Tara Taylor Quinn - The Baby Arrangement

Which was why she’d agreed to spend the previous Christmas on a yacht with some old friends from college instead of with Braden, as they’d done in the past. He’d gone home to North Carolina to be with his mom and sister, but up to the last minute had tried to get her to go with him. He’d been worried about her spending the holiday alone.

It hadn’t been her best Christmas, but she’d done just fine.

“Okay.” Hands on the table, he looked at her. Then loosened his tie and motioned for the check.

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, you’re going to do this.”

Her smile broke through with more of a rush than the tears. “And I have your support?”

“Of course. I told you the day we divorced that you’d always have that. It wasn’t conditional, Mal.”

Tears filled her eyes. “Thank you.” She nodded and left him sitting there, credit card in hand.

Because she knew that was the way he’d want it.

Chapter Three

H oly hell, Mallory’s going to have a baby .

Up at one in the morning, walking naked to the kitchen of the upscale high-rise condo he’d purchased on the beach not far from the harbor, Braden couldn’t get the thought out of his brain.

He’d gone straight to his office after dinner to look over figures that had been coming in for a couple of days regarding his real estate interest north of L.A. He’d put out a contractor bid request and was going over every submission line by line. He’d put a call in to his architect, too, the same man who’d designed the complex where Braden Property Management had first begun and still resided. Some changes would be needed to suit the L.A. property, but the basic plan would be the same.

And it would bear the same name: Braden Property Management. Once upon a time he’d envisioned his second big venture to be titled a bit differently: Braden and Son Property Management. Once upon a time.

He hadn’t told Mallory about his move. Hadn’t even realized that he hadn’t told her until after the check had been paid and he was heading out to the parking lot.

Holy hell. Mallory’s going to have a baby. Alone.

He’d been prepared for her dating. Getting serious. Eventually marrying. All of which would have led to a very different future for her. Then he’d have prepared for her having another family. One that worked for her this time.

At thirty-three she was getting closer to her biological safety zone. She hadn’t brought up that point at dinner but he was certain it had been on her mind. She was a child-development guru and firmly believed that her best chances for conceiving a healthy and robust child were before she turned thirty-five. Back in their other lives, she’d hoped to have at least two and maybe four by then.

Always in evenly numbered increments. She didn’t want a family with an odd man out.

In his know-it-all, youthful arrogance, each time she’d mentioned her “clock goals” he’d pointed out that women were having babies successfully in their forties now. His way of deflecting the tension she’d begun to bring to their marriage after three years of still using birth control. They’d been establishing their businesses, and both had wanted to wait for children until they were secure.

It might have been more manly to deal with the tension. To acknowledge the validity of her feelings and sit with her as she felt them.

Sit with her. She wasn’t the only one who’d had some counseling after Tucker’s death. Sit with her. It had been what his counselor had told him he should have done when Mallory’s grief had flooded their home to the point that he’d had to escape.

He hadn’t been able to fix things. Hadn’t known how to help. What to do.

What she’d apparently needed was for him to sit with her. Just be there while she grieved. Be willing to be in her grief with her. Whatever that meant. He got the words but he’d never completely figured out the concept.

Nor the next one. Let her into your grief.

The whole counseling thing hadn’t lasted very long.

Wandering to his desk instead of heading back to bed, he sipped from his milk and stood in front of his computer—an identical setup to the one he had at his office and linked to it.

But work wasn’t calling him.

Insemination was.

For a few minutes, earlier that night, he’d been with the old Mal. The one who didn’t carry grief with her everywhere she went. From the way her eyes had lit up, even the way she’d held herself, it had seemed at first that he’d been sitting with the woman who’d blown his life away with her beauty, her contagious good feeling. He’d been in love all over again, there, for just a second.

For just a second he’d forgotten that he’d robbed her of the chance to kiss her baby good-night for the last time. To change him for the last time. Bathe him. Feed him. Hold him. Rock him to sleep. That had all been done by the nanny.

The next morning, the coroner had already been to the house by the time they’d arrived home. And Mallory’s breasts had been leaking Tucker’s food all over the place.

No matter how many times you relived it, the picture was always the same. He sipped his drink.

For just a second, earlier that night, Mal had seemed to be soaring again, instead of sagging.

He couldn’t take that from her. No matter what misgivings he might have. No matter how valid they might be.

He was still staring at his computer, his milk almost gone.

If he was going to support Mallory in this venture, he needed to know everything there was to know.

Heading off for some boxers he came back and set to work.

An hour later, he had her on the phone.

“Braden? It’s two in the morning! What’s wrong?”

“You never said when you were going for your first procedure.” Or what kind it was going to be. “For all I know, it’s first thing in the morning. I wanted to chat a second before it happens.”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” she reminded him. “My appointment’s on Monday, after work, unless I don’t ovulate as expected.”

Not that far off, then.

“I called tonight’s meeting. When were you planning to tell me about this?”

Whoa, buddy. You don’t sound like a friendly and supportive ex-husband.

“Before tonight...or last night, now,” she said. “But when you called Wednesday, asking to meet, I figured Friday night was fine.”

He moved on, letting himself slide on the over zealousness of his questioning due to the lateness of the hour and shock of her news.

“I assume, given the circumstances, your ability to conceive, your age and your excellent health that you’re considering either ICI or IUI,” he said, looking at the screen of statistics in front of him. Intracervical insemination. Intrauterine insemination. And there was intravaginal, too.

“Really, Braden? At two in the morning?”

“IVI is cheaper, by far, less invasive and less painful, but chances of conceiving the first time are considerably lower. ICI is still cheaper and less uncomfortable. But IUI has a slightly higher success rate. I think you should go with that. The less raised hopes and disappointment here the better.”

“I’m fully prepared for this to take several months.”

She yawned. And sounded slightly amused, too.

It was two in the morning.

His nearly naked body yearned during the second it took him to remind himself that it was Mallory he was talking to. The woman who had no interest in being a wife once motherhood was in the picture.

Mallory, who’d been unable to feel any desire for him at all since their son died.

Because she felt guilty for how great it had been for her that night .