“No one?” he repeated softly. “Or you?”

Could she really have no expectations of him? Did she really think so little of him?

“Just because you have the proof you needed,” she said, crossing her arms, “doesn’t mean anything has to change. You can walk away now. I can raise this baby on my own.”

Don’t push. Do not push her. But it was tough not to do just that, especially when he wanted to make her see that he wasn’t going anywhere. That he’d be there for her and their child—days, months and years from now. He wanted to demand she believe him.

Instead he had to earn that trust.

He edged closer until she had to tip her head back to maintain eye contact. “You’re right,” he said. “A lot can change in five months, and good intentions don’t mean anything without actions to back them up. I can’t force you to trust me just because I say you can. So I won’t try to convince you.”

Something like disappointment flashed across her face. “Can’t say I blame you for giving up, but I must admit I’m surprised you folded so easily.”

He grinned at how disgruntled she sounded. Try as she might to get him to believe she didn’t want him around, her tone said otherwise.

“I’m not giving up. But I won’t make promises, either.” Promises were useless. Given in the heat of the moment and too often broken. He brushed the back of his hand along her cheek, needing to touch her. “I’m going to prove myself to you. That enough fight for you?”

She swallowed and stepped back.

“I’ll put these in some water,” she said, taking the roses from him but avoiding his gaze.

She went into the kitchen, and he set the champagne on the coffee table. Rocked back on his heels as his smile slid away. She’d tried to take a few giant steps back from where they’d been last week by tossing out the reminder that she didn’t need him. That she didn’t necessarily want him in her or their child’s life.

But she hadn’t kicked him out. A small victory in and of itself.

He caught sight of a long-haired black cat draped across the back of the sofa, giving him a considering look. “A man has to celebrate even the tiniest wins. Especially where women are concerned.”

“Did you say something?” Ivy called.

“Just talking to your cat.”

She raised her eyebrows as she came back into the room, carrying two wineglasses. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for the type of man to chat up animals.”

“That’s because you don’t know me.” Hadn’t she said as much the last time they’d been face-to-face? He intended to change that. He opened the champagne almost as expertly as she had that night in his hotel room. “But you will.”

Their baby tied them together for the rest of their lives. There would be plenty of time for them to learn more about each other. He found himself looking forward to it.

“I like your apartment,” he continued as he poured champagne into the glasses she still held.

“Now, don’t ruin this special moment by telling lies, Clinton. My whole apartment could fit into that living room of yours back in Houston.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate what you’ve done with the space.”

It was warm and welcoming, done in soft greens and beige, the walls cream. He’d expected her home to be...darker. Decorated in glossy blacks and reds, with shiny fabrics and bold accents. Something that screamed seduction and power. Not a place that looked like a very comfortable home.

Guess he didn’t know her, either.

He raised his glass. Had to speak around the emotion tightening his throat. “To our child. May he or she be blessed with good health, my looks and your intelligence.”

Her lips twitched as if she was fighting a smile. “You sure you want your kid to be that much smarter than you? Think of the teen years.”

“I see your point. Better just toast to his or her health and leave the rest up to God.”

She raised her glass. “Sounds good to me. To our child.”

“To our child,” he repeated, “and to you. To my son or daughter’s beautiful mother.” He touched his glass to hers, his voice a husky whisper. “Thank you for carrying my child. For telling me I’m going to be a father. But most of all, thank you for giving me a second chance.”

She didn’t look as if she appreciated his compliment, as if she wanted his gratitude or his honesty. Skepticism twisted her mouth. She was still suspicious of him, of his motives. Frustration simmered in his veins. He wanted to call her out on her distrust, to insist she give him the chance he was fighting so damned hard for, but the confusion and fear in her eyes stopped him. Told him he wasn’t the only one trying to find their footing here.

Averting her gaze, she took a quick sip of champagne. Licking a drop off her lower lip, she hummed in appreciation, and he gulped his own drink to drown the groan that wanted to escape. “You rich and fabulous sure know how to pick a fancy wine.”

“We take a course on it in elementary school,” he told her straight-faced. “Wine selection is after How to Properly Order Caviar at a Five-Star Restaurant but before The Art of Looking Down on the Little People.”

She rolled her eyes, then laughed, a burst of sound that went through him. Warmed him. “Just when I think I have you pegged, you do or say something that takes me by surprise. Makes me rethink everything I thought I knew about you.”

Despite her laugh, he couldn’t tell if that was good or bad.

“Seems only fitting,” he said more gruffly than he’d intended, “seeing as how you’ve had me twisted up since the moment I first laid eyes on you.”

Her mouth worked for a moment before she pressed her lips together. Cleared her throat. “Well, anyway...thanks. For this—” she waved a hand at the wine, her words hesitant, her gaze averted “—the flowers and champagne and for...for wanting to celebrate the baby.”

“We’re having a child together, Ivy. It may not have been planned. It might not have happened the way we would have preferred, but I’m not going to blame the baby or resent him or her. I’m not going to pretend it’s a horrible thing when it’s not. It’s something worth celebrating.” He stepped closer, unable to resist the temptation of sliding his hand up her arm. Of rubbing a loose wave of her hair between his fingers. “Don’t you agree?”

“When you look at me like that,” she said, her tone knowing and just a bit breathless, “you’re not thinking about celebrating.”

“There are all sorts of celebrations,” he assured her as he set his glass on the table. He placed hers there, too, before wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her to him.

He expected her to stiffen and was gratified when she went soft, her hands on his chest. He lowered his head, but she was already there, on her toes, her hands sliding behind his neck. Their lips brushed. Parted. Then met again.

He deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping into her mouth as he smoothed his hands up and down her back. Settled them at her waist, loving the indentation there, the swell of her hips. He rubbed his thumbs over the hard points of her hip bones, curled his fingers into the upper slope of her ass. Rolled his pelvis against her.

She moaned, the sound reverberating in his own throat.

He broke the kiss, pressed his mouth to the side of her neck. Flicked the tip of his tongue against her rapid pulse. Her head fell back.

“Let me show you,” he murmured, trailing his teeth along the sensitive skin beneath her ear. “Let me touch you.” Raising his head, he held her gaze. “Let me celebrate you.”

* * *

IVY SWALLOWED. She could still taste Clinton, champagne and mint from his toothpaste. The feel of his body against hers was temptation itself, his hand on her stomach a warm reminder of what they’d made together. His words about celebrating had touched her. He was starting to mean something, and that made the next step much more important.