Beginning With Their Baby

by Tracy Wolff

  “I don’t know, Reece. I just don’t know.”

  He knew he wanted to be there for Camille, and for their child. But at the same time, he wasn’t ready to risk his heart again—at least not on the woman who had so recently stomped all over it with a wink and a smile.

  “You don’t have to have an answer for everything today.”

  Reece’s quiet observation broke into Matt’s thoughts, brought him back to the present with a thud. “Of course I know that.”

  “Do you?”

  At the question, he concentrated extra hard on watching the pedestrians down below in their suits and jeans, their bohemian skirts and beads.

  Part of him wanted to be down there, amid the anonymous throngs of humanity. Connected, but not. Part of a whole, but separate, as well. Up here, with Reece’s too-sharp eyes and even more pointed questions, there was nowhere for him to hide.

  “Don’t be stupid. Having a baby isn’t like deciding what’s for lunch. There are a million details to be taken care of, a million decisions that have to be made. A lot of those decisions I’m not even equipped to make yet. I haven’t done the research, haven’t looked at both sides—”

  “That’s not what I meant and you know it.” Reece crossed the room to the little minifridge in the corner, whipped out two cans of soda. He tossed one to Matt, before popping the top on the second and taking a long drink.

  Matt followed suit.

  “Look, Matt, you’ve always been the guy with the answers. The one who knows what to do when nobody else does. Maybe it’s because you were the only guy in the house and you felt you always had to have the answers for your mom and your sisters. Maybe it’s because you’re the most conscientious, detail-oriented guy I know. Who knows? But the fact is, you always know what to do.”

  “Not this time.”

  Reece laughed. “Of course not this time! This isn’t like designing a building or running an office or impressing clients—any more than it’s about fixing your mom’s sink or her finances. This is about you, about your life. Even more important, it’s about the life of your child. Of course you don’t know what to do yet.

  “You know, it may sound corny, but there’s a reason you get nine months before a baby comes. It takes that long to figure things out. Hell, sometimes it takes even longer.”

  “I don’t know what to do about Camille.” He blurted out the truth of what was really bothering him. “I mean, I’m worried about what will happen when the baby comes, but more than that, I just can’t figure out what my relationship with Camille is supposed to be like now.”

  “What do you want it to be like?” Reece asked, after taking a long sip of his drink.

  “I don’t know! Part of me wants nothing more than to get her into the nearest bed and keep her there for as long as she’ll let me, but another part figures that’s the worst move I could possibly make.”

  “I’m not sure if I understand your reasoning there. She’s the mother of your child—shouldn’t you be attracted to her?”

  “No! I mean, not now. Not again.” Matt shook his head emphatically. “Things won’t work between us, long-term—we’ve already figured that much out. So what good will it do if we start back on the same path we were on before? All that’s going to do is cause hurt feelings and make it that much more difficult to be objective about the baby.”

  “It’s your child. You’re not supposed to be objective.”

  “You know what I mean. Visitation, child support—those types of things. I need a clear head when we talk about all that and I won’t have it if I’m sleeping with Camille—or pissed off that I’m not sleeping with her anymore.”

  “All right, then. It sounds like you’ve made up your mind. Keep things as platonic between you as possible.”

  Matt stared at Reece for long seconds, then nodded. “You’re right. That’s definitely my plan. I don’t need the extra chaos she adds to my life—you saw what happened with the meeting today. I’ll just be the supportive friend and father of the baby—”

  “Don’t you mean ‘baby daddy’?” Reece asked with a smirk.

  Matt crumpled up his empty soda can and lobbed it across the room at his friend. “Very funny.”

  Reece ducked, laughing. “Just saying.”

  “Yeah, I know what you’re saying.”

  “But do you know what you’re saying?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means Camille’s a fabulous woman and if I were in your shoes…” He shook his head. “If I were in your shoes, I might sit back and enjoy the ride. Let the future take care of itself.”

  “Because that worked so well for you, right?” As soon as the words had left his mouth, Matt regretted them. Reece had suffered a lot in the past couple of years—between losing his first wife in a car accident, nearly giving up Rose, almost losing Sarah and their unborn child. There was no need to rub it in.

  “Actually, it did work out pretty well for me, thank you very much. It might do you well to remember that.” And with that cryptic comment, Reece gathered up his papers and headed for the door, leaving Matt staring after him, his confidence regarding his decision suddenly on very shaky ground.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CAMILLE WOKE UP IN A MUCH better mood than she went to sleep in. With the dregs of jet-lag finally dissipating and dinner with a handsome man who just happened to be the father of her child on the horizon, it was turning out to be a pretty good day.

  After a long, luxurious shower and hair wash, she sat on the bed in her towel—television blaring—and painted her toes a frosty blue. As she stroked the brush over one toenail and then another, she couldn’t help wondering how much longer she’d be able to do this for herself. How much longer until advancing stages of pregnancy made it difficult, if not impossible, to bend at the waist.Surprisingly, the idea wasn’t as abhorrent to her as it had been just a couple of days before. Maybe it was because she was finally getting used to the idea, which had seemed like a far-fetched nightmare when she’d taken three pregnancy tests, just to be sure.

  Or maybe it was because she’d seen the baby on the ultrasound, had heard its little heartbeat echo throughout the room. In her whole life, she’d never felt anything more powerful than that one moment, when she saw—with crystal clarity—what she and Matt had made.

  The image had influenced him, as well. As Rick was explaining what they were seeing, she had stolen a quick glimpse at Matt, had realized he looked as bowled over as she felt. It was an odd realization about the man who had fathered her child—and who always seemed to be in such complete control, of himself and the world around him.

  Closing the nail polish, Camille flopped back on the bed, wet hair and all, and waited for the polish to dry. As she stared at the ceiling, she ran her hands over her stomach, tried to determine if it had grown rounder in the twelve weeks since she’d gotten pregnant. It didn’t feel any different, but maybe she was just deluding herself. How long before she started to show? How long before her life changed forever?

  Twenty-eight weeks, if she wanted to be exact. The baby would be born in approximately twenty-eight weeks and then there would be no going back. She would be responsible for another human being, a tiny life that was dependent almost exclusively on her for its survival.

  The thought made her sick to her stomach, but at the same time a totally contradictory excitement was building in her. Yes, she might mess up. Hell, she probably would mess up, but there was a chance—if she was careful—that she could do this thing right. That she could give her baby everything she had lacked as a child. That, with Matt’s help, she could build a real family for this baby.

  Matt. She thought back to the kiss in the car and felt herself flush a little, though not with embarrassment. How could he still manage to turn her on so completely, when it had been three months since they’d gone their separate ways? And how could she deal with him as the father of her child, when all she really wanted to do was jump his very delectable bones?

&n
bsp; But who could blame her? Matt was a fabulous lover—sexy, inventive, incredibly generous and enthusiastic. He’d surprised her more than once in bed, in the best possible ways.

  Her breasts, already sensitive from the pregnancy, grew heavy at the memories and Camille forced her mind to other things. It wasn’t easy, but it was necessary—unless she wanted to be one giant ball of lust by the time Matt showed up.

  Not that that would necessarily be a bad thing, she mused, as she pushed off the bed. At least not judging by the hair-straightening, toe-curling kiss they’d engaged in earlier that day. She’d been kissed by a lot of men in her travels and never had she found one who took her over so completely. Who crawled inside of her and gave her everything she was craving, including things she had no idea she wanted.

  On the television, the program changed to the local six o’clock news and she sprang into action at the same time the news anchors did. Matt would be here in thirty minutes and she was about as far from ready as she could get—unless, of course, he was planning on staying in.

  After running some product through her hair—with her curls, that was the best she could do—she slipped into a short-sleeved purple dress that hugged her from breast to knee. It was one of her favorites and she figured this was her last chance to wear it for a while—pretty soon, her stomach would make the dress’s silhouette completely unattractive.

  When she was dressed, she did a quick once-over in the mirror, to make sure everything was in the proper place. It was, but when she got to her face, she stopped, transfixed, by the strange softness in her eyes.

  Reaching a hand out, she touched the reflection of her face in the mirror. Traced a finger over the softened curve of her lower lip, the relaxed slope of her normally tense jaw. Who was this woman who seemed so open and unguarded? This woman who was contemplating settling down, even for a little while?

  She looked happy and nervous and a little overwhelmed all at the same time. Camille took a step back, wondered what was happening to her. Was she really going to lower her defenses? Was she really—

  A knock at the door interrupted her reverie. Shaking her head, Camille attempted to drop the deep philosophy—at least for now. After all, things were going to work out how they were going to work out and there really wasn’t all that much she could do to control them. Not now, when the ball had already been set into motion.

  Throwing the door open, she found Matt on the other side—tall, handsome, smiling the half smile that always made her shiver. Without giving herself time to think, she threw her arms around him and brushed a kiss over his lips.

  His hands came to her waist and she thought, for a minute, that he was going to pull her closer. Instead, he pushed her away—just a little bit, but enough to get the message across.

  Pulling back, she looked at him uncertainly. “What’s wrong, Matt? Bad day?” She smoothed a hand over the line that had formed between his eyes.

  “No. It was a great day, actually. We made a big presentation to a new client that went very well.”

  “That’s great! Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.” He glanced behind her, into her motel room. “Are you ready to go?”

  “Sure. Absolutely. Just let me get my purse.”

  When she turned back toward the bed, where she’d dropped her purse for easy access, Camille felt as if her smile was painted on. Maybe she was making too big a deal of things, but Matt seemed distant. Unapproachable. Very different from the man she was used to.

  As they walked to the car, she asked again, “Are you sure everything’s okay?”

  He looked at her in apparent surprise. “Of course. Why?”

  She started to shrug it off, to put the blame on herself for being too sensitive. But that was exactly what her mother would have done, taken the blame when she’d done absolutely nothing wrong.

  The thought nearly froze her in her tracks, had her blurting out her thoughts without censoring them. “You seem distant, like you don’t really want to be here.”

  “Of course I want to be here. Where else would I be?”

  His answer, meant to reassure her, did the exact opposite—partly because the smile he’d given her hadn’t reached his eyes and partly because it stank of him patronizing her.

  Back stiff at the thought, she scanned the motel parking lot for his Mustang, but didn’t see the cherry-red convertible anywhere. “I brought my other car,” he said, leading her to an ice-blue BMW Roadster parked near the stairs.

  “When did you get this?” she asked.

  “About six weeks ago. Of course, if I’d known I was going to be a father in a few months, I would have picked something with a backseat.”

  His words hit like barbs, though she wasn’t sure whether they were meant to or not. They were just one more reminder of how much she was disrupting his calm, organized life.

  “It’s really nice,” she murmured inanely, as he held the door open for her. “Thanks.”

  They rode to the restaurant in an uncomfortable silence that was as different from their regular sparring as it could get. More than once Camille tried to initiate conversation, but she was shot down every time. By the time they pulled into the parking lot of her favorite Mexican restaurant, her nerves were frayed and her temper was starting to sizzle.

  Still, she knew how to behave in public, she reminded herself as they were shown to a table, all her joy in the evening with Matt slowly leaking away. Obviously something had upset him and if he didn’t want to talk about it, then he didn’t have to. She’d leave him to brood and focus on enjoying her meal instead.

  She perused the menu slowly, did her best to calm herself down as she decided between spinach enchiladas and a chicken chile relleno. But by the time the waitress had brought their drinks and taken their order, she couldn’t take it anymore.

  “What is wrong with you?” she demanded, just as he shoved a chip loaded with salsa into his mouth.

  He chewed slowly, methodically, then leveled his dark, brooding stare across the table at her. “Nothing. Why?” He shoveled in another chip.

  “You’re acting like you’re getting a root canal—or worse, like you’d prefer to be getting one.”

  He choked on the chip, and had to reach, eyes watering, for his drink to wash it down. She watched him suffer without the least bit of sympathy—glad that, for now at least, the regular, kick-ass Camille seemed to be in charge, instead of that vulnerable, doe-eyed woman in the mirror.

  Just remembering that woman—and the excitement she’d felt getting ready for this date—had Camille’s blood ready to boil.

  “You’re being absurd, Camille.”

  “Don’t do that. Don’t treat me like I’m some stupid little child who has no idea what she’s talking about. You’re different tonight. Harsher.”

  Matt sighed, then rubbed the bridge of his nose as if she was giving him a headache. It was just one more dismissive gesture and Camille had had enough. Shoving back from the table, she picked up her purse and walked away from him.

  “Hey!” He jumped up and followed her. “Where are you going?”

  “To the ladies’ room. Care to join me?” Her tone implied he was anything but welcome.

  “Oh, sorry. I, ah—I’ll wait for you at the table.”

  “Good idea.” Her smile was sweet enough to strip the enamel off his teeth.

  Camille took her time in the restroom, washed her hands a few times, tinkered with her hair and her lipstick and her earrings. She didn’t know what bug had crawled up Matt’s butt, but she had had just about enough of being treated like she was a pariah. Who did he think he was, kissing her like he had that morning—as if the whole world revolved around her—and then all but blow ing her off tonight?

  He could have canceled—it wasn’t like she would have held it against him. A night alone in her motel room with a pizza and a good book would have been much preferable to this debacle. Call her crazy, but she wasn’t overly impressed at being treated as if she had a particula
rly virulent strain of the plague.

  She applied another coat of lip gloss, fluffed her hair yet again in an effort to waste more time. Truth be told, she hated playing these games, but there was no way she was giving Matt the upper hand. Once a woman did that, she could forget about ever getting it back, and she refused to be at the mercy of some man’s whims. She’d had to live that way once, and would be damned if she’d voluntarily put herself into that kind of situation.

  When she figured she had her temper under control again—not to mention having wasted enough time to have Matt cooling his heels—she sauntered back through the dining room to where he was waiting. Their dinners had arrived while she’d been gone, but he hadn’t touched his.

  Too bad his gentlemanly manners couldn’t rub off on his attitude.

  “Are you all right?” he asked as soon as she sat down.

  “I’m fine. Why?”

  “You were gone a long time. I was getting worried.”

  “As you can see, I’m fine. Nothing to worry about.” She turned her attention to the spinach enchiladas in front of her and dug in with gusto, refusing to let him see how much his irritation had affected her appetite.

  After that scintillating exchange, they ate in silence. She could feel Matt’s eyes on her throughout the meal, but she refused to make eye contact. He’d started the whole Mexican standoff and she would not be the one who blinked first. If that made her childish, it was a label she was willing to live with—at least in this instance.

  The waiter was clearing their plates before Matt broke. “Would you like dessert?” he asked quietly.

  “No, thank you. I’m full.” She picked up her water glass, took a long sip.

  “Come on, Camille. Don’t you think this is ridiculous?”

  “What?” she asked him with wide-eyed innocence.

  “You haven’t said a word to me since you got back from the restroom.”

  “I was under the impression that you didn’t want to talk.” She raised an inquiring brow. “But if that isn’t the case, then by all means, let’s chat.”