Susan Crosby - Bound By The Baby

Nicole sat on her porch swing and eased it back and forth, the chains groaning quietly against the overhead hooks, the motion calming.

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t known this day would come. She’d planned to tell Devlin—just probably not until the baby was born and DNA testing could be done, because she knew he would require that.

She couldn’t blame him for not trusting her. They’d been strangers, without reasons to trust each other. All he knew of her was that she’d fallen into bed with him without knowing him, without any prelude at all. The sex had been like nothing she’d thought herself capable of—anonymous, all-consuming and with little tenderness—exactly what she’d needed that night. And even without the reminder growing inside her, she would’ve remembered everything about those hours with Devlin. She’d cried in his arms more than once. He’d never asked her why but had simply held her, then made love to her—with her—again. And again. And again.

In the morning, she hadn’t sneaked out, but woke him up to tell him thank you, kissing him goodbye. That was supposed to be the end of it. No regrets.

Surprise!

Nicole closed her eyes, keeping the swing moving, remembering the exact moment two months after that incredible night when she’d realized that it wasn’t lingering grief making her feel so miserable, but pregnancy. Now in her second trimester, the morning sickness gone, she felt healthy and strong and capable of dealing with Devlin.

She shivered, but whether from the cold or the anticipation of contending with Devlin, she wasn’t sure. She needed sleep, would try again and hope for better results than the past hour of tossing and turning.

As she stood she saw headlights coming up the road. The vehicle slowed at her driveway, stopped for a few seconds, then turned in and eased up the twenty feet to her house. Not recognizing the big black SUV, she sat again, grateful she’d turned off the porch light.

The car door opened and a man got out. Devlin. She held her breath. What was he doing? How had he found her? Did he plan to bang on the door and wake her from what should’ve been a sound sleep?

Apparently not. He just stood there looking around. After a minute he walked around the side of the house, out of sight, then reappeared shortly.

She wondered about his reaction. She loved her little cabin. It was only seven hundred square feet, but cozy and comfortable and hers—or in twenty-nine years and eleven months it would be hers. She’d always rented before.

Dead leaves and pine needles crunched under Devlin’s shoes as he came close again, this time veering toward the porch. His hands tucked into his jacket pockets, he put a foot on the lowest step but went no farther.

“Looking for someone?” she asked, figuring he would spot her soon enough.

He swore, which made her smile. She liked that she’d been the one to do the startling this time.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked, coming up the remaining stairs. “It’s freezing.”

Vanity had her wishing she wasn’t in a robe, flannel pajamas and fuzzy slippers, and free of makeup. “How’d you find me?”

“Typed your name into the White Pages on the Internet. I wasn’t going to knock. I just wanted to see where you live.” Without invitation he sat next to her on the swing. His breath billowed in front of him, as hers did. “You couldn’t sleep, either?”

She shook her head. She was cold to the bone now, but she wasn’t about to let him know that. And her entire body reacted to being so close to his. Memories invaded, warming her, arousing—

“Invite me in,” he said, leaning toward her slightly.

Apparently the word please wasn’t in his vocabulary. “We’ll talk tomorrow, as scheduled,” she said.

“You’re not sleeping. I’m not sleeping. Why not talk now?”

“Because we’re both overtired. One of us is bound to misspeak.”

“I don’t misspeak.”

“Then you must be immortalized in some comic book with those other superhumans.”

“You’re shivering,” he said, ignoring her remark. “It can’t be good for the baby.”

“I don’t do anything to put this child at risk.” What was she doing? Acting like an idiot just to prove a point—that she was doing fine without him and would continue? She’d already been headed into the house when he’d shown up. She was twenty-eight years old and acting like a teenager. “Want some hot chocolate?” she asked.

To his credit he didn’t look smug but stood and held out a hand to her. He’d kept his in his pockets, so they were warm compared to hers. She let go as soon as she was standing, then led the way into the house.

Nicole had almost finished decorating. She had combined yard-sale finds with consignment-shop treasures, had reupholstered, painted and sewed, with only the baby’s room to go.

The living room, dining nook and kitchen were visible from the front entry. She laid her quilt over a chair, tightened the sash on her robe and headed into the kitchen. She pulled out a saucepan, milk and cocoa mix.

“Mind if I look around?” Devlin asked, tossing his jacket atop her quilt.

“Go ahead.” She was glad to have him wander off for a minute. Her bedding was jumbled, but what did it matter? She’d gone to bed, tried to sleep. He would know that. On the other hand, the place was so small he would be back before the milk had even gotten warm.

“Do you own or rent?” he asked, returning and leaning against the refrigerator, watching her.

“Own.”

“It’s small…to raise a child.”

“How much room does a child need?” she countered.

“More than this.”

“I disagree.”

He seemed about to argue but didn’t. “It’s rustic,” he offered after a moment.

She shook her head, amused. He was skirting around saying what he really wanted to, apparently trying to keep the peace between them for the moment. Obviously he wanted something.

“What do you expect, Devlin? It’s a cabin in the woods. Rustic fits the environment,” she said, getting down two mugs. “The roads are plowed in the winter, and I’ve got the fireplace and a generator if the power goes out. It’s perfect.” It’s mine. She poured the hot chocolate into the mugs and passed him one, then cupped hers in both hands, treasuring the warmth. She was sorry she’d let him come in, was too tired to deal with him, just as she’d said.

“Did you know who I was?” he asked.

“I looked you up in the database.” She watched him over the rim of her mug as she took a tentative sip, testing its heat.

“When?”

“In the morning, after I left your suite.”

“Not before?”

She frowned. “Before, I was standing at the blackjack table with you. Before that I was passing through the casino on my way to my boss’s office when I stopped to talk to a friend, a fellow employee. You caught my attention, and I stayed to watch for a minute. Then you wouldn’t let me leave.”

“You were my good luck charm.”

“So you said.” She gestured toward her sofa, which faced the unlit fireplace. “Are you asking if I recognized you or something? Stalked you?”

“Did you?” he asked as they sat at opposite ends.

“The answer is no, to both questions. How could I know who you are? You’re not a celebrity, are you? And even if I’d recognized your name from the reservations—which I wouldn’t have—you didn’t get a room until after I left the table.” She was working up a little righteous anger at his ego. “And how could I accidentally run into you in the elevator? There were twelve banks of elevators. What were the chances the one I was in would stop on the right floor at the right time to run into you again?”