by Elley Arden
Trish nearly groaned in disgust at the way her brain and body were behaving. Yes, he was attractive, but she refused to pine over him or make him more important than he was. As warped as it sounded, all she really wanted was his baby. She needed to remember that.
Life was entirely too complicated already.
“I’ll tell you what. I have a few sketches of what I’m looking for. You can take a look and see if it’s something you’d be interested in, but no guarantees. If I’m not pleased with the workmanship, then I’m not buying.” There, she thought. The easiest way to remember Tony’s place was by putting him in his place. She was the boss.
His hands disappeared beneath the table, and he leaned forward until his chest was inches from his plate. “Sounds fair. And I’m not worried.” A warm hand landed atop her thigh. “You’ll be buying…again and again and again.” He winked as he pressed fingers into the flesh above her knee. “I’m good at everything I do.”
Trish shuddered. Let’s just hope you’re good at making babies. If she had to endure much more of this, she was headed for major trouble.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Trish wasn’t hungry, but that couldn’t absolve her of lunch with Mom. So she sat in her usual seat at the club, staring over her mother’s shoulder out the window at the golf course.
Angie was on her mind.
Talking hadn’t gone as planned. When Trish arrived at the Collins’s, Angie busied herself with work. The few times she paused long enough for Trish to speak, Angie pretended like nothing was different. Pretending like nothing was different made it feel like everything was different, especially when Angie cited an evening with Nonna as her reason for not hanging out with Trish. Maybe it was the truth. Maybe it wasn’t. But if things were normal between them, Angie would’ve asked Trish to go along.
Trish didn’t want this strain. That’s why she was rethinking her plan.
A sweater-vested man with a caddy half his size walked the green moor. They had the same wobbly gait. Were they father and son? Trish bit her cheek. Some people were meant to be biological parents. Some people weren’t. If she fell into the latter category, then so be it. But then her stomach cramped, and her heart jumped, and Trish immediately wondered if it was the baby.
She slipped a hand to her belly. Every twinge was a reminder that one time was all it took. She had unprotected sex with Tony around the time of ovulation. Pregnancy wouldn’t be a shocker. As much as she wanted to rethink this plan, she’d already put it into motion, leaving her no choice but to improvise for a few more weeks. Then she could take a test, and if the test was negative, she could put a healthy distance between her and Tony, hoping to make things right between her and Angie. If the test was positive… She didn’t know what that would do to their friendship. She only hoped all the Corcarellis would be happy, because she would be.
She rubbed the non-existent bump.
“Darling, get more sleep. You have bags under your eyes. Or change your eye cream. You’re not getting any younger, you know.” Trish’s mother paused for a sip of chardonnay. “Which is why I think you should consider something.” Another sip of wine built anticipation. “Mary Perrault’s son is in town for a couple weeks.”
Trish sharpened her focus from the green outside the window to her mother’s painted face. “Stu is in town?”
“Yes, dear. And he asked if you were seeing anyone. He wants to call you.” Her glistening pink lips curled. “Looks like you have unfinished business.”
“We finished any and all business when he moved to Paris.”
“He may be moving back, but don’t tell him I told you. Your father said the Paris operation isn’t as productive as Glenn had hoped. But never mind that. Wouldn’t it be lovely, darling, for you and Stuart to reconcile after all these years?”
Lovely? Comical, really. Here she sat with her hand on her belly which may or may not contain a speck of Tony’s child, and the only man she ever loved wanted to call her while he was in town for two weeks.
Stu. Trish huffed a breath and returned to staring out the window, gazing at a pure white sand trap. Stu had been perfect for her. He was handsome, warm, and ambitious with an adorable propensity for making lists. In fact, she owed their breakup to the wisdom found in such a list, one that outlined the positives and negatives of a transcontinental relationship. Over a bottle of Cabernet, they listed the good and the bad, and when the bad hung below the good, they called the relationship off. Just like that. How did one argue in the face of sound rationale? She missed that kind of straightforward thinking.
“Stu’s back,” Trish mumbled.
“Yes, dear. That’s what I said.”
But what would Trish say to him? Why yes, Stu, I’d love to have dinner with you, maybe rekindle the flame. By the way, how do you feel about the possibility of raising another man’s child? I might be pregnant.
Trish coughed on stomach acid until she choked.
“Darling, drink something.”
Trish had the urge to drain her mother’s wine, but the maybe baby in her belly made her reach for water instead. After a long drink cooled her throat, she nodded. “Mother, there’s a slight problem with Stu calling me.”
Dolores wrinkled her brows and leaned in. “Do tell.”
Trish winced. “I’m sort of seeing Tony Corcarelli.”
Dolores's eyes widened and her lips curled. “You don’t say.”
Oh, Trish said it, whether she wanted to or not, because what choice did she have? As long as there was a chance she was carrying Tony’s baby, she had to act the part.
* * *
Tony was avoiding Angie. It was easier that way.
He saw the fire in her eyes at Trish’s house, and he knew her anger wouldn’t die. He had that effect on her, ever since he turned down their father’s offer to run the carpentry business, resulting in his father’s insistence that Angie buy out Tony’s half. Fifty-fifty split, the feeble man had said. And who would argue with a guy who was dying? Angie sure didn’t. She accepted the offer to take the company reins, and she bought out Tony two weeks after their father died. Tony was stupid enough to think that was the end of it.
He stared at Trish’s sketches sprawled on his kitchen counter until his vision blurred. It wasn’t so much that he hated carpentry. It was more that he hated being tied down to one thing. No sense of responsibility, Angie called it. He shrugged. Maybe she was right about that, too. After all, look what he’d done. He tried to get her best friend pregnant. Where was the responsibility in that?
His vision cleared, and the longer he looked at the drawings, the more his mind whirled with ideas for Trish’s table. Brainstorming was better than dwelling on his tanking relationship with his sister. It was also better than wondering if one time with Trish was enough. The way he’d dreamed about her last night, he knew the answer to that question. It wasn’t. He’d do it again in a heartbeat, because there was something about the way the woman made love, rougher than he expected, like all that prim and proper professionalism was desperate for a break. Of course, what she was really desperate for was a baby. Was one time enough for that?
In a blink, his thoughts became convoluted again.
With a growl, Tony shoved the drawings across the countertop and watched them float to the floor. What if she was pregnant? He thought all he wanted was bragging rights to a wish-list topping gift for Nonna, but he’d also get a kid. His kid. His and Trish’s kid. He looked around 400 square feet of apartment and couldn’t find room for a crib. Unless he sold the pinball machine, downsized the flat screen…or moved.
The money from the buyout sat there like a thorn in his heart, because if he spent too much, he worried he’d somehow make things worse with Angie. She already assumed he’d blown the majority on loose women and tattoos. Yeah, he’d had a few of both, but not enough to drain the account.
Still, the idea of moving, of altering his life that dramatically frustrated him, and he pounded a fist against the countertop. His willing
ness to take a risk got him into a hell of a mess this time.
When the intercom buzzed, Tony thought to ignore it, but then curiosity got the better of him. With Ma helping Nonna, and Nonna preferring to stay home, daytime visitors were far and few between. And if it was Angie, which Tony doubted, he needed to grow up and face her.
“Yo,” Tony called into the yellowed box beside the front door.
“Tone, it’s me. Lemme up,” Vin said.
Tony obliged, waiting with the door ajar for Vin to make the two-flight trek. When he saw the black of his head bob above the bannister, Tony smiled. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Invites.” Vin held out an envelope. “It’s kinda late in the game to mail them, so I’m hand delivering.”
“Invites to what?” Tony asked as he opened the envelope and removed the black cardstock.
“An Evening with the Italian Tenors. Nice, huh?” Vin gestured to the professionally printed invitation.
Tony stared at the silver lettering. “Cripes. A little fancy, don’t you think?”
“The guys sing in tuxedos. I booked Hillman Center. What did you expect? Construction paper?”
“An email.”
Vin rolled his eyes and flicked a finger at the invitation. “It’s Tony and guest, but bring somebody classy. This is a big deal.”
Tony took a turn at rolling his eyes. Vin thought everything he did was a big deal, which made it extra fun to mess with him. “Somebody classy, right, like Monica from Princess and the Pole. She wears sequins.”
“She also wears Lucite stilettos. No.”
“I was kidding.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not. This is a classy night for a classy lady. Nonna deserves it.”
Yes she did, and Vin didn’t have to worry, because Tony wasn’t bringing a date that would embarrass him. “I’ll be bringing Trish DeVign.”
Vin’s eyes bugged. “Playing with fire, aren’tcha, man?”
“I don’t want to hear it from you, Vin. Angie’s already said her peace, and believe me, that’s enough.”
“So why are you pushing it?”
Tony shrugged. “I like her.”
Which was true. He’d always liked Trish, but now there was even more to like about her, like the way she dug her fingernails into his neck, all needy and hard and… He shook off the wayward thoughts, and focused on the real reason he was doing this. Puttana wasn’t a name he wanted associated with Trish.
“I still think you’re digging your own grave.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“We shall see. Just do me a favor and don’t let the shit hit the fan during this concert. I want it drama free. Make sure Ange knows, too.”
Oh, that would go over well. Ange, Vin doesn’t want you causing trouble with me and Trish at the concert. He could almost hear her maniacal laughter.
Vin smacked Tony’s arm and then jogged down the steps. When Tony heard the main door clang, he knew there was no reason to be standing in the hall, but hell, he couldn’t move, couldn’t face what came next. He needed to ask Trish to Vin’s shindig, parade her around his family like she was his girl, in front of Angie and Vin, Nonna, and Ma.
What had he gotten himself into?
* * *
Trish stared at her figure in the full-length mirror, which was not a favorite pastime. When she looked too long, she saw all the things she didn’t like about her body, all the things that separated her from her flawless, ballerina-built adopted mother, things like freckles splattering her chest, a higher-than-normal waistline, broad shoulders, and crooked breasts, with the right one smaller than the left. But she’d forgive the size difference if her breasts ever managed to feed a baby. That would be miraculous. Nursing a baby was the direct antithesis of surrendering a baby.
With an exhale that dropped her shoulders a smidge, Trish patted her stomach below her belly button. If she ovulated and Tony’s sperm managed to survive the twenty-four hours of upheaval that followed, she was technically pregnant. She frowned, because it was still a long shot. She was too practical and realistic to think one time would work.
But there was a chance. And as long as there was a chance, she couldn’t take any chances with Stu, who left a message two hours ago. She hated the thought of ignoring him, but she hated the thought of further complicating what was already complicated.
Trish shook her head and shuffled into her closet. She ruffled the clothes until she settled on a CMU sweatshirt and a pair of yoga pants. As a rule, there were no buttons or zippers after work hours, and that wasn’t going to change because Tony was on his way with pizza.
He tried to get her to go out, but with all this chaos swirling around her, she only wanted to hide, which was better done alone, but for some reason Tony insisted. Maybe he was still nursing a guilty conscience from the confrontation with Angie. They were supposed to be dating after all, and this was what dating couples did. They ate pizza and watched episodes of Gossip Girl on DVD. Okay, that was her version of what dating couples did, but ultimately this was her plan, wasn’t it?
The doorbell rang as she put finishing touches on her braided hair, securing it with a band and tossing the tail over her shoulder. She padded bare feet over the area rug in her bedroom and onto the hardwoods in the hall. With each step, her heart beat faster. She’d read enough about pregnancy to know blood volume increased. Was that the cause of her racing heart? At the bottom of the stairs, she saw Tony’s silhouette through the stained glass, and her stomach tumbled. Could she be getting morning sickness this soon and this late in the day?
With a clammy hand, she gripped the knob and opened the door to find him smiling on her front porch, pizza box in hand. A grocery bag dangled from his other hand.
“Delivery,” he said.
She smiled back. “Hey, you.” And stepping aside, she waved him in.
He didn’t move. He stood there with that goofy grin on his gorgeous face. “I like your hair.”
She felt a ridiculous blush creep up her neck and fan across her face. Silly. “Thank you.”
He moved then, brushing by her, angling the pizza box toward the living room. When he passed, she leaned a smidge closer and drew a lungful of his air, as if on some level she knew just the scent of him would banish the worry of the day. They were in this together after all. In a matter of weeks he’d become her sole confidante.
“Where do you want it, kitchen, living room, dining room?”
Bedroom. She shut the door harder than necessary. Where the heck did that come from?
“Family room,” she said slowly and deliberately. “I’m all set up in there.”
He faced her, raising a brow. “Right. No televisions allowed in formal living rooms, which is another reason why they’re wasted space.”
“Televisions are welcome in a formal setting as long as they’re hidden. If you prefer to watch in the living room on my nineteen-inch screen, then we can certainly forego the sixty-incher.” She walked by him with a smirk, grabbing the heavy bag from his hand.
He followed, chuckling behind her. “I’m good with sixty inches.”
“I figured you would be.” She looked inside the bag. A clear plastic container of the salad she requested rested alongside a two-liter of diet caffeine-free soda. This time, he didn’t come bearing beer. She wasn’t sure what to make of that.
On one hand, beer represented his need to calm both their nerves before they… Thinking about having sex with Tony while he was walking behind her did uncomfortable things to her skin. She fidgeted against the prickles. On the other hand, beer sort of signified the plan to relax and maybe take things too far. She fidgeted again. What did soda signify?
“Half pepp, half cheese, just how you like it.” He put the box on the wet bar counter next to the paper plates and flipped open the lid. Drawing a deep breath over the pie, he hummed. “Mm, mm. There’s nothing like pizza.” And then he picked off a piece of pepperoni and tossed it into his mouth. There was something charming about the
mannerless adoration. And that was Tony in a nutshell, charming despite the lack of refinement. He was good company, too.
She unloaded the bag, placing the soda on the counter near the sink, and dumping the salad into a nearby bowl. As she worked, Tony wandered over to the big screen, where he whistled.
“What are you a fan of that requires a TV this big? Wait…” he held up a hand, “don’t tell me. Mixed martial arts?”
She wrinkled her nose.
“You’re a gamer then, aren’t you? Call of Duty? Halo?”
She nodded. “You caught me. I’m a regular sniper.”
He picked up the DVD case which was resting on the end table. “No way. This is what you do? That’s a slap in the beautiful face of this screen.”
“That’s what we’re going to do. And it’s good, mindless entertainment. You can handle it.”
“Yeah, but why would I want to? The only reason a guy watches this crap is to get lucky with the girl who wants to watch it in the first place.” He stared at her with a sparkle in his eyes and a hitch in his lip.
The deafening sound of an opening soda bottle filled the room. Trish had no idea what was coming over her, but flirtatious words she could never imagine saying pushed against her lips, demanding to be said until she couldn’t hold them back any longer.
“So, are you going to watch it with me or what?”
She needed sunglasses to weather his full-blown smile. “Sure,” he said, walking to the bar, grabbing a piece of pizza and taking a generous bite. “As long as we’re clear on the motivation.”
Oh, they were clear. He wanted sex. For fun. And the same mischievous part of her that spoke those flirty words couldn’t be giddier. Of course, the sensible part of her would commence worry any minute now.
“If I watch that garbage, then you’ll be my date to Vin’s concert for Nonna.” He nudged her with his elbow. “It’ll be our first official appearance at a family function as a couple.”
Let the worrying begin.
