Christine Rimmer - Not Quite Married

She clucked her tongue. “Fascinating analysis of the situation. Also totally unfair. Why would I want to come to you? You made it way clear on the island that you were done with me.”

“I wasn’t done with you.”

“It certainly sounded like it to me.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose again. “It was different on the island. I was different.”

“I’ll say.”

“I didn’t want to ruin something beautiful and I was afraid that if we continued when we returned home, it would all go to hell.”

“So you’re saying that on the island you were pretending to be someone you’re not.”

“No, I’m...” He stopped himself, glanced away, and then said, way too quietly, “By God. You are the most infuriating woman.”

She started to feel a little bit bad about then. In his own overbearing way, he really was trying. And she wasn’t helping. Because he had hurt her and she just couldn’t trust him. And his proposal of marriage had actually tempted her—at the same time as it had made her want to beat him about the head and shoulders with a large, blunt object. As she tried to think of something to say that might get them on a better footing with each other, he pulled a phone from his pocket and poked at it repeatedly. Her cell, on the coffee table, pinged.

He put his phone away. “I’ve texted you her number.”

“Her, who?”

“Astrid. You have her number now. You can call her and she’ll be happy to tell you that she and I have no plans to remarry, that we are amicably and permanently divorced, that we are not dating or in any way romantically or sexually involved with each other.”

Now Clara was the one pinching the bridge of her nose. “I don’t need your ex-wife’s number.”

“I mean it. Call her. And once you’ve talked to her, call me . Because you and I are not done yet. Not by a long shot. Good night, Clara.”

And with that, he turned on his heel, crossed the great room, went through the kitchen and disappeared from sight. A moment later, she heard the front door open and close.

That motivated her.

Even hugely pregnant, Clara could move fast when she wanted to. She zipped through the kitchen and straight to the window in the dining room that looked out on her porch and front yard. She got there just in time to see him duck into the backseat of a limo.

A moment later, the limo slid away from the curb and drove off down the street.

“Astrid.” She scowled. “No way am I calling Astrid.”

* * *

And she didn’t call Astrid.

But in the days that followed, she did think about Dalton a lot. She felt guilty, actually, for the way she’d behaved that night—so bitchy and angry, ready for a fight.

The hard truth was she still had that thing for him—for both of him, actually. The wonderful man she’d known on the island. And the sexy stuffed shirt who’d shown up at her door out of nowhere with a ring in his pocket and the arrogant assumption that she would pack up her life and move to Denver because he told her to.

She needed to buck up and deal, to reach out to him again, and do a better job of it this time. In the end, he was her baby’s father and she had a duty to do what she could to encourage some kind of a coparenting relationship with him.

However, she didn’t deal. She put it off, just as she’d put off telling him about the baby in the first place. Every day that passed, she had less respect for herself and her own behavior.

That Sunday night, Ryan dropped by with a pizza from Romano’s, that great Italian place across the street from the bar he owned and ran. She got him a beer and they shared the pie and he told her about the new woman in his life, a gorgeous redhead with a great sense of humor. Clara said she couldn’t wait to meet her.

Ryan, who was tall and broad-shouldered with beautiful forest-green eyes and thick brown hair, gave her his killer smile. “Yeah, we’ll have to set something up...”

She knew by the way his voice trailed off that the redhead wouldn’t be around for long, which made her a little bit sad. Rye loved women. But he never stayed in a romantic relationship for very long.

After they ate the pizza, he hung around for a couple of hours. They made small talk and played Super Mario Kart 8 and she kept thinking that now was a good time to tell him she’d finally contacted the father of her baby, a good time to explain that she’d gotten pregnant during her Caribbean getaway last summer, that the baby’s father was a banker who lived in Denver and had proposed to her out of nowhere just three nights before.

But she didn’t tell Ryan any of that, even though he had been ready and willing to step in to marry her just months before. When Rye asked her if she had something on her mind, she just said she was feeling stressed, that was all, what with the baby coming soon and the restaurant keeping her so busy.

Rye’s brow furrowed. “But I thought you were feeling good about Renée running things when the baby comes.” Renée Beauchamp was her head waitress and manager.

She rushed to reassure him. “Renée is a godsend and already she’s handling a lot of extra stuff for me. It’s going to be fine, I know it. I just worry is all.”

“You need anything, you know to call me.”

She thanked him and told him he was amazing and promised that yes, she would totally take advantage of his friendship if she needed to.

But she failed to say a word about the father of her baby.

The next night, Dalton called. “Astrid tells me you haven’t gotten in touch with her yet.”

I need to get along with him , she thought. She said, “How many times do I have to tell you that I have no intention of calling your wife?”

“ Ex -wife,” he corrected in a tone that said he was quickly losing patience with her. “You would know that by now, if you would only call Astrid.”

I need to get along with him . “I’m, um, thinking about it.”

“Think faster.”

“Har-har.”

“Last week, you said the baby was due in six weeks.”

“Yes. On the sixteenth of May.”

“Which is five weeks away now.”

“I may not be a banker, Dalton, but I do know how to count.”

“We don’t have much time.”

She pressed her lips together to keep from saying, Time for what?

And he went on, “I should be with you.”

Okay, that sounded kind of sweet. She tried to think of something nice and helpful and conciliatory to say.

But before she could come up with anything, he said, “You could have the baby any time now. What if I’m not there?”

She had never expected him to be there, so she had no idea what to say to that.

And then he said, “Are you still on the line, Clara?”

“Yes.”

“Call Astrid. I mean it.”

And then he hung up.

And she did not call Astrid. But she was thinking about it. A lot.

The next weekend, Rory and Walker, Ryan’s brother, had a little party out at the Bar-N, their ranch. Clara went. So did Ryan and a bunch of their mutual friends and Clara’s sisters and three of her brothers.

Rory took her aside and asked her how she was doing, how it was working out with Dalton. And Clara was vague and unhelpful in her answers, causing Rory to ask if she was all right.

Clara lied with a big, fat smile and said she was doing just fine and no, she hadn’t told Ryan about Dalton yet. She hadn’t told anybody, she confessed.

“I will,” she promised her favorite cousin and dear friend. “Soon...”

Sunday night, Dalton called again.

It was just more of the same. He told her get in touch with Astrid and she said again that she was giving it some thought.