Baby Maker

by P. Dangelico

  “No J tonight?”

  “He’s with the kids. The sitter got sick.” Nyla sighs tiredly.

  “I wanted to tell you two together but this will do. We’re having a baby.”

  I instantly flush and Nyla’s tip-tilted eyes widen, inspecting me closer. “Oh my God!” She throws her arms around me in a tight hug. “It’s about time!” she shouts, glaring at Dane.

  “No more excuses now. You two are comin’ to New York to visit.”

  “I’d love to. As soon as you find me someone to take care of five kids, a dog, two cats, two parakeets, and a restaurant.”

  Dane shakes his head. “My condolences.”

  Nyla slaps his arm. “You’re having dinner, right?”

  “We sure are.”

  “Let me get you a table.” Nyla motions a young woman over, the hostess I assume. The young lady beams up at Dane. Typical.

  “Save it, Denise. He’s nothin’ but trouble.” Nyla smirks, catching my eyes with a wink. “Take them to table twelve. I’m going to order the chef’s menu. Any allergies?” she asks us. I shake my head. “Great. I’ll be by later to make sure he’s behaving, Stella. I can’t wait to tell you all of the embarrassing stories I know about Dane.”

  “Okay, time to break this up. Bro code, Nyla.”

  She plants a hand on her shapely hip. “Do I look like a bro to you?”

  “You’re an honorary member. Respect the rules,” he tells her and she swats him again. With that, the hostess leads us to our table.

  As soon as she departs things get a little weird. The tension is back, the awareness that we’re no longer hiding under the pretense that we’re spending time together for the sake of the baby. And like every other date I’ve been on, I feel awkward and unsure how to proceed.

  A new song comes on, the lyrics familiar while the voice singing is different.

  “Jolene, by Ray LaMontagne?” I ask the very serious man sitting across from me, so intense I hardly recognize him.

  His gaze is all heat and sin. The good kind, the kind that promises to keep me up at night yearning for more. My eyes veer away, across the busy dining room.

  “This cover is by Eric Church…I love this song,” he says quietly. It compels me to look at him. Goose bumps break out over my arms and snake up the back of my neck.

  He looks away first, to the dance floor, and my gaze follows. A few couples hold each other, barely moving to the sound, no past or present––lost in this one perfect moment.

  “Wanna dance?”

  He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t repeat himself. He simply waits me out, those soulful eyes trained on me as if I’m all that exists.

  “I’m…you know I don’t dance.”

  One side of his mouth curves up. “It’s real easy. You move your feet back and forth.”

  “Don’t be an ass. I mean I’m not good at it.”

  His eyes narrow, crinkling on the sides the way they do when he’s trying not to laugh or smile. Which is almost always. A beat later they soften.

  He gets up from the table and holds out his hand. Without hesitation, I take it and he pulls me up, smoothly navigating us between the wait staff and tables.

  For a man his size, he’s incredibly coordinated. No surprise he made a living out of it. This of course gives birth to a whole host of filthy thoughts about what else he can do with all this natural-born talent.

  Guiding me onto the dance floor, he steps closer, close enough that I have to tip my head back to look at him––even in my heels.

  I’m not sure how long we stand there motionless, holding hands and staring at each other. What I do know is a surge of unspoiled joy rises up in me.

  “When in doubt, lean on me.” Voice heavy with emotion, the rasp is more pronounced. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

  Before I can make excuses, his warmth and strength wraps around me. One large hand on my lower back. The other covering my hand over his heart. His head dips, his lips near my ear, and my breath catches.

  “I knew you’d feel like this,” he murmurs, raw desire hanging on every single syllable.

  Telling myself that I shouldn’t be encouraging this, whatever this is, isn’t cutting it anymore. Nothing has ever felt better. I’m so tired of denying myself because I may wind up hurt. The hurt happens anyway. Might as well enjoy the ride.

  “Like how?” Breathless, the words barely carry.

  Expression solemn, he takes his time answering. “Perfect in my arms.”

  This isn’t one of his throwaway lines, and I have no snappy comeback, just a lump stuck in my throat and a heavy ache in my chest and the world spinning out of control.

  I lean on him, wrap my arms around his waist. Eric Church sings and we sway, body to body, my head to his heart. His beautiful heart. I can feel it beating strongly under my cheek. He’s right. Leaning on him, letting him lead––this is easy.

  He tilts my chin up.

  “I don’t kiss on a first date,” he says with a straight face. “But I’m gonna make an exception for you, Shorty.” His lips start to lower, and my eyes flutter shut in eager anticipation.

  “Well if it isn’t the prodigal son,” a woman behind me drawls in a heavy local accent.

  The man that was all soft and wrapped around me a second ago goes as stiff and cold as an ice sculpture in my arms. My eyes pop open and Dane straightens to his full height, blasting the woman who spoke with enough displeasure to turn her to stone.

  I look over my shoulder to find her standing on the dance floor and she is downright gorgeous. Long chestnut hair, big blue eyes, tall and greyhound thin with huge breasts. Every feature on her face perfect. My mood falls so hard and fast it lands in a graveyard.

  She cocks her head and openly inspects me, flat eyes sliding from head to toe. I become statue-like too. Under her scrutiny, I can feel my hair getting bigger by the second and my ass expanding with it, quadrupling in width.

  I’ve never longed for a flat iron more in my life and silently curse the hair gods that decided to give this woman a waterfall of naturally highlighted, perfectly straight hair, and me a bush.

  Not bothering to feign a smile, she thrusts a bony hand at me. “I’m Brand––”

  Maren Morris’s I Wish I Was comes on and drowns out whatever else she said.

  “Hi Brenda, I’m Stella.” I take her hand and after a quick shake, she yanks hers back.

  “It’s Brandee––with two ees,” she corrects.

  Brandee with two ees doesn’t seem too pleased to make my acquaintance. Her gaze drops me and goes straight for her original target.

  “I didn’t believe it when Jodie called and said you were here.”

  “Believe it,” the iceman standing next to me says.

  Taking my hand, he drags me away, back to the table where we find our food waiting, the chef’s tasting menu, the presentation so beautiful my mouth waters at the mere sight of it.

  Undeterred by Dane’s demeanor, Brandee follows. We sit and Dane immediately digs into his food, head down, angry-eating.

  As if this isn’t awkward enough, she’s presently standing next to the table with her hands on her hips and her long pink fingernails tapping on her Hermes belt.

  My eyes bounce back and forth between Dane and Brandee. It doesn’t take a congressional investigation to conclude that this was once one of his women.

  “Would you like to sit?” I offer. Seems only polite.

  “No!” Dane shouts while Brandee responds, “Love to.”

  She slides her tiny jeans-clad ass onto the booth next to Dane. He makes an annoyed face when he’s forced to slide over to make room for her. Then, before tucking back into his food, he directs his annoyed face at me, as if I’m to blame.

  “How’s your daddy?”

  Dane turns to Brandee with a heavy scowl. “Does everybody know?”

  “Yes.”

  While they go back and forth, I eat my dinner. Not exactly the date I was hoping for.

  “He’s fine,�
� he barks. I’ve never seen him this curt. Needless to say, my curiosity is piqued.

  Brandee’s attention makes the trip back to me. “Who are you?”

  I look at Dane and find him staring right back at me. This should be interesting. When I don’t answer fast enough, Brandee’s predatory focus returns to him. At this point I’m developing a kink in my neck.

  “Who is she?”

  “My girlfriend,” he says, his voice calm, his eyes soft and steady on me. “We’re having a baby.” His lips curve up slightly. “We’re pregnant.” His smile grows wider.

  “Baby?” Brandee repeats, her perfect features twisting in confusion.

  “Yeah,” he affirms with indisputable pride in his voice.

  And my heart trips over itself, stumbles and falls a little closer to love with this man, this unexpectedly selfless, smart, funny man.

  As the knowledge sinks in, Brandee’s face shuts down, her bright blue eyes losing most of the sharpness to them.

  “Tell your daddy that my daddy still wants to buy the ranch.”

  “Will do.”

  Brandee aims her narrowed-eyed stare at me. “Did he tell you that we had a baby?”

  And just like that my stupid, klutzy heart turns to stone and crumbles under the weight of disappointment I feel.

  “Damn it!” Dane’s booming voice makes me jerk, the silverware crashing back down on the table he slammed with a flat palm.

  “We did. We had a baby and he made me get rid of it,” she hurries to inform me.

  I’m going to be sick. I’m about to throw up the filet with sherry mushroom sauce I ate minutes ago. “Excuse me.” I quickly slide out of the booth and run to the ladies room with my hand over my mouth.

  “Stella!”

  In a state of panic, I blast open the doors and make it to the toilet in the nick of time, the food coming up a lot faster than it went down.

  The door bangs open for a second time and heavy male footsteps enter. “Stella?”

  “You can’t be in here,” I hear the middle-aged woman standing at the sink tell him, the first woman in the history of mankind that doesn’t immediately fall into a lust trance by the sight of the Great Dane Wylder.

  “Stella.” His voice is soft and sweet. His big hand gently falls on my back and rubs up and down my spine. He grabs my hair and holds it away from my face as I heave up more food. “Let me get you a paper towel.”

  A beat later he’s pressing one into my hand. I wipe my mouth and start to cry. And not small, delicate tears. Nope. I’m talking no-holds-barred crying. Ugly crying. Crying like someone ripped my heart out. Crying like someone told me my return on investments was only two percent for the year.

  This is everything I fear. I can’t be my mother, longing for a man that was never mine in the first place, continuously reminded of the women he had and the women he may want in the future. I can’t live like that.

  Dane bundles me in his arms and holds on tight, whispering platitudes, words I can’t make out, kisses the top of my head, the shell of my ear, my tear-soaked cheek.

  I should stop him, push him away, but I can’t manage it. Boneless in his arms and exhausted beyond measure, I lean in and let him hold me.

  “Let’s go home.”

  “Wait,” I croak.

  I tear myself away and make it to the sink, splash water on my face, rinse out my mouth. Hot mess doesn’t even begin to describe me.

  In the mirror our eyes lock and it’s all there, a myriad of emotions displayed openly on his face. Guilt, concern, and discomfort are only a few.

  “I’m fine,” I tell him. I’m ready to repeat it a thousand times if that’s what it will take to wipe away the concern.

  Ignoring me, he hooks an arm under my knees and picks me up with no effort whatsoever. My arms automatically wrap around his neck.

  “I can walk, Dane.”

  In a rush to leave, Dane doesn’t spare anyone a glance. In contrast, we immediately become the object of everyone’s interest.

  Leaning against the bar, Brandee’s talking to another woman. Their speculative glances track us across the room. Without a doubt, they’re talking about me, about what a first-class sucker I am.

  “What about Nyla? We didn’t say goodbye.”

  Dane’s grip on me tightens. “I’ll call later.” As he carries me past the bar, Noah spots us and frowns. “Tell Nyla we had to leave.”

  Noah replies with a curt nod, his hawkish eyes narrowing in concern.

  Outside the clean air settles my stomach, the nausea somewhat dissipating. I’m placed on my feet while he unlocks the truck, after which he puts me in. Stepping between my legs, his big hands cradling my face, he forces me to meet his examining gaze.

  “She’s lying.”

  “I don’t care,” I snap back, head shaking.

  “She is, she’s lying and I’ll explain everything when we get home.”

  “I don’t care, Dane! Your personal life is none of my business.”

  “Bullshit.”

  His long lashes lower. In his gold flecked eyes, I see burning need and desire. I don’t doubt that he wants me. The question is, for how long? His focus darts between my eyes and my lips. And then he does it, he lowers his lips onto mine and softly, gently, tentatively kisses me.

  I push him off and he lifts his head, eyelids heavy, gaze drowsy.

  “I just threw up.”

  He smiles then, one of his crooked smiles, and it melts my lonely heart. “Stella,” he murmurs as if it’s a term of endearment, his favorite word in the English language––or any other language for that matter.

  His head slowly dips again, and keeps lowering until his mouth meets mine. This is nothing like the kiss in the kitchen. That was a mauling. A punishment. This one is tender and honest, unsullied by other motives.

  This is a kiss for the sake of a kiss.

  It feels as if everything has been leading up to this moment, this terrifying, beautiful, imperfect moment. And as my eyes shut, something magical happens––

  When I was nine I saw Sleeping Beauty for the first time and I was not impressed. Why would Sleeping Beauty want to be kissed? I didn’t understand it. I thought it was yucky. I remember asking my mother about it.

  “Because with the right man,” she explained. “You’ll feel so happy you could fly, and when you close your eyes you’ll be flying among the stars.”

  She said all this in Spanish of course. Years later, at the advanced age of fifteen, I had my first kiss with Joey Finnegan in a risqué game of truth or dare. All I felt was a slimy, wet slide, and all I saw were the whitehead pimples near his nose.

  But now…now all I see are stars. An explosion of stars. A supernova’s got nothing on Dane Wylder’s kiss.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Stella

  The ride home was quiet. Nervous anticipation, lust––you name it, it was all there, crowding the space between us. Neither one of us said or did anything to acknowledge it.

  As soon as the truck stopped, I jumped out and darted into the house, shouting over my shoulder about having to use the bathroom.

  I’m a real cool customer as you can tell––but I needed to regroup. I needed to get away from the sphere of powerful pheromones he was emitting and clear my head. Because all the months of foreplay boil down to this––once that line is crossed, there is no turning back. This friendship, unorthodox as it may be, will be irrevocably changed.

  In the bathroom I wash my face, my teeth, brush my hair. I inspect myself in the mirror. Anything to drag it out as long as possible. Sex isn’t a big deal to me. Sex with Dane, however, is the biggest deal of all. And sex is what we’re circling around. Nothing more. At least, for him it isn’t.

  When I step into the bedroom, he’s sitting at the end of the bed. Shoes off, like me, still dressed, like me. His elbows rest on his knees, his hands are tucked under his chin. He looks as conflicted as I feel. I’m not overreacting; this is big for both of us.

  He glan
ces up with a gaze so intense I’m surprised it doesn’t burn the clothes off my body. He holds out a hand and in two steps I’m there, mine sliding into his––as natural as breathing. He pulls me onto his lap, his thick muscular thighs contracting at the feel of my soft ones, and wraps his arms around my waist, careful not to press on my tummy.

  The nerves dissolve into desire, the little voice in my head––the one that loves to scream out four-alarm fires––strangely quiet for once.

  His long lashes lower, throwing shade on those movie star cheekbones, the ones I know he inherited from his mother.

  “Remember when I told you that I always wear protection?”

  Dread falls heavy. It’s immediate. One minute all is good, the next I’m bracing for the worst. I’m really not up for hearing about his sexual history with Brandee with the perfect hair and the two ees.

  “Umm, yeah.”

  “I came home for Christmas my sophomore year. I didn’t always, but that year I did…Noah and I were partyin’––we were both wasted.” He grimaces.

  “I think I know the punchline.” When I try to push off his lap, his grip tightens, gently but firmly keeping me in place.

  “Hear me out,” he pleads. Looking into his handsome face, I nod for him to continue. “We had sex and I did get her pregnant. That’s the reason I’ve been so strict about it since.”

  My eyes cut to the ceiling as I lie back on the bed. Following, he gets up on an elbow and hovers over me. “She assumed I’d marry her.”

  His face grows dark and the hand gripping my hip tightens.

  “You don’t owe me an explanation.”

  “Yes, I do,” he insists. “When I made it very clear I had no intention of doin’ that––that if it turned out to be mine, I would take care of my kid, nothin’ else––she got rid of it without tellin’ me. She said she wasn’t sure it was mine.”

  There’s no guessing how he feels about it. When his downcast eyes rise, they’re clouded with pain.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “She didn’t need the money. Her daddy’s got more than she could ever spend. She wanted a husband, one that was set to become famous, and I was a prime target…and when she didn’t get what she wanted, my child was expendable.”