Addison Fox - Colton's Surprise Heir

And as she watched the bacon slide from the skillet, the grease that had cooked out sliding along with it, Lizzie felt the bottom drop out of her stomach.

Clamping a hand over her mouth, she ran toward the mudroom and prayed she’d make it to the back door in time.

* * *

One moment he was staring into eyes of the most vivid green, fresh as a spring day, and imagining things he most definitely should not be imagining. Then his mind had taken an entirely different tack as his gaze settled on her stomach.

And then Ethan was watching Lizzie Conner race out of his kitchen as though Satan’s hounds were nipping at her heels.

He slammed the skillet back on the stove, then raced after her. What in the blazing hell was going on?

Ethan heard the hard slam of the back screen door and the distinctive sounds of retching just as he came upon the entryway. As clear as a bell, Doc Peters’s words screamed through his mind.

Babies are a tough thing. They’re natural but not normal.

“Lizzie!” He pushed through the door, his mind whirling with a thousand thoughts, all louder than the cicadas in August.

But the thought that screamed the loudest was to get to her.

He closed the short distance between the door and the bushes that rimmed his back patio and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, holding her as she leaned forward once more. He kept one hand on her arm while the other gathered the thick, curly strands of her hair into a firm hold.

“Shh. It’s all right.”

Heat suffused her cheeks, and he felt the same warmth radiating from her slim shoulders as he pulled her close. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, no.” The words came out in a mix of half squeak and half moan as she straightened. “Oh, Ethan. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

Those slim shoulders straightened right up and she pulled out of his hold. The soft strands of her hair slipped through his fingers, and he was surprised at how bereft he felt when nothing but cold morning air took their place.

“What’s going on, Lizzie?”

Pregnancy is a natural state, but it’s hard on the body.

Those damn words continued to taunt him, the unspoken truth hovering between them more powerful than the tornadoes that whipped through Texas in spring.

“Can we go back inside?” Her lips quivered, and he quickly shrugged out of the old sweatshirt he’d shoved on the night before.

“Layer up. It’s only February.”

He took her hand and pulled her toward the house. Something in his chest turned over when she dragged the ratty old Dallas Cowboys sweatshirt on over her head, her stomach pressed against the material of the sweatshirt she already wore. She was a slender thing, tall and willowy, but even with another thick layer of material covering her torso, her stomach still bore a definitive bump.

It was no trick of the morning light through his back windows. Nor was it some fanciful play of imagination after a long night without sleep.

The flat stomach he’d explored on a sensual journey one lonely night was nowhere in evidence. And after living with a head full of erotic visions for six agonizing months, he knew damn well his memory wasn’t the least bit faulty.

He’d explored every inch of Lizzie Conner’s body. Had tasted every soft dip and expanse of her skin. Had buried himself deep inside her, allowing every one of the long, lonely years they’d held in common to fade away in the joy of being together.

Ethan stopped himself, pushing away the sharp tang of awareness that made him want things he had resolved never to have.

The scent of bacon still lit up the kitchen, and he shot a concerned glance at her. “Do you need me to throw out breakfast?”

“No!” She shook her head before wrapping her hands tight around herself. “No, I’m fine now.”

“Why don’t we go into the living room. It’ll keep for a few more minutes.”

“Drain it first. Please. It was—” She broke off, swallowing hard. “The grease was what turned my stomach. If you don’t drain it, we can’t eat it later. I just need to slip to your powder room for a quick minute.”

He directed her down the hall, then did as she’d asked with breakfast. He snatched up one of the slices as he patted the rest dry with paper towels, knowing full well he needed a heck of a lot more fortification than a few pieces of bacon.

But a man took what he could get.

And braced himself for the news he was going to be a father.

* * *

Lizzie ignored the pale face that stared back at her from the mirror and deftly swished her mouth out with water. She’d thought she was past tossing her cookies after the first trimester, but there were still some things with food that sneaked up and caught her unawares.

Now bacon grease, she mentally chastised herself, adding to the growing list that also included raw chicken, onions and pudding.

“Oh, and don’t forget facing the father of your child,” she muttered to herself as she did a quick hunt for mouthwash in the medicine cabinet. She came up empty on the rinse but did find a small tube of toothpaste in its stead.

Mouth clean once more, Lizzie squared her shoulders. She’d put this off long enough—it was time to tell Ethan the truth. She slipped off the sweatshirt, loath to remove the soft cotton that smelled of him—a mix of the outdoors and something raw and wholly male—and folded it as she walked.

He stood before the large fireplace, the thick stone like a frame. He was a hard man, she knew, harder even than the slate at his back. He’d shown signs of it even as a young boy—and who wouldn’t after what he and his siblings had lived through?

But Ethan had suffered more than the rest of them.

At the age of seven he’d discovered his mother lying murdered out behind the family’s farmhouse. A red bull’s-eye was painted on her forehead in Magic Marker, the clear mark of his father, one of Texas’s most notorious serial killers.

“Lizzie, are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

She pushed away the images that assailed her at the very thought of what he’d discovered and focused on the here and now.

And what she had to share with him.

“I have something to tell you.”

Ethan nodded, his face resigned, but he held his position before the fireplace. “I think I might have an idea.”

“I’m pregnant.”

He nodded again, and whether it was in acknowledgment of her words or the response of someone dumbfounded and searching for something to say, she wasn’t sure. After all, she’d had almost six months to get used to the idea.

And he’d had none.

“What took you so long to tell me?”

“I didn’t—” She hesitated, even though she’d prepared for this question. “I know how you feel about children. You were honest with me. That night and even when we were kids, you’d mentioned it a few times. That you don’t want children. That you’re afraid to pass on—”

She broke off again, heat creeping up her neck and into her cheeks.

Damn. She so didn’t want to go there.

Ethan had told her of his fears. That he believed his father’s psychopathic tendencies ran in his blood, and for that reason, he’d never have children. She’d tried to tell him it was a load of bullshit, but he wouldn’t be put off. And if Lizzie were fair, she knew the roots of his fear were all too real.

She’d grown up in foster care, too, her parents a nonexistent memory. Who gave up their child, leaving them to the care of strangers? She hadn’t even been good enough for adoption. Oh, no, instead she’d gone from foster home to foster home, cared for by people who by and large were kind but overworked, overextended with the number of children in their care and unwilling to allow themselves to get too attached.