“I don’t know if he’ll ever get used to it,” Cassie said honestly. “He was so sure they’d think he was poking fun at them and hate him for it. But I think he’s getting just a bit tired of everyone trying to help him write it!”
“They all have ideas, huh?” Phyllis commiserated, and Cassie nodded.
“So, back to Sheffield,” Cassie said. “What are your expectations?”
Shaking her head, Phyllis set her cup farther from the edge of the end table. “I’m expecting nothing from him,” she said. “Our being together—it just…happened. Wasn’t planned. Other than when we put on the psychology seminar last week, we haven’t spoken.”
Cassie studied her friend. “And you were happy about that.”
“Absolutely.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m just trying to deal with the ramifications of this pregnancy in my own life. Matt Sheffield doesn’t matter to me at all.”
Sighing, seeming oddly relieved, Cassie sat back. “Can I tell you something then?”
“Of course.”
“If Matt reacts coldly to the news, don’t take it personally. I don’t think the man’s capable of softer feelings.”
Phyllis frowned. “Why do you say that?”
“Last year I had a litter of pups that’d been left at the clinic,” Cassie said. “I took them down to campus one afternoon, offering them to anyone who might want a dog. While I was busy giving care instructions for one of them, another puppy got tangled up in one of the leashes I’d brought along with the stuff I was giving away to the new owners. Sheffield walked by and didn’t even stop. He just left that puppy there, squirming and frightened.”
“Maybe he didn’t see it.”
“He saw it,” Cassie assured her. “He looked right at us. Besides, when he walked by, the puppy started to squeal, which is what alerted me to the whole thing.”
Shrugging, Phyllis looked tired as she laid her head back against the chair. “So maybe he doesn’t like dogs. Probably got bitten by one as a kid.”
“Spoken like a true psychologist. Always looking for the hidden motivations.”
“Everybody has them.”
“Maybe he’s just incapable of caring for anything or anyone,” Cassie said softly.
“Maybe.”
Phyllis didn’t care one way or the other.
“You know,” Cassie said, leaning forward to lay a hand on Phyllis’s arm. “Between Tory and me and Becca and everyone else in Shelter Valley who’s fallen in love with you, we’ll get you through this pregnancy. And we’ll give you whatever help you need for the next eighteen years or more of single motherhood. No sweat. You can count on that.”
Phyllis’s eyes filled. “Thank you.”
“What we can’t do,” Cassie said, her voice taking on a note of warning, “is prevent—or cure—a broken heart.”
Nodding, Phyllis believed her friend. Cassie should know. She’d lived with one for more than ten years. And from the sound of things, there’d been days when the pain had been almost enough to kill her.
“Don’t worry,” she said, “this heart is firmly intact.” And going to remain that way.
AS DAYS WENT, it wasn’t a good one. Matt Sheffield wondered what he’d done to piss off the fates this time. The new gels had come in for the dance show that weekend and they were the wrong colors. The light board—the computer that controlled the lighting—had crashed, so the lights weren’t working. He had a student working for him who could only be described as technically challenged, the kids in his lighting design class had all acted as though they’d rather be someplace else, and his star student, Sophie Curtis, had been missing cues all morning.
And it was a dance show. His least-favorite kind of production to entrust to students. Plays were usually easy to light—a wash, some specials—unless they were going for extravagant effects. Concerts were even easier, symposiums downright boring. But dance—now there, the lighting was part of the art. He could lose himself in creativity and forget about life for a while.
Unless he had butts to wipe every step of the way.
And Sophie…she’d been preoccupied all semester. In the two years he’d known her, Sophie had done nothing but amaze him, with her diligence, her reliability, but mostly her vision. She could make magic out of an empty stage with almost nothing. Whether she was working as lighting designer, stage manager or sound engineer, she was always the glue that held the rest of the students together.
Until this semester. She’d been late, absentminded, short-tempered. She’d lost weight.
Something was wrong.
Not that Matt had any intention of finding out what.
“You busy?”
He glanced up from his desk in the office at the back of the performing-arts center to see who actually had the nerve to interrupt his lunch hour—the one time he could let down his guard and allow free rein to whatever thoughts he felt like having.
Dr. Phyllis Langford was standing there. The psych professor. Matt’s stomach dropped at about the same rate his heart sped up.
The day just kept getting better and better. Not.
“Finishing my lunch,” he said, indicating the empty sandwich wrapper on the desk in front of him. He wadded up the debris, put it and the empty chip bag in the little brown sack he’d brought from home and lobbed the whole package into the trash can beside his desk.
“I knew you had class this afternoon and I wanted to catch you before you went in.”
She hadn’t come any farther into the room. Just stood there, not quite meeting his eyes, but not looking around at anything else, either. An odd mixture of confidence and disinterest. Funny, the month before, he’d only noticed the confidence.
Confidence and passion and… No. They’d forgotten that insane lapse in the production room. They were both going to ignore it, both going to act as though it had never happened.
He studied her through narrowed eyes, hoping they had indeed forgotten. He’d sweated for a couple of days after their tumble that afternoon, afraid she’d come calling with expectations he’d never meet.
And had been honestly, greatly relieved—despite a slightly damaged ego—that she hadn’t. Apparently he’d lost his touch with women; under the circumstances, that was nothing but a blessing.
“You can come in,” he said when she continued to hover. He didn’t want her anywhere near him or his office, but she was making him edgy, just standing there silently full of something to say.
That same sexy scent—the one that had lured him to insanity last month—drifted in with her as she took a seat on the other side of his desk. Phyllis Langford didn’t perch on the edge of her chair as many women did—at least in his office. There was nothing tentative or uncertain in the way she sat, somehow commanding the space around her with her model-slim body. She’d had on black lycra bell-bottom pants the day he’d spent with her. Today she was wearing a circumspect, honey-colored business suit.
He wasn’t sure which he found sexier.
“I’m pregnant.”
Matt blinked. Froze inside. “Pardon?”
“I’m pregnant.”
He waited.
“I just thought you should know.” Dr. Langford, as he preferred to think of her, looked far too calm sitting there, her honey-colored purse, which matched her honey-colored shoes, still slung over her shoulder.
Her hair, a red version of Meg Ryan’s stylishly messy do, distracted him.
“I don’t understand why I’m the one you’re telling,” he said carefully, studying that hair. He knew it wasn’t polite to ask a woman who the father of her child was, but what did a guy say when it wasn’t him? He might have lost a good piece of his mind that Saturday in the theater, but not so much that he hadn’t protected himself, and her, from any and all consequences.
“Because you’re the only man I’ve had sex with since I divorced my husband four years ago.”
He shook his head, not thinking her a liar, just knowing h
is stuff. “I pulled on that condom before I got anywhere near you.”
“Condoms fail.”
“Not likely.”
“Read the box next time you pick some up,” she said, still appearing far too calm, too undemanding, to be telling him what he thought he was hearing. “They’re ninety-seven percent safe. Which leaves three percent for us to fall into.”
No.
“Added to the fact that, once I thought back on it, I realized the wrapper you took from your wallet didn’t look exactly new.”
It hadn’t been. But the damn things didn’t come with “use by” dates. For a reason.
“How long was it in there?” she asked.
He shrugged, uncomfortable. His private life was off-limits. Period.
Or it had been until last month, when he’d pulled down the zipper on the front of his jeans in the Performing Arts Center. Every swearword he could think of—his time in prison had given him quite a repertoire—passed through his mind. Attached to each one was a barb aimed directly at the guilty part of his anatomy.
“I don’t know,” he finally said. “A year, maybe more.”
Like, maybe three more. It’d been a long, long time since he’d relaxed enough to give in to a sexual urge.
“A year’s worth of being smooshed and sat on could definitely do it,” she said.
Damn, the woman sounded as though they were discussing nothing more earth-shattering than a rained-out game of Little League. Didn’t she get it? They had an untenable situation on their hands.
Matt didn’t even know how to be a friend. There was no way he could be a father.
“I…” He paused, wondering what to say to her, to make her understand.
“Don’t worry.” She jumped into the pause. “I’m not asking anything from you. I don’t want anything. What happened last month was a one-time, no-strings-attached episode. And that hasn’t changed.”
Episode. They’d had some of the most incredible sex of his life. They’d apparently made a baby. And she called it an episode?
Was that all the baby was to her, too? An episode? Easy come, easy go? The thought made him feel a little sick.
He opened his mouth to tell her so.
Whoa. He stopped just in time.
A few minutes ago he’d been looking for a way to bail. He could hardly blame her, a single woman with a prominent position at a prestigious college, for wanting to do the same.
Admittedly, bailing was a little more convenient for him than it would be for her.
“Do you mind if I ask what your plans are?” He’d pay whatever expenses she incurred. Money was the one thing he had to give.
For the first time since taking a seat, she looked down, and he saw the chink in her armor. Was oddly relieved to find it there.
“I haven’t really made any plans yet,” she told him. “I’m still getting used to the idea that I’m going to be a mother.”
Going to be a mother. Why did his mind keep repeating everything she said? You’d think he was dense or something.
“You’re planning to have the baby, then?”
Her head shot back up. “Of course. And before you ask, I’m not even considering the alternative, so you can save your breath.”
“I wasn’t going to ask.”
CHAPTER TWO
IT WAS GOING much better than she’d expected. And worse. She’d prepared herself for anger, denial, blame.
What she hadn’t prepared for was a thoughtful, concerned man. Inexplicably, his humanness made the whole thing so much harder to get through. He was supposed to be little more than a fly at her picnic. She’d swat him away and get on with it.
He wasn’t letting that happen—wasn’t letting her discount him as easily as she’d thought.
“So you’re definitely going to have the baby.” He was fooling with a paper clip on his desk. Bending it into odd shapes with two fingers of his left hand. Did that mean he was left-handed? She hadn’t noticed before.
Did that mean her baby might be left-handed, as well?
“Yes, I’m going to have it.” She swallowed. Her baby. And this man’s.
He looked up, head cocked to one side, eyes narrowed. “I can’t be a father.”
The sigh of relief escaped Phyllis before she could prevent it. “Who asked you to be?”
Back to his paper clip. She wondered if he was staring at it so intently because he was really trying to create some particular design—or because he didn’t want to look at her.
“I’ll pay for everything.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
A baby. A baby with her traits and his, all mixed together. Growing inside her body.
He raised his head, frowning. “Of course it’s necessary. I’m responsible. I pay.”
Two could play that game. “I’m responsible. I pay.”
“Well, then, we’re both responsible. We split the bills fifty-fifty.”
No! That wasn’t the plan. She was doing this alone.
But he had her. They were both responsible. She just hadn’t figured he’d care. How was she to know he had a streak of responsibility in his reclusive body?
“Have you been to the doctor yet?”
Phyllis shook her head. Don’t do this, she silently begged him. Don’t confuse me. Don’t weaken me by carrying any of my load, or I might not be able to carry it all when you walk away.
“You’ll let me know when your appointment is?”
She couldn’t breathe. Needed to get outside, let the cool October air chill her skin. Remind herself that she was okay.
“Why?” Somehow her voice sounded almost normal.
He shrugged. “I’m half-responsible. I should know stuff like that.”
“Just how much are you counting on here? What exactly will you want to know?”
“Not sure.” He’d picked up another paper clip. This one with his right hand. “I’m new at this, too. I guess when something costs money, I should know about it.”
That wasn’t as bad as she’d begun to think. It wasn’t personal. Merely financial.
“I’ll see that you get copies of the bills.”
His face expressionless, he nodded.
“There’s one other thing,” she added quickly.
Matt looked up at her, his eyes wary, questioning.
“Cassie Montford knows you’re the father—it seemed necessary that someone know in case something happens—but she’s been sworn to secrecy. I don’t want anyone else knowing.”
He seemed to consider that for several moments. “It would probably make things easier on both of us,” he said at last.
Phyllis stood, satisfied. “That’s what I thought.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
“Well, send me the bills.” Tossing the paper clip, he stood, too.
“I will.”
“Okay, see ya.” He’d followed her to the door.
“Goodbye.” Phyllis spoke with finality.
If she had her way, they’d never see each other again.
He made her tremble. He made her crazy and just a little angry. She absolutely refused to let him become part of her life.
She didn’t want or need his financial contributions.
This time it was the bills and not the check that would get mysteriously lost in the mail.
THE KICKING BAG went down. And came back up. Then went down again. Turning, Matt caught it with a perfectly placed side kick, knocking it into the corner of the wall. And, with hands properly angled in front of him, he turned and landed another perfect blow with the opposite foot.
Sweat dripped down the sides of his face. He didn’t bother wiping it off. It burned his eyes, but he ignored the pain, which was only the minutest portion of the punishment he deserved.
After more than an hour in his home gym, he wasn’t even close to the worn-out state he was working toward.
How could he have done it? He of all people?
Had life taught him nothing
? The time he’d never be able to recapture. The humiliation and abuse. The lost dreams. Lost innocence. Had it all been for nothing?
Another smack on the bag, and the sand-weighted bottom scooted along the floor.
He just couldn’t believe what was happening. Couldn’t have imagined a worse day than the one he’d just had.
He’d made a woman pregnant. A perfectly respectable doctor of psychology was facing a complete and permanent upheaval in her life because of him.
Forgetting himself to the point of lost discipline, Matt hauled off and slugged the kicking bag with both fists, over and over, like a novice and completely unskilled boxer, rather than the Tae Kwon Do black belt he was. Logically he knew he was solving nothing. That he was probably going to hurt himself.
But he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t harness the anger, the despair and disappointment coursing through him. Didn’t know what to do next, except wear himself out, force himself into complete exhaustion. How was he going to live with himself?
He’d just begun to find a measure of internal peace. Maybe even forgiveness. And in the span of a ten-minute office visit, years of hard work, of unrelenting self-control and mental promises, had been shot to hell.
He’d been in Shelter Valley for four years. Pretending to himself that he was building a new life, becoming the man he’d always expected himself to be.
When instead, he was exactly what he’d been before Will Parsons had been kind enough to give him this job, this chance.
A man who’d spent years in prison. He hadn’t been guilty of the statutory rape of which he’d been convicted. But he hadn’t been entirely blameless, either. He’d allowed that girl—a student—to think he found her desirable. He hadn’t intended to; he’d only meant to offer a confused young girl a measure of confidence, a sense of approval. In his own idealistic ignorance, he’d tried to help someone and had only confused her more.
Slumping to the carpet, sweat dripping down his back and chest beneath the soaked T-shirt he was wearing, Matt grabbed his aching head between both fists.
Just Around the Corner Page 2
