Page 10 of Only for Tonight

I’m not sure what I was expecting, but his apartment is enormous. Polished marble floors and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the entire city dominate my view. The skyline glitters beyond the glass like a postcard—all those lights, all those lives, and here I am standing in a penthouse elevator in my work jacket that smells like cigarette smoke.

There’s a modern kitchen that’s all stainless steel, white cabinets, and black granite, and a sunken living room with two huge, fluffy, cream-colored couches. The biggest flat-screen TV I’ve ever seen is mounted on one wall, and a hallway at the far end leads off to what I assume are the bedrooms.

My apartment could fit inside this living room. Twice, probably.

“Come on in,” he says.

I step off the elevator and follow him inside, trying not to gawk and failing completely. Alexei sets the shopping bags on the kitchen counter while I unbuckle Ella from her car seat. Once she’s in my arms, she begins crying again, and I let out a long exhale. Of course. We’re in this stunning apartment and she’s screaming like I’m torturing her. Great first impression, babe.

“May I?” he asks, holding out his hands.

I pinch my lips together and hand Ella over. I hate to admit defeat, but he knows what he’s doing, and right now that matters more than my pride.

She looks so tiny resting against his massive chest. It doesn’t matter that the last thing I’m in the market for is a man—seeing him with her does something to me. I think the technical term is ovary explosion. The way his big hands cradle her so carefully, the way he dips his head slightly to murmur something I can’t hear, is so unbearably sweet that I nearly melt for this stranger who shouldn’t affect me like this at all.

I’m too tired, that’s the problem. Exhaustion is making me soft.

Needing to make myself useful—needing to prove I’m not completely helpless—I grab one of her bottles from my purse and dig the tub of baby formula out of the shopping bag. “I’ll feed her so we can go to bed and get out of your hair.”

He shrugs. “It’s no problem. I’m honestly more of a night person.”

I nod but continue making her bottle. Over the past few days, I’ve learned that Ella likes to eat about every four hours. Everything has been trial and error. Andi left me exactly zero instructions—no pediatrician’s name, no allergy information, no preferred brand of anything. Just a baby, a half-empty bag of diapers, and two words scrawled on the back of a gas station receipt.

“There’s bottled water in the pantry.” He nods to the door at the end of the kitchen.

I grab a bottle and begin mixing the formula, trying to remember the ratio from the side of the tub. Is it one scoop per two ounces or two scoops per four ounces? I’ve been winging it, and so far Ella hasn’t complained, but she also can’t talk, so maybe she has.

“Are you hungry?” Alexei asks. “You just got off work . . . I have pretzels, crackers, fruit, or I could make you a frozen pizza.”

My stomach rumbles so loudly that we both hear it, and my cheeks burn. “That would be great, actually. Just something simple. Pretzels would be fine.”

When the bottle is ready, Alexei reaches for it, clearly uninterested in putting Ella down. I’m not sure why it surprises me that he’d like to feed her. He settles against the counter with Ella cradled in the crook of his arm, the bottle tilted at the perfect angle, and she latches on immediately, making those tiny, desperate sucking sounds that mean she was hungrier than I realized.

He really is a natural with babies. And even though I probably shouldn’t, part of me just feels comfortable in his presence. It’s unexpected and a little alarming, but I’m not going to fight it tonight. I’m too tired to fight anything tonight.

“Would you mind if I took a shower? I actually feel kind of gross after I work.”

“Not at all. Second doorway on the right. The towels are in the cabinet. Help yourself.”

I nod, but then hesitate.

“I’ve got her, Ryleigh. You don’t have to worry.”

I haven’t had someone to help—someone to just be there for me—in so long that those words hit me harder than they should. I have to turn away quickly because the roller coaster I’ve been on since Andi left me with Ella is threatening to surface, and I’m not ready to fall apart in front of this man.

“Thanks,” I say, and duck out of the kitchen before he can see my eyes getting glassy.

The bathroom is ridiculous.

Like, absurdly, offensively nice. Heated tile floors. A glass shower the size of my bedroom with one of those rainfall showerheads and a separate handheld one. Fluffy white towels stacked in a built-in cabinet. A marble countertop with actual soap that doesn’t come from a dollar store.

I turn on the water and wait for it to heat up, which takes about four seconds. In my apartment, I wait three to five minutes for lukewarm water that becomes hot for exactly ten minutes before going cold again. Here, steam is already rising from the glass.

When I step under the spray, I almost groan out loud. The water pressure is incredible—strong and steady and hot, pounding against my shoulders like a massage. I just stand there for a minute with my eyes closed, letting it wash over me.

That’s when it hits me.

All of it. The weight of the past four days—the past two years, if I’m being honest—crashes into me with the force of something I’ve been holding back for too long. The water runs over my face, and I press both hands flat against the cool tile wall, and I cry.