Come a Little Bit Closer: The Sullivans by Bella Andre Page B

pull out the tiny baby clothes, pretty little dresses that everyone exclaimed over. She ran from the coffee shop and caught him halfway down the sidewalk. Her thank you came first, her admonishment not to keep bringing her gifts came second. But all he said in response was that she needed to be more careful about running down a crowded sidewalk in her condition.
    Jo found the brand-new stroller and newborn-baby seat inside her apartment the next afternoon when she’d had an early-morning shift. She ran her hand over it admiringly even as she decided that Graham had gone too far. Not just because the gift was way too expensive and it would take her forever pay him back, or because she was touched despite herself at the fact that he’d clearly done his research about the safest baby gear, but because he’d not only figured out where she lived, he’d also figured out a way to get the stroller inside without asking her permission.
    It was easy to look up Graham on the Internet and find out where he worked. Or, rather, the name of the building he owned in the financial district.
    Jo knew she looked horribly out of place with her big belly and bright maternity clothes and pink-streaked hair on the busy street full of tense people in dark suits all rushing as they spoke into earpieces. Five months ago it might have bothered her the way people stopped and stared at her, wondering what the heck she was doing so far out of her environment, but with her entire focus on giving the businessman—or as she’d just learned, billionaire—a piece of her mind, she simply didn’t care.
    The glass in the front of the building was so clean and clear she imagined people walked nose-first into it every day. Pushing the heavy front door open, she had to stop to take in the high ceiling, the polished granite floors, the almost quiet reverence to money that the building, and every occupant she could see in the large entry, gave off.
    Irritated with herself for being impressed, she marched up to the security desk. “I need to see Graham.”
    To his credit, the man didn’t blink an eye. Not at her youth. Her clothes. Or her belly. “Name, please.”
    “Jo. I don’t have an appointment.” She lifted her chin. “But he’ll see me.”
    The guard studied her for a long moment and she stared back as calmly as she could. Finally, he picked up the phone. “Angie, I have Jo here to see Mr. Hughes.” Whatever the receptionist said had a flicker of surprise finally crossing the man’s face.
    He put the phone down and stood. “I’ll escort you up personally, Jo.”
    She worked to keep her cool as they rode up, then higher still, in the elevator. And when he said, “Congratulations,” she was the one lifting her head in surprise this time.
    Her hands automatically went to her stomach. She was so upset with Graham over the stroller—and the fact that he’d gotten into her apartment—that she’d started to feel a little sick. Well, not sick exactly, but the twinges she’d been having in her back had definitely gotten worse.
    It was yet another reason she needed to make him back off. She didn’t want anything to distract her from the baby.
    And Graham was definitely a distraction.
    “Thank you,” she said, and then it was time to step off the elevator and onto the plushest, cleanest carpet she’d ever seen. Even in a showroom, she mused, it couldn’t look so brand new.
    Struck with the irrepressible urge to kick off her shoes and bury her toes in the soft fibers, she was stunned to see shiny black shoes come to stand right in front of her scuffed silver ballet flats.
    “Jo.”
    Every time he said her name, it sent a shiver through her. Today, the lie she told herself was that it was fury that caused the trembling.
    She didn’t care who heard her say, “I asked you to stop giving me things.”
    She expected him to herd her into his office, to close the door and make sure what was said between them stayed private.
    He didn’t move an