If The Shoe Fits (Some Girls Do It #8) - May Sage Page 0,22

with him had been like, though. Mind-blowing. Unforgettable. Stupid. And so much more. "Well, thanks. I needed that. Nice meeting you."

Helene spun on her heels and moved to leave.

"Nice meeting you?"

She grimaced. Gosh, that was bad. "Yeah. You seem like a nice guy. I had…fun. But now I need to go." Get back to her reality, the one that didn't include the likes of Cade Lawson.

"Wait."

But she didn't wait to wait, dammit. She couldn't.

"Helene, wait. We have to talk. Seriously."

Serious talk didn't sound like something she was capable of right now.

"The condom broke."

Three words.

Three words that stole any hope of a quick, painless escape.

"What?"

Helene

The condom broke.

The condom fucking broke.

She was going to be sick.

Forcing herself to breathe in and out, Helene sat down on the closest armchair.

"I take it from your expression that you're not on the pill?" Cade asked.

He sounded far too calm right now. Matter-of-fact.

She managed to shake her head. Helene hadn't been in a relationship for years. When she had sex, maybe three or four times per year, she made sure everything was properly wrapped. She'd believed it to be adequate protection. Until now. Right now, she was regretting every unfortunate life decision that had led her to this point. How could she have been so stupid?

"Breathe, sweetheart. You're turning blue."

Of course she was. The question was, why wasn't he?

Cade was a wealthy man, worth tons of money. To men like him, a potential pregnancy was—should be—the stuff of nightmares. And yet, here he was, the picture of poise and control.

"Here." He was handing her a glass of water, which meant that he must have gone to the adjacent bathroom and back to produce it. She hadn't even noticed him moving at all. She was having a hell of a panic attack.

Meanwhile, Cade spoke low, soothingly, rubbing her shoulders with his excessively talented hands.

He removed one of her borrowed heels, then the other, and worked his strong thumb through her tense skin.

Oh, God, why did it feel so good?

She blamed those hands for everything. Although his mouth shared in the guilt, too.

"I can't be pregnant. I can't."

"Well, technically—"

Helene looked up, glaring straight into the depths of his dark, maddeningly amused eyes. She might have growled, too.

"Right. Of course, you're likely not pregnant." Cade might have been more convincing if he wasn't smirking. "Not right this second, anyway. But in case it turns out that you are later…"

"I don't have a house. I work all the time. For low pay. I'm not pregnant."

"I have a house." He shrugged. "And enough money for nannies 'round the clock. I'm told that's the way to go, when one has workaholics for progenitors."

Helene was ready to bite his head off. "I'm not throwing a non-existent child at an army of nannies!" Her voice had reached an all-time high, probably breaking the sound barrier. She was hysterical, and she didn't even care.

And Cade had the gall to chuckle. "All right. No nannies. One of us would have to take a break, then."

There he was again, with all his logic and serenity.

"This is an entirely pointless discussion, because I'm not pregnant." She crossed her arms.

Cade looked down at her. He felt sorry for her, she could tell. "Of course." Why did it sound like he was just humoring a stubborn child? "And there are measures you can take to remain that way, if that's what you'd like. A morning-after pill."

She perked up. He was right. There was no point panicking at all. She could just take one little pill and forget about the accident.

"Right. Thank you. I had…a lovely time." Helene rushed to her feet, and waved awkwardly. "I'd better get going. Upstairs. To sleep. I'm…" She faked a yawn. "Yeah, so tired. Good night."

And on that note, she fled, so quickly she didn't even bother to put her shoes back on.

One day, Helene was going to win at being an adult. That day wasn't today.

She hadn't stopped running since her alarm at rang at ten in the morning. She woke up to an email from a rental agency, offering to let her visit an apartment she'd enquired about half an hour later. After a quick shower, she rushed out, arriving just three minutes late. The agent had been pissed about her tardiness, but he let her visit anyway.

The place was a dump. It smelled damp and the rushed paint job did nothing to hide the fact that the walls were falling apart. There were suspicious marks on the carpet that may or may