Beginning With Their Baby

by Tracy Wolff

  Rhiannon’s smile was sad, but her eyes were clear when she said, “I’m not giving you any advice that I’m not willing to follow, you know. I met with a real estate agent last week and the house goes on the market on Monday.”

  “Are you sure you want to do that? I can help you with the payments—”

  Rhiannon’s hand clapped playfully over his mouth. “What did I just tell you? You can’t fix everything.”

  “Maybe not. But I can fix this. How much do you need?”

  “I need to fix this, Matt. It’s my life and it’s important to me that I do it on my own.” She rapidly drained her cup of coffee.

  “Now I have to go. My new boss wants to meet to discuss the details of an upcoming event.”

  “On a Saturday?”

  “Yes, on a Saturday.” She grabbed her purse, leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. He pulled her into a hug and held on to the familiar honeysuckle scent of her, this woman who had partially raised him. “Now, I hope you don’t mind, but I’m sticking you with the bill.” Then, pulling away, she added, “Call me and tell me what you end up deciding.”

  As Matt watched his sister walk away, her limp barely noticeable after two surgeries and extensive physical therapy, he wondered what he was supposed to do now. He’d come to lunch hoping his sister could help him clarify his relationship with Camille, but he was more confused than ever.

  Give up control?

  Trust Camille not to leave him?

  Step back as Rhiannon struggled to do things on her own?

  Let all the cards around him simply fall where they may?

  Just thinking the words made him shudder, but then he didn’t know what other choice he had. But in the back of his head, while he paid the check, he couldn’t help wondering where all this hands-off behavior left him. In his mind, it didn’t bode well when the man who was known for making and sticking with the most detailed of plans couldn’t follow his latest one from one minute to the next.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THREE WEEKS LATER, MATT was still trying to sort things out in his mind. During that time, he’d managed to keep his distance from Camille—which hadn’t been all that difficult as she’d alternated between treating him like a casual friend and a plague victim, depending on what the situation called for. Though she was willing to hang out with him, things had to be kept on a superficial level—every time he tried to have a meaningful conversation with her, she pretty much kicked him to the curb. Which was a lot more annoying than he had expected it to be, especially this week, as he was preparing to head overseas for a few weeks.

  Since Reece had gotten married, Matt had been doing most of the traveling, which was normally fine with him. But now, with Camille and a baby on the way, he found himself wanting to stick closer to home.He’d tried to talk to Camille about it the night before, but she’d blown him off. Tonight he wouldn’t let her, he decided as he let himself into the house.

  He went to set his keys in the bowl he kept on the entryway table for just that purpose and found it filled with orange-scented potpourri—and the table it rested on was cluttered with mail, magazines and a bunch of other indecipherable junk.

  Ignoring the mess, he headed through the great room to the kitchen. On his way, he did his best to ignore the fact that his beloved poker table was loaded down with bags from the closest art supply store.

  Bottles of paint, brushes and other art supplies tumbled haphazardly out of the bags, and he gritted his teeth when he saw the smears of red pigment that crisscrossed the green felt. Trying to keep his cool, he averted his eyes, but it was difficult. A man’s poker table should be sacrosanct, certainly above being used as a rest stop for a bunch of painting stuff.

  He stepped into the kitchen and realized Hurricane Camille had struck in here, as well. A cereal bowl and some glasses were in the sink and a frying pan was on the stove, a grilled cheese sandwich still resting in it—as if she had made it, then forgotten to eat it. The crumpled cheese wrappers and half-used butter container were still on the counter.

  Shaking his head, he reached into the fridge to grab a beer and came away with a tall can of paint thinner instead. Paint thinner? He stared at the container for long seconds, then burst into laughter. How could he not? Camille certainly knew how to keep a man on his toes.

  When she’d first moved in, he’d been more than a little concerned about the chaos that seemed to follow wherever she led. But lately, he’d learned to appreciate her particular brand of absentminded mess. Which was more than a little disconcerting, now that he thought about it. How far gone was a guy when he found endearing things that would normally irritate the hell out of him?

  Because he didn’t want to dwell on his feelings for Camille—and the confusion that came with those feelings—he dropped the paint thinner on the counter and made sure that when he reached into the fridge this time he came out with a bottle of beer.

  Popping the top on it, he headed back toward the family room and his TV, but on the way, he noticed that the answering machine light was blinking—despite the fact that Camille’s electric-yellow Volkswagen was in the driveway. She’d bought the secondhand car a few days ago.

  He absently hit the play button, then picked up the remote control and started flipping through the channels, looking for the game. He only half listened as his mother extolled the virtues of her daughters—all of whom remembered to call her daily—and completely ignored a message from a carpet-cleaning service. But when the third message came on, he sprung to full alertness, the Texas Rangers game completely forgotten.

  Camille, this is Dr. D’Amato’s office. The doctor wanted me to call and remind you that time was running out on the blood test you discussed at your last appointment. To be effective, it has to be done no later than next Friday. Please call us at 555-2761 to set up an appointment.

  Blood test? Matt stared at the answering machine in confusion. He’d missed Camille’s last checkup because of a meeting at work, but they’d talked about it when he’d gotten home. She’d never mentioned anything about a blood test.

  Probably because she’d figured he’d drag her across town to get it done right away—and she would have been correct. He could put up with the mess and the chaos and the fact that she was always fifteen minutes late, but he just couldn’t understand her penchant for procrastination—especially when it came to their baby.

  Why hadn’t she arranged to have the test done? he wondered again, as he headed toward her studio to ask her. She was probably knee-deep in the painting she’d started a few days before and would throw a fit about being disturbed, but at that moment he didn’t much care. The child she carried was his, and he had a right to be kept informed of what was going on. If she was ducking a blood test, he wanted to know why.

  She’d probably have some excuse about how she was too busy with the commissions she’d gotten since moving back to Austin to fit in a run to the doctor’s. But he wasn’t taking any chances with her health—or the baby’s. He’d call first thing in the morning and get an appointment—and he’d go with her to make sure that it got done.

  Her studio door was closed, which was unusual enough that it gave him pause. Still, trying to be polite, he knocked once. Twice. But by the third time, when she hadn’t answered, he began imagining her passed out on the floor, injured or miscarrying.

  It was an illogical leap, but one he couldn’t help making even as he told himself he was being ridiculous. Camille was probably engrossed in her art—the world could go by while she was painting and she wouldn’t notice.

  He knocked again, to no avail. To hell with it—he was going in. Pushing the door open, he scanned his old loft. Camille had made a bunch of superficial changes, but he barely registered them as he glanced around, frantic to find her.

  His entire body stiffened, then relaxed, when he caught sight of her curled up on the couch, her knees drawn toward her chest in an unconscious fetal position.

  He walked across the room, stood over her. Chec
ked to make sure her chest was rising and falling even as he told himself he was an idiot. It was. He told himself to leave, told himself that she was fine and he was invading her privacy by watching her sleep.

  But he didn’t move, except to crouch down next to her. It had been months since he’d seen her sleep, months since he’d sat up at night watching the play of emotions across her face. She was more beautiful—and more heartbreaking—than he remembered.

  She was also exhausted. Though her first trimester had come and gone, she was still tired all the time. More than once she had almost fallen asleep at the dinner table. He’d called Rick and asked about it a few weeks ago, as all the books said she should be feeling energetic in her second trimester. The doctor had laughed at him and told him to stop worrying. All women were different, and for a woman as slender as Camille, carrying a baby was difficult work.

  He’d doubled his campaign to get her to eat more and she’d obliged him, but it didn’t seem like any of the food was sticking. She was as thin as ever, except for the small bump that had begun pressing against the front of her T-shirts.

  He’d also suggested that she slow down, not take on as many paintings and temp jobs, but she’d merely laughed at him. She needed the money, she’d said, and after years of having to make her living doing office temp jobs, she was thrilled to finally have enough portrait business to build up her savings.

  The first part of her answer had infuriated him, as he had more than enough money to support all three of them. But he hadn’t argued—not then, and not at the beginning of the month when she’d written him a rent check to cover her bedroom and studio.

  No matter how much he hated it, he’d kept his mouth shut and taken her money. She’d be in the wind if he didn’t. The fact that he was putting her rent money into the college fund he’d started for the baby soon after he’d learned Camille was pregnant was small comfort.

  As he watched her sleep, she squirmed around, as if looking for a comfortable spot. For most people, sleep was a peaceful time, but for Camille—with her boundless energy and unmentionable past—it was simply a drop into the unconscious, a time when all of the feelings she kept hidden during the day were released.

  Just like now. Her brow was wrinkled, her lips pursed, her shoulders hunched—she looked as if she were in pain, or about to ward off a painful blow. Her arms circled her growing belly protectively and her back bowed outward.

  It hurt to see her like this, more than it had months ago when he’d begged her to stay. As he’d watched her the past few weeks, listened to what she said—and more important, to what she didn’t—he’d come to realize that Camille had demons, demons she didn’t trust him enough to mention. He couldn’t help wondering if those demons were the cause of her exhaustion.

  Reaching a hand out, he stroked it softly over her wild gypsy curls. She smelled like strawberries and cream and warm, sweet woman. He breathed deeply, took the scent inside of himself even as he tangled his fingers in her miles of hair.

  It felt so good to be close to her, even like this. So good to touch her, when it had been weeks since she’d let him do more than awkwardly shake her hand.

  Weeks since he’d kissed her as if she was his entire world.

  Weeks since he’d admitted his fears to Rhiannon—and himself.

  Though he was still determined to protect himself from her, determined not to fall for her again just to watch her walk away, he didn’t move from her side.

  He couldn’t—he was spellbound by the soft sounds she made in her sleep and the miles of skin exposed by her cherry-red tank top and black maternity shorts.

  He longed to touch her, and a drop of sweat rolled down his back as he resisted the urge. Stroking her hair while she slept was one thing, but copping a feel was another thing entirely. Even without touching all of her creamy skin, his body was reacting. Hardening to the point of pain. Reminding him just how long it had been since he’d been with a woman.

  There’d been nobody since his last time with Camille, and that had been about five months before. But he didn’t want anyone else—he was smart enough to know that only Camille would do.

  Because the thought sent ice skating up his spine, he pulled away abruptly. Reached for the afghan draped across the back of the couch and covered Camille with it. He still wanted to talk to her about the doctor’s appointment, but it could wait. Better to let her sleep—she needed it. And he needed time to remind himself of all the reasons trusting Camille was a bad idea.

  Letting himself out of her studio, he went in search of food—doing something concrete would keep his mind off the intangible struggle of emotions inside him. And if it didn’t, at least it would keep his hands—and mouth—busy.

  CAMILLE PLOWED INTO consciousness the way some women worked their way through a shoe sale at Nordstrom’s—with power, deliberation and a great deal of steely determination.

  It had always been like that for her. One brief moment of vulnerability followed by a calculated crash into armored reality. Lazing around in that hazy state between sleep and wakefulness wasn’t for her—it was dangerous there, filled with unguarded thoughts and undeniable emotions. When she was young, it was the time when the monsters had come—when she’d been hurt or afraid and there’d been no one to turn to.These days she made sure she relied on herself, that she was never vulnerable enough to need someone to comfort her.

  Sitting up, she glanced around the shadowed room, tried to get her bearings. Was she in Italy? Paris? New York? Her gaze fell on the long picture window that ran the length of the room and she abruptly remembered. She was in Austin. At Matt’s house. Pregnant.

  How deeply had she been sleeping that she could have forgotten any of that, even for a moment? It wasn’t as if thoughts of the baby—and Matt—didn’t rule her every waking hour.

  Because thinking of Matt when she was still warm from sleep made her feel vulnerable—and even a little aroused—she quickly climbed to her feet, then went into the attached bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. It was dark outside and Matt should be home any minute—she should get dinner ready.

  She went back into her studio and searched for the slippers she always wore, because Matt’s wood floors hurt her feet after a while. She found them behind a prepped canvas, but when she bent to pick them up, she lost her balance and nearly fell flat on her face.

  In an effort to save herself, she threw a hand out to grab on to something—and ended up putting her fist right through the canvas she’d prepped a few hours before.

  She stared at the mess and couldn’t help wondering what was happening to her. The book Matt had gotten her said pregnant woman had a tendency to be unsteady as their stomachs grew—something about not being used to the new weight distribution. She’d thought it odd when she read it, but obviously there was something to the theory.

  Yet one more thing to look forward to with this pregnancy, as if incessant exhaustion, skin breakouts and swollen ankles weren’t already more fun than she could handle.

  Hot, annoyed and thoroughly put out with the entire world, she made her way slowly down the stairs, making sure to hang on to the banister as she did. With her luck, she’d averted a fall in the studio just to tumble down the steps.

  She was about halfway down the stairs when she heard the unmistakable sound of a ballgame—and a knife repeatedly striking a cutting board. She’d slept through his arrival. A shiver of unease moved through her as she wondered if he’d come looking for her, if he’d watched her while she slept. She had a tendency to have nightmares, and to talk in her sleep, which was why she rarely took lovers. It was even rarer for her to stay with one afterward. In fact, Matt was the only man she could ever remember sleeping with—why hadn’t she realized that before? And how stupid was she to repeatedly make herself vulnerable to a man who found it so easy to push her away?

  More freaked out by the revelation than she wanted to admit, Camille gingerly made her way through the family room to the kitchen. On the way, s
he realized for the first time how messy she’d let Matt’s house get. After dinner, she’d have to straighten things up—no matter how comfortable she felt here, she needed to remember that this arrangement was just temporary. This was Matt’s home and she didn’t belong here, not on any permanent basis, anyway.

  “Hey. I thought I heard you in here. Did you get a good nap?”

  She straightened so quickly that she hit her head on the floor lamp she was standing under. For a second she saw stars, and her hands clutched her head defensively.

  Matt swore as he crossed the room. “Are you okay? I didn’t mean to startle you.” Gentle hands cupped her face as his long, graceful fingers probed her scalp.

  “I’m fine.” Was that her sounding so breathless? She clenched her teeth against the knee-jerk reaction, told herself to get a grip.

  “I heard the crack all the way across the room. You’ll probably have—Yep, here’s the bump.”

  “Ouch!” She sucked in her breath as he poked at the tender spot.

  “Sorry. Let’s get you some ice.” He turned toward the kitchen, his hand on her lower back to guide her.

  “I’m fine, Matt. I don’t need ice.”

  “You do if you don’t want to have a permanent bump there. They calcify quickly, you know.”

  “Since I have no plans to go bald anytime soon, I don’t really consider that a problem.”

  “Still.” He tugged her along as he always did, pushing and prodding at her until she found herself seated at the kitchen table, holding a bag of ice over her injury. She couldn’t believe how much it rankled.

  “How do you do that?” she asked as Matt returned to the cutting board.

  “Chop peppers?” He tossed a surprised look over his shoulder.