Pregnant by My Stepbrother

by Cassandra Dee

  “Hey,” I laugh. “What’s this? You didn’t have to bring a present. It’s a gender-reveal party, remember? Not a baby shower.”

  She waves that away. “Oh, please. I couldn’t come empty-handed. Besides, a pregnant lady needs to pamper herself before the big day because I hear labor is hard!”

  I click my tongue at her in faux disapproval, but then peek inside the bag to find a bunch of bath bombs and lotions from one of my favorite stores. “Oh my god, thank you so much, Rachel.” I pull my friend into a side hug since it’d be silly to make her reach around my huge stomach.

  “Don’t mention it, Lina. I’m so happy for you,” she smiles as we join everyone in the kitchen. “By the way, are there any good-looking guys at this party?”

  I shake my head with mock disappointment.

  “Yes definitely, but they’re all taken because they’re mostly Tim’s co-workers from the hospital. I’m sorry, girlfriend! We’ll find you someone soon.”

  Rachel merely giggles.

  “Well, I suppose I can always start dancing at the Krazy Kat,” she says under her breath. “It worked for you at least.” I elbow her in the ribs, and we both start giggling.

  The party gets under way and it’s really fun. People laugh, talk, and eat, and a good time is had by all. But soon, it’s time for the main event and I clap my hands together. “Attention everyone! The big moment is here, and it’s time to cut the cake!”

  Tim comes out balancing a huge cake iced with cream-cheese frosting in his hands before setting it down carefully. I hand him a large, shiny knife.

  “Go ahead, love,” I say in a sweet voice.

  He smiles at me and takes the knife. Several people start to take pictures and it’s … pink! We’re having a girl! Tim beams at me and pulls my ungainly form in for a kiss. Our friends and family congratulate us, and tears spring to my eyes from sheer happiness.

  Later, after everyone’s left, I stand at the sink washing the dishes while Tim takes his place beside me, drying them.

  “Did you have a good time?” I ask.

  He grins down at me, those blue eyes dancing. “Yeah definitely.”

  “I did too. Our friends are the best, aren’t they? I’m so glad they were able to come.”

  “Agreed. Oh, wait. I think I forgot a dish in the living room. Just a sec, honey.”

  I shake my finger at him. “You better not be trying to get out of cleaning duty, Mr. Carlton. You better be back here in about five seconds otherwise your very pregnant girlfriend is going to be mad.”

  “Of course.” He winks at me, and then disappears into the living room before reappearing in a flash.

  “You know,” I hum as he returns to his spot at my side, “since our daughter’s going to be coming soon, I’ve been thinking about what to do about Amazing Blooms. I met a young woman recently who might be a good fit for a part-time job. What do you think? That way I could work fewer hours.”

  Tim nods enthusiastically. “That’s a great idea, honey, because I was worried you might work even more hours after the baby is born.” He moves behind me and wraps his hands around my belly, and as if our daughter knows it’s him, she kicks under his touch. “I want you to get as much rest as possible, both before and after the delivery.”

  “I know,” I smile. “You always take such good care of me.”

  But then his arms drop and he steps back from me. “Lina?”

  “Yes?” I ask, still busy at the sink. “What is it?”

  “Lina,” he repeats again, more insistently this time, and I turn with a dishrag in hand, only to find my boyfriend down on one knee. My jaw drops, and my sudsy hands fly to my face. “Tim?”

  He takes a deep breath while holding up a gorgeous diamond ring. It’s easily the most beautiful piece of jewelry I’ve ever seen, and to my surprise, Tim has tears in his eyes as he begins to propose. “Up until I met you, I never believed in soulmates, but now that I’ve met you, Angelina Hall, I know that such a thing exists. You’re the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with, and whom I want to have children with. I want to grow old with you, and to breathe your name every day of my life. Will you marry me, Angelina? Please say you’ll be mine.”

  Tears are streaming down my face as I nod.

  “Yes, Tim! Yes!” Then, he stands and slips the ring onto my finger. The diamond gleams like it’s always belonged there, and I turn to my handsome fiancé as he presses his lips against mine.

  “I love you, Lina,” he rasps hoarsely. “Forever and ever.”

  I sniffle a bit before looking into those bright blue eyes.

  “And I love you, Tim Carlton. I can’t wait to become Mrs. Carlton.”

  With that, I wrap my arms around my gorgeous fiancé’s neck and we share a long, passionate kiss. The baby inside kicks once again, but I know she’s just telling me that she approves. She wants her daddy and me to be happy, and so long as I have the two of them, I will be. After all, I may be my husband’s former stepsister, but it doesn’t really matter. What we have goes beyond old family ties because we’ve made new ones that are only stronger for our shared history.

  * * *

  THE END

  * * *

  If you enjoyed this story, then tune in for a special extended epilogue where Tim and Lina return to the Krazy Kat for a filthy rendezvous. Pick up your copy here.

  * * *

  Also, Rachel’s story is now live! The sassy girl gets in scrapes, but always manages to land on her feet with the help of a handsome, protective man. Pick up Daddy’s Prize, available here.

  * * *

  If you enjoyed reading about romance in the small town of Prescott, then you’ll like Pregnant By 2 Men (Mindy’s story), Daddy In Waiting (Pepper’s story), and Unexpected Daddy (Jessa’s story). Pick up your copy now!

  * * *

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  Sneak Peek: My Accidental Sugar Daddy

  Laurelin

  The billionaire makes Laurelin a dirty offer: her body, in exchange for a place to stay.

  * * *

  What. The hell. Am I doing?

  I keep attempting to focus, but it’s impossible. As the dark-haired, blue-eyed god of my dreams continues talking, I revert from a moderately intelligent, well-spoken woman to a dunce with nothing going on upstairs. I manage to speak, somehow, but I feel like none of it makes any sense. Tate keeps talking to me, though, so I must be doing something right.

  Or am I doing something horribly wrong?

  As soon as I realize that I’ve met him before, I realize that the jig is up. I have to be honest. Tate clearly thinks I’m a homeless person, and has no clue that I’m actually his friend’s little sister whom he met a year ago.

  It was, admittedly, a brief interaction. My niece Trixie had just turned one, and we were all celebrating at my brother Channing’s house. It was a small gathering of family and intimate friends, so I was surprised to see a gorgeous man present. Most of the time at these shindigs it’s just us, so this was a nice surprise.

  My brother introduced me to the handsome stranger as Tate and said they were old college buddies who had recently reconnected. I said hi, Tate said hi, and then Trixie tugged insistently on my hand, begging me to play dollies with her. Tate and I didn’t have any time to chat.

  But I’m embarrassed that I didn’t immediately recognize him today. How could any woman forget a face--and a body--like that? The memory of his tall form filling out that blue button down still haunts my dreams sometimes, with his broad shoulders, strong arms, and long legs. Not only that, but he’s got the features of a movie star, and I saw how that doggie-mom was eyeing him up and down. He was immune to her charms though, despite the fact that she wiggled her hips more than a few times.

  By con
trast, it makes far more sense that he doesn’t have any idea who I am. Tate seems like the type who’s always in the company of beautiful women, all of them glossy and dressed to the nines. Now that my society days are over, I can hardly remember what lipstick even tastes like. Which probably isn’t good, seeing that the last date I went on was a full six months ago and was nothing to remember. Robert was two inches shorter than me, pasty, pale, and so nervous that he was shaking during the date. It was that bad.

  But I have missed the company of an attractive man--someone attentive and gorgeous and funny; someone, I must admit, with a bit of an “alpha male” air. Then again, what am I thinking? Alpha males are usually Grade-A assholes with smirks on their handsome faces. But I have to say that I miss getting thrown around by a man in bed. It’d be nice to have a good time in the sack, no holds barred, with no limits and endless pleasure.

  So when Tate invites me to his place, I almost laugh. There’s no way he would ask a sweaty, makeup-less woman on a park bench over to his home for any other reason than pity. Plus, he thinks I’m a vagrant! So why would he do this?

  I’m about to say no, and to reveal that actually, Channing Saint is my older brother, but then the gorgeous man takes things into his own hands. He hoists my bags over his shoulders and just starts walking, like he expects me to follow.

  I stand there, stunned with shock. Who the hell does he think he is? I’m not a puppy, trailing adoringly after its owner.

  But Tate doesn’t stop. He merely keeps walking, his stride sure and confident. It’s almost like he knows that I’m going to follow. And then, to my chagrin, my feet begin to move. OMG, I am trailing behind him, like the aforementioned puppy I just swore that I wasn’t.

  I’m more than a little shocked at myself. Am I crazy or something? What the hell is going on?

  No. What I am, I realize quickly, is bored. Bored of my life. Bored of my past. Bored of my old job, but too bored to find something new. Bored of lackluster dates, and bored of sleeping alone. Passing out sandwiches to the homeless has ignited some kind of spark within me, but not enough to combat this overwhelming feeling of apathy. I need something new. Something different. Something unexpected and maybe this take-charge alpha male is about to serve it to me.

  So I keep following, stunned at my own actions.

  In fact, the question is now is, what do I expect? Sure, I’ve technically met this guy before, and yes, know he’s a friend of my brother’s, but I still know very little about him, except that he looks incredible shirtless wearing nothing but black shorts. Maybe my brother doesn’t know him well either. They’re probably just “friendly” and not friends, and Tate Connor could be a masochist with a dungeon filled with sex toys.

  Then again, if he does have that, I’d be very interested, certainly.

  I’m pondering these questions all the way down the street, until I blink and realize we’re at the front stoop of a red brick townhouse.

  “Home sweet home,” Tate growls while keying open the door. He inclines his head, and willing my swirling thoughts to quiet, I step inside.

  Unwilling to obey, my thoughts rage harder and louder. This place is incredible. How much money does he make? Who picked out this furniture? Did do all the decorating himself?! The townhouse is enormous by townhouse standards. It’s a double, so probably at least forty-feet wide, and the entryway is magnificent with a dark wood stairwell winding up to the second floor. The furniture is all period, the floors hardwood, and the windows huge and partially obscured by sumptuous blue curtains. I immediately recognize some of the artwork on the walls, and bite my tongue. I know exactly how much they cost, and trust me, they are not cheap.

  Nothing about this place, in fact, is cheap. The beautifully-bound books in the built-in shelves, the enormous fireplace and mantle, the rugs, the lamps, the gigantic kitchen and dining area… these are things that cost money. But they’re not flashy, nor are they gaudy. Instead, they’re welcoming and elegant, testament to their owner’s excellent taste. In fact, it’s exactly the kind of place I could envision myself living in, if I envisioned myself living the kind of life I used to. Which, I remind myself, I don’t.

  But with a gorgeous man here with me…

  I shake my head.

  “This is incredible,” I manage to stammer to Tate as he sets my ragged bags down. I wince as they make contact with a priceless Persian rug.

  He aims a dazzling smile at me. “Pretty, ain’t it?” he remarks in an exaggerated drawl. “I worked with some very high-end architects and designers to restore this place to its pre-war majesty. I’m not a fan of all-chrome this and black-marble that.”

  My attention is taken by a huge painting on the wall by the kitchen. A tall oak tree reaches into a blue-grey sky, flanked by fluffy silver clouds. A pond lies still in the foreground, surrounded by moss and other dark greens and browns.

  “Are you a fan of the Barbizon School?” I ask offhandedly. This is a piece by Jules Dupre, who brought a very English style of painting to France. I don’t always love landscapes, but I’ve always enjoyed this one’s moody hues.

  I don’t get a response. When I look over my shoulder, Tate is staring at me with a cocked brow. I flush from the tips of my ears to my toes. Dumbass, I chastise myself. What homeless girl is an art aficionado? I’m definitely not keeping up my charade very well.

  “You know Dupre?” he asks with a tinge of confusion.

  Thinking fast, I realize that it’s close-minded of me to assume that homeless people wouldn’t know art. As I’ve learned from passing out sandwiches, homeless people have an incredible array of past experiences, and, obviously, can be just as intelligent and cultured as someone who is housed. Homelessness doesn’t mean stupidity or ignorance, and that was a dumb mistake on my part. I lift my chin.

  “Well yes,” I say. It’ll be easier for me to maintain a lie if I speak the truth as often as possible. “I went to art school. It was a long time ago, but I even managed to graduate.”

  Tate’s arched brow reaches a little higher. The obvious questions seem to be gathering on his tongue, but it looks like he swallows them. It would definitely not be polite of a stranger to ask about my current situation, or to ask how I went to college and ended up homeless in the park. Instead, he smiles easily and asks, “Who’s your favorite artist?” Then, “Wait. Come into the kitchen and tell me. I’ll start cooking in the meantime.”

  I trail behind him before entering the sumptuous chef’s kitchen and sit down on a leather stool as Tate pulls ingredients out of the pristine white cabinets and enormous fridge. I try not to watch the muscles in his back work as he reaches up, then down, then across the counter to slide me a glass of water. Putting a pot of broth on the stove, he cocks another dark eyebrow at me. “How familiar are you with pre-war movements?”

  I smile. In fact, pre-war was my specialty. “Very.”

  I wasn’t sure how I expected this conversation to go, but I definitely wasn’t expecting to delve into my knowledge of Impressionism today, especially since Tate thinks I’m a poverty-stricken waif. Still, as our conversation progresses, I find myself relaxing a little. The man is a good conversationalist, charming and easy to talk to. I haven’t had much practice carrying on conversations lately--mostly, I talk to my cat these days--but as I listen to myself speak, I decide that I’m holding my own. Somehow, I manage to sound a little cultured, a little funny, and even a little whimsical. Maybe it’s the secret knowledge that Tate is a friend of my brother’s, and probably a good person; maybe it’s the delicious smells of the cooking soup putting me at ease.

  “So,” Tate says as he serves us the steaming bowls at his dining table. “Some zuppa toscana for the lady. I hope you like it.” He graciously allows me to take a sip before continuing to speak. I’m mostly full from the sandwich I ate, but my stomach rumbles in gratitude anyway. He’s right: this is absolutely delicious. You can’t go wrong with kale, sausage, and cheese, I suppose.

  “Good?” he prompts with a devi
lish smile.

  I nod. “Yes, very tasty. Thank you.”

  “Excellent.” He leans back in his dining chair, crossing his arms across his broad chest. He’s put on a white T-shirt, and it highlights his powerful musculature and the firm biceps beneath his sleeves. I try my damndest to keep my eyes on my soup instead of him.

  “So, it’s funny that I actually talked to you today in the park,” he begins in a light tone. “I’ve been wanting to get out of my comfort zone, and it’s always great to meet new people.”

  I cock a brow. Meeting a homeless person isn’t exactly a top priority for most folks, but I suppose it fits into the category of “getting out of his comfort zone.”

  “Um thanks,” I say awkwardly after another sip of my soup. “I think.”

  He nods, and a devilish look comes into those piercing blue eyes.

  “In fact,” he continues casually, like nothing’s wrong. “I’d love to discuss a deal with you, Laurie. I think it could be really beneficial for us both.”

  I pause while eating.

  “I don’t know that I’d have anything to offer,” comes my low voice. “I’m unsheltered, remember? I’m barely surviving as is. I don’t even have five dollars in my pocket.”

  But Tate leans forward, those blue eyes intense.

  “I know, honey, and that’s why I think that we could strike a very beneficial deal. You see, you do have something that I want. Something that’s all yours to give.”

  I shake my head, confused. What could I possibly have in my possession?