I should have been content, all curled up on the couch in a pair of cozy pajamas, a book in my lap, a cup of tea steaming on the coffee table.

My boxes were unpacked. My belly was full. My house wasn’t half bad.

Okay, my house was awesome. I hadn’t realized how much space I’d been lacking in my apartment until I’d upgraded and gotten over my guilt of using some of the trust fund money as a down payment.

My new, slightly better salary meant I could actually afford the mortgage, so I was considering the down payment my father’s first gift to the baby.

Which he didn’t know about yet.

I made a face and tried to focus on reading, a prospect that would typically suck me right in, especially since it was a good book from one of my favorite authors.

But I was restless for some reason.

Okay, not some reason. I was restless because I missed Jordan.

I peered out my front windows, saw that Seraphina’s house was still dark. She’d invited me to a late dinner with her and Bec—who’d finally managed a few hours out of the office—but I hadn’t felt like going.

Now I wished I had.

Because I was lonely.

How gross was that?

“Super gross,” I muttered.

I placed my book across my knees and took a sip of tea, feeling it warm my body as I drank. After setting it down, I tried to pick up where I’d left off but only managed to reread the same paragraph three times.

My mind was wired, too pumped to focus, and I decided to save the book for a time when I could actually enjoy it.

“No sense in wasting a perfectly good alpha.” I stuck in the old receipt I was using as a bookmark and set it on the arm of the couch before standing and walking into the kitchen.

I pulled my laptop from my case, settled into one of the barstools at the kitchen counter, and logged into the secure work server, deciding to get a bit ahead for Monday. I was just pulling up the folder I’d labeled Project Hunter when the doorbell rang.

“Hmm,” I said, wondering who might be coming to the door at—I squinted at the clock—nine o’clock at night.

The bell rang again and I sighed, closing the laptop screen before sliding off the stool.

“Coming,” I called as it chimed a third time. It cut off mid-ring.

I could feel the other person’s impatience through the wooden panel as I approached and I knew that should have made me hurry. But I had this sinking sensation of who it might be.

He might be.

I’d been studiously avoiding his phone calls for the last couple of weeks and should have known better.

My father tilted his head to the side, face coming into view in one of the glass panels that bookended my front door. His hazel eyes were familiar—they matched my own—as was the fire shooting out of him.

I sighed. He must really be angry if he’d come himself.

“Here we go again,” I said, glancing down at my stomach. I was in what I’d like to term the fat stage of the pregnancy. My butt and boobs seemed to have grown disproportionally, but my belly was still relatively flat, the little curve well-hidden beneath my loose pajama pants.

I unlocked the door and reached to open it, but my father beat me to it, pushing it open so quickly that I had to jump back to avoid being smacked in the face.

His bodyguard, Mac, trailed him closely, gaze searching my house for would-be assailants. Not finding any in the immediate vicinity, he smiled and winked at me.

I finger-waved. I’d always liked Mac.

“Hi, Dad,” I said.

“Abigail.” He strode right past me with barely a glance.

And the flash of eye contact I received was wholly dismissive.

I wished that dismissal still didn’t cause a pang of hurt. I bit my lip. Unfortunately, it still did.

Ten seconds in my father’s presence and I was a hurt little girl again.

I reached for the door to close it, but Mac beat me there. “Go ahead,” he murmured, tone gentle. “I’ll lock up.”

“Abigail,” my father said, impatience lacing each letter of my name.

And, shame on me, I hurried to him anyway.

I told myself it was because the sooner this was over with then the sooner he’d leave. I’d get back to my book or the project and—

But it wasn’t about getting him to leave.

I wanted his approval. His pride.

My feet carried me to the kitchen, where my father stood stiffly, arms crossed fiercely over his chest, and I knew I wouldn’t be getting either of those.

Nope. Fatherly appreciation wasn’t in my future. Instead, a fight was heading my way.

I filled the kettle with water to stall the inevitable, setting it on the stove and turning on the gas.

“Tea?” I asked. “Or maybe coffee?” I opened a cupboard. “I think I have some somewhere.”

“No.”

“Okay.” I reached for a fresh glass, not bothering with the one on the coffee table. I’d deal with that after The Reckoning. One tea bag in, then the hot water once it began steaming. While it steeped, I snagged the carton of milk from the fridge.

I didn’t bother speaking to my father. His silence was typical. He used it with business associates—waiting them out, pushing them to crack.

I was accustomed to the tactic, so I kept myself busy making the perfect cup of tea.

It was either that or start blurting out all the reasons he might be mad at me.

And—peeking up at him as I poured milk into my tea—given the expression on his face, he didn’t need any more ammunition for his fury.

He didn’t speak as I put the cup on the island near my laptop. Nor as I returned the milk to the fridge. He didn’t say a word as I walked by him and climbed back up into my stool.

Fine.

I opened my laptop, typed the information to log into the secure server again, and pulled up the design for the back of the packaging. It wasn’t quite right yet.

I’d just started to adjust the shading when my father finally deemed it time to talk.

“Nice house.”

Now that was a loaded two words, considering the last time I’d spoken to my father I had expressly told him to take his trust fund and shove it up his—

“Hmm,” I replied, taking a page out of Heather’s game plan.

I tried one filter before discarding it, not accomplishing much except to partially ignore my father.

Bernie Roberts wasn’t a man easily ignored, and I was no different than the rest of America. Except that when it came to my father, I always had this pulsing hurt. Like a scraped knee exposed to the air. Stinging. Throbbing. Aching . . . for something different.

My eyes burned and I blinked rapidly to diffuse the waterworks. I was lucky. I was healthy, had a home and food. Mine was a life of privilege, and I wouldn’t complain.

But sometimes a girl just wanted a hug from her dad.

The laptop screen closed, and I jerked my hands back to avoid my fingers being smashed.

I forced my eyes to my father’s.

“What did you need, Dad?” I asked. “As you can see, I’m trying to get caught up on some work.”

Fury darkened his gaze. “You’re working for O’Keith.”

My phone buzzed. I examined the screen, saw it was Jordan. Impeccable timing, that one. If my father saw his name—

Fireworks.

“I’m working for Heather O’Keith,” I said, picking up my cell and placing it in my lap. “Her tech company needed someone to oversee design and marketing.”

“Why would they want you?”

Ouch. That one struck home and hard.

I forced my voice to remain calm. “Because, Dad, that’s what my degree is in. That’s what I spent the last six years doing with Robert and Susan before you bought up their business.”

He leaned against the counter, position stiff and arrogant. His hair was still brown, not a hint of gray despite the fact that he was in his sixties. Wrinkles radiated out from the corners of his eyes and around his mouth.

Some might call them laugh lines.

I called them something different.

Asshole etching.

“I bought them out so you’d come to work for me.”

Snorting, I took a sip of my tea and felt my phone buzz again. “Tell me, Dad,” I said, placing the cup back down, “would the position at Roberts Enterprises involve real work?”

He scoffed. “Of course it would. Your brother needs help, someone to run his calendar. Make sure he doesn’t miss lunch—”

“Doesn’t he have an assistant for that?”

“I would have paid you better than an assistant,” he said.

I allowed my eyes to travel around my kitchen, taking in the gray cabinets, marble countertops, top-of-the-line appliances. The rest of the house was the same. Wide moldings. Tall ceilings. Expensive flooring.

Yes, I was paying for it.

But only because my trust fund had given me enough of a head start to do so. And the fact that what I’d borrowed from it hadn’t even made a dent should tell the world something. Should tell my father something.

Why would I need more money?

When had money ever given me something that wasn’t strictly material?

I got it. I had privilege, had been born into it, never had to struggle, always had something to fall back on if I’d needed it.

But I also preferred to make my own way, on my own dime. And since I’d graduated from college, I had lived by that motto.

That I’d finally decided to cave and take a shortcut should have told my father something had changed.

He was just too wrapped up in himself to notice.

I sighed, slid from the stool, and gave my father a hug that he didn’t return. “I love you,” I said, pulling back. “But you would have never given me the opportunities I’ve found at RoboTech. I’m good at what I do. And, I’m sorry, but you missed out on that when you tried to shelf my abilities.”

“Abigail, how dare—”

I closed my eyes. Breathed out deeply. Then I opened them and strode to the front door. “I’ll see you in a few weeks at Christmas.”

He sputtered as he followed me. “That’s not the end of this conversation. You can’t work for an O’Keith.”

My brows came up. “I think I already am.” I put one hand up, seeing the storm raging on his face. “And before you get into the trust fund talk—which by the way, you’ve pressured me to spend on a house for years now—I have something I need to tell you.”

His jaw fell open, probably because I’d never taken that tone with him before. I’d never had a backbone when it came to my father.

Today, that changed.

“I’m pregnant.” A pause as I sucked in a breath and decided to just say it and worry about the fireworks later.

His teeth clicked closed.

I lifted my chin. “By an O’Keith.”