Tracy Wolff - Beginning with Their Baby

Running away might be the coward’s way out, but right now she preferred to consider it a strategic retreat. There was no way she could talk to Matt about the baby with the perfect Ariane anywhere in the picture.

After fumbling the keys into the ignition, she pulled away from the curb. The last thing she saw as she drove away was Matt standing on the sidewalk, mouth drawn and narrowed as he watched her leave. Again.

AN HOUR LATER, CAMILLE SAT on her anonymous motel bed eating Cherry Garcia ice cream right out of the container—and not being the least bit dainty about it.

Now that she was away from Matt and his date, she felt ridiculous for running. Even more ridiculous for blurting things out the way she had. She, who had been known for her clear head and ballsy demeanor for most of her adult life, had totally choked. And now they were both paying the price for it.

Still, what had she been thinking just showing up at Matt’s house like that? He was a great guy, with the typical sex drive of a thirty-five-year-old male. Was it any wonder, then, that he had a girlfriend? It had been twelve weeks since she’d walked away from him. What had she expected—that he’d wait around and pine for her forever?

She nearly laughed at the thought, the image of the gorgeous Ariane emblazoned forever in her brain. Camille had no delusions about her own attractiveness—she knew she was far from beautiful. Striking was how most people described her. Not easy to forget. Through the years she’d learned to play to her strengths, emphasizing her unusual coloring and irregular features instead of playing them down.

And usually she was okay with it. She shook her head, took another big mouthful of ice cream. Who was she kidding? She’d always been okay with it—right up until she’d come face-to-face with the woman who’d replaced her in Matt’s affections. Which was absurd. Just because he was the father of her baby didn’t mean he was going to be anything more to her. She didn’t want him to be anything more.

When her phone rang, she almost ignored it. After all, Matt was probably still tied up with the blonde wonder and she wasn’t exactly in the mood to talk to anyone else. But curiosity had her digging in her pocket for her cell.

Matt’s name scrolled across the small screen and her hands grew damp. She wasn’t ready for this, hadn’t recovered from the embarrassment of her less than graceful retreat. Besides, she’d figured he had more exciting plans than talking to her tonight. She hadn’t expected a call until sometime tomorrow.

Nerves on red alert, she answered with a soft “Hello.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at my motel.”

“I figured that—which one?”

“Why?”

“Why do you think?” He sounded angry and frustrated and more than a little out of sorts. “I’m coming over.”

“It can wait until tomorrow—”

“Keep dreaming, Camille. And tell me where you are.”

She rattled off the name of the motel, along with its cross streets, her heart pounding like a rock song.

“What room?”

“Two-thirteen.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Don’t go anywhere.”

He clicked off and she was left staring at a dead phone. And wishing that the next hour was already over. Anything was better than the sick curl of anticipation working its way through her pregnancy-churned stomach.

MATT POUNDED UP THE STAIRS that led to Camille’s motel room, his heart in his throat and his blood pressure through the roof.

Pregnant. Camille was pregnant. With his child.

Just the thought boggled the brain.

He’d used a condom, hadn’t he? Every time? Then how was she— He yanked his thoughts back to the present, but it wasn’t easy. Nothing had been from the moment he’d opened his door and seen Camille standing there.

He didn’t even know what he’d said to get rid of Ariane. After Camille had driven away, he’d stood on the sidewalk looking after her car for God only knew how long as he tried to assimilate her words. He hadn’t succeeded.

Finally, a less than happy Ariane had come outside looking for him. She’d wanted to pick the date up where they’d left off, before Camille’s interruption, but he’d been too shocked to do more than utter the most banal of excuses as he showed her the door.

She hadn’t been impressed, but he hadn’t cared. He still didn’t care, as all his thoughts and energy were currently wrapped up in Camille’s bombshell.

Pregnant.

Camille was pregnant.

He kept hoping that repeating the words would make them seem more real—and him less clueless. But the truth was he didn’t even know where to start trying to figure this mess out.

When he got to room 213, he pounded on the door hard enough to let Camille know he wasn’t taking no for an answer. How she’d thought he’d want to wait until tomorrow to talk to her, he’d never know. But then again, he’d never been able to figure out what was going on in Camille’s brain. Case in point—the whole debacle three months ago when he’d begged her to stay. And she’d batted him away as if he were a pesky gnat.

Then Camille’s door was swinging open and any and all confused thoughts he’d been able to form between his house and here completely flew out of his head. Not that it was anything new—his first glimpse of her, even when they’d been dating, had always done that to him.

There was just something about her that knocked him stupid.

Trying to buy himself a few seconds, he glanced at the half-eaten container of ice cream in her hand, cataloged the lines of strain around her eyes and mouth.

“You look tired,” he finally said.

“I’m jet-lagged. I just got in from Italy today.”

“How long have you known?”

“About the baby?”

He nodded.

“Five days.”

Something cold melted in his chest. She’d just found out she was pregnant and had come straight back to Austin to tell him about the baby. At least she hadn’t been keeping it from him.

At least she’d been willing to trust him that much.

“Okay.” He glanced behind her, to her empty motel room. The television murmured quietly in the background. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah, sure.” She turned away, leaving him to follow.

When she sank onto the bed, he had a moment’s indecision. Should he sit next to her? Stand? For a man who always knew where he was going and what he was doing, it was a less than impressive feeling.

He glanced around. It was a typical motel room—a bed, a table and chair, a dresser. He crossed the worn beige carpet, pulled out the chair and sat down. He didn’t trust himself to get too close to her—the room smelled like her and he could feel his body responding, despite the numerous warnings he’d given himself on the way over.

Judging from the look on Camille’s face, he figured anything she viewed as an advance on his part would be met with solid resistance. Not to mention a kick in the ass.

Not that he wanted to put the moves on her, he assured himself and his unruly erection. He’d given up on that stupidity a few weeks before, when he’d finally figured out that she wasn’t going to come back. He’d resigned himself, then, to the fact that he would never be with her again.

Too bad his body didn’t feel the same way.

Silence seethed between them. With each second that passed he could see Camille getting more agitated, her eyes darting between him, the TV and the Ben & Jerry’s container in a pattern that would have been funny if he wasn’t so damned strung out himself.

Maybe he should have mercy on her—she looked as shell-shocked as he felt. But as he watched her, Matt realized he was still too raw to feel very merciful. Her abandonment had really done a number on him—more so than he’d ever expected.