea."
• I look up. "You're not disgusted?"
• "Why would I be?" He reaches for my spoon. "May I?"
• I give it to him and watch in disbelief as he takes a bite of my strange concoction. He uses my spoon regardless of whether I've eaten with it, which catches my attention. Does he eat with anyone's silverware or just mine because he knows I'm healthy?
• His face registers surprise, then consideration.
• "Interesting," he says, handing the spoon back. "I see the appeal. Sweet and sour. Creamy and crunchy."
• A laugh escapes me. "You don't have to pretend. It's gross."
• "I'm not pretending." His eyes lock with mine. "Pregnancy cravings are fascinating. Your body knows what it needs."
• I take another bite, no longer embarrassed. I don't mind that he used my spoon either, as if sharing something like that with him is the most normal thing in the world. "I doubt my body needs pickle-flavored ice cream."
• "Perhaps it's the salt. Or the vinegar." He leans against the counter, watching me eat. "What other combinations have you been craving?"
• "Peanut butter and tomatoes. Chocolate milk with hot sauce." I shake my head. "I feel like I'm losing control of my own body."
• "You're not losing control. You're adapting." His eyes follow my spoon as I take another bite. "Your body is working hard. Growing a new life."
• Something in his gaze makes me uneasy. He's watching me with an intensity that seems out of place. Almost hungry. Not for food, but for something else.
• "What?" I ask, setting down my spoon.
• "Nothing." His expression shifts back to neutral. "I'm just... fascinated by the process."
• "You mean you're fascinated by your baby growing in me."
• "Yes." But his eyes don't leave my face. "Among other things."
• We stand in silence for a moment. I finish my strange snack while he watches.
• "I'll make sure the kitchen is stocked with whatever you're craving," he says finally. "Just give the staff a list."
• "You don't have to do that."
• "I want to." He takes my empty bowl, his fingers brushing mine. "Anything that makes you comfortable makes the baby comfortable."
• The baby. Always the baby.
• "Thank you," I say, not knowing what else to say.
• He rinses my bowl in the sink. Such a mundane task for a man who probably has people to breathe for him if he asked.
• "Are you going back to sleep?" he asks.
• "I'll try."
• As I start to turn away, something stops me. A flutter. Like butterfly wings inside my stomach.
• I freeze, my hand flying to my belly. "Oh!"
• "What's wrong?" Dante is beside me instantly, concern in his voice.
• "Nothing's wrong." The flutter comes again, stronger this time. "I think... I think the baby just moved."
• His eyes widen. "Already?"
• "It's like bubbles. Or butterflies." I press my hand more firmly against my stomach. "Right here."
• Without thinking, I reach for his hand and place it where mine was. His palm is warm against my nightgown.
• "I don't feel anything," he says, but he doesn't move his hand away.
• We stand like that, his hand on my belly, waiting. Time seems to slow down. His face is inches from mine, his expression focused, almost reverent.
• Then it happens again. The flutter, stronger now.
• "There!" I say. "Did you feel it?"
• A look of wonder crosses his face. "I'm not sure. Maybe."
• The baby moves again, and this time his eyes widen. "That. I felt that."
• Something changes in his expression. The hard lines of his face soften. His lips curve up into a small, genuine smile. Not the controlled, polite smile he uses in business, but something real and unguarded.
• "That's my son," he whispers.
• The moment is so intimate, so raw, that I feel like I'm intruding, despite being the one carrying the baby. This is the first time I've seen real emotion from him, the first hint of the man behind the power and control.
• "Or daughter," I say, because we don't know yet.
• His hand remains on my stomach, warm and solid. "Either way, that's my child. Our child."
• Our child. The words send a strange pang through me. This baby isn't mine. I'm just the vessel. But for this moment, with his hand on my belly and his smile so genuine, I can pretend we're something more than a business arrangement.
• I study his face, this beautiful, complicated man. Rich, powerful, clearly intelligent. Kind in unexpected ways, though always with an edge of calculation. Why is he single? Why is he using a surrogate instead of having a child with someone he loves?
• I've never seen signs of another woman in his life. No photos, no feminine touches in the house, no late-night calls.
• "You should try to sleep," he says, finally withdrawing his hand. "Rest is important."
• Just like that, the moment is gone. But as I head back to my room, I can still feel the warmth of his palm against my belly, and the memory of his smile, so rare and unguarded, follows me into my dreams.