by Stacey Lynn
My cheeks burn and I wipe my hand across my mouth. I haven’t meant to say so much, but it’s so easy to get lost in my dream and my passion.
“It sounds like your parents are assholes for not appreciating you as you are, Cara, but why are you telling me this?”
“Right.” The burn in my face spreads and I readjust my position on my couch. Lucy moves with me, almost burrowing into my lap even though she’s still on the floor. It’s like she senses my stress and is comforting me. I can’t help but watch Braxton’s gaze fall to the dog and his thick, black brows furrow.
“Well, the truth is, I’ve never had a one-night stand. I didn’t mean to say or imply sleeping with you was a disaster, I more meant I’m the disaster, because I had no idea what to do afterward—”
“Never?” Those furrowed brows are now arched high and the surprise is evident. “You’ve never?”
“Not like that, no.” I squeeze my eyes close as memories assail me. Powerful ones. Passionate ones. That night was filled with more passion that I’d ever experienced. So no, I’ve never experienced anything like that night before. “I didn’t know what to do afterward. Stay? Go?”
“Waking me up and kissing me would have been my preference.” A smirk tugs at his lips and he takes a swig of his drink. “And the fucking-disaster part?”
“I meant I was a disaster.”
“Funny, because I don’t remember there being anything disastrous about that night, Cara. And trust me, I’ve remembered it a lot. Often. On repeat.”
Thump. Thump. Thump. It’s my heart, threatening to escape my chest. At his words, the heated look in his eyes as he’s leaning forward. He’s taken control of this conversation and tossed us on the expressway in the wrong direction.
I clear my throat. Multiple times. He has to sense my unease because that smirk of his is on full blast. Goodness. This is why I jumped into bed with him, why it was my idea. All he has to do is set his intense expression on me with a mirthful look in his eyes and I’m a goner.
I fight it back, brushing my hands down my thighs. They’re sweaty. Clammy. I’m losing control of everything I wanted to say to him and I can barely bring myself to regret it.
Pretending to ignore everything he’s said to me, I say, “I just wanted you to know I didn’t regret it. I’m sorry if me walking out that morning hurt you.”
His smirk widens to full-out grin and he leans back in his chair, arms on the rests, knees spread wide. His head tilts to the left and his simple, controlled movements almost do me in. I imagine clamoring across the couch to sit in his lap so he can hold me, comfort me, slide his hands to my backside or up beneath my shirt.
It’s a disturbing visual, one I can’t shake, and by the way my breathing increases, I know Braxton can tell. I’m doing a poor job of hiding my attraction to him.
I could blame it on hormones except I think it’s likely to be a complicated case of lust.
“Forgiven,” Braxton says. “And for what it’s worth. I’m glad you’re keeping the baby. Even more happy you came to tell me about it.”
His words are a balm to all my nerves. He’s implied it, he’s shown he’s a man who takes care of the mess we’ve made, but to be happy? My frazzled nerves pop, loosening all the tightness I’ve been holding for weeks while I debate what to tell him, if to tell him.
“Thank you,” I breathe. My hand slides to my stomach, my swollen area that is pressing against my barely held together jeans. His gaze drops, eyes narrow, one hand curls around the armrest until the white knuckles are definitely visible beneath his ink.
“You should get some rest,” he says, and this time, I can’t argue. Something odd and fiery is in the air, something I remember, but even thinking something can happen between us now is ridiculous.
I’m just the girl he knocked up, the new responsibility, and while I’m thrilled he wants to be a part of this baby’s life, Braxton and I are not a we. I need to remember that.
“Good night,” I whisper, standing and giving Lucy a final ear rub as I move. “Sleep tight, Lucy.”
She makes a purr that sounds more like a cat than the large and fierce-looking dog she already is, and I swear, as I head to my bed, I hear Braxton call Lucy to him and say, “You like all that attention, sweet girl? Yeah, I would too.”
Chapter 6
Braxton
Sleep doesn’t come easy. Between the reality of the last twenty-four hours crashing around me, along with the girl I’ve wanted—dreamed of—sleeping in my apartment, as well as trying to sleep on the couch so I can hear Cara if she needs me, I’m up and showered and ready for the morning by six.
We have too many things to talk about, and I’ll rest once we get them settled. First thing, her doctor in the emergency room yesterday suggested she contact her regular obstetrician to set up an appointment and verify everything is okay. We didn’t even have time yesterday to talk about her doctor’s appointments, if she wants me to come with her, or who her doctor is.
I want to know all of it, and not just the pregnancy.
I want to know more about Cara. Her apology yesterday still shakes me, and I’m trying not to think about the fact she’d never had a one-night stand before. Isn’t it a rite of passage for everyone in college these days? My amount of one-nighters is uncountable. They’re easier than relationships. And she certainly wasn’t a virgin the night we were together. She was way too talented to be pure.
There’s something inside of me that makes me want to pound my chest in victory and issue a battle cry at the idea Cara, someone who doesn’t use sex for sport but for connection and passion, chose me.
It means she wanted more than just my dick, something I’d been certain was all she wanted when she fled the room like the hounds of hell were chasing her.
Now things are different. She could only have reacted the way she did last night if she still wanted me, if the night meant just as much to her as it did to me.
I don’t just want this baby, I want a family.
She’s going to be the one to give it to me while I work my ass off to give her everything she needs.
Reaching beneath the collar of my shirt, I tug on the ridiculous necklace I’ve worn since I was eight. Irvin and I bought it at an arcade, one of those stupid penny presser things. I carried it in my pocket for months until I lost it, but Irvin had found it, drilled a hole in it and slid it onto a chain so I wouldn’t lose it again.
I take it off to sleep and that’s it.
I press the faux-gold coin to my lips. “This is for all you’ve done for me, man.”
Like always when I think of Irvin and everything he gave me, not just his investments, but saving me from a life on the streets, my chest burns.
Yet it’s rarely in as much pain as it was when he first passed.
It’s strength. Confidence. I might have been sired by a heroin addict who took off as soon as he got off, but Irvin is the man who made me. And Irvin Teller is a thousand times the man I can only ever hope to be.
I know exactly what he’d say to me if he were standing in front of me. He’d clasp my hand, pull me to his chest, and he’d wrap me into one of his comforting bear hugs, all while whispering, “Go and get your girl, young man, and make sure you treat her right.”
“Will do, old man.” I kiss it again and slip the necklace back beneath my shirt.
In the kitchen, I grab crackers and 7 Up for Cara and head to her room. I’ve already let Lucy out more than once this morning and as soon as we came back, she trotted to Cara’s doorway, and lay down across the threshold.
I’ve checked on her several times and she hasn’t moved, but when I round the corner this time she’s sitting, nose almost pressed to the door, and a tinny whine escapes her.
“What is it?” I ask.
I haven’t had
Lucy long, but I’m more than amazed at how she wants to be close to Cara. Dogs are good judges of people and even without Cara’s apology last night, I was halfway to letting it go based on Lucy’s reaction alone.
As Lucy continues to whine and scratch the door, my steps speed. Her ears are pulled back, on alert, and I’ve long since learned dogs know more than we think they do. Shoving aside manners and politeness, I open the door to Cara’s room expecting to see her still sleeping. Instead, her covers are thrown back and the bed is empty.
The bathroom door is closed but the light is on, coming from beneath the door and eventually, so is the vivid sound of retching.
“Shit.” I drop the crackers and pop on the dresser and move double-time to the bathroom, where I find Cara’s hunched over the toilet.
Lucy is behind me, whining, but it’s Cara who has my full attention.
I crouch behind her and gather her long, thick chocolate-colored hair in my fist. “You’re okay,” I tell her.
“Oh my God. Go away.”
She’s not currently puking but her arms are crossed over the toilet seat, her head resting on her forearms.
She reaches up and flushes, then settles back to her spot.
“What do you need?”
“Privacy.”
She moans, and I can’t help but bite back a laugh. “It’s not like I haven’t seen it before.”
“Ugh. Don’t remind me.”
My hand runs up and down her back slowly, hoping to soothe her, and eventually she pushes off the toilet and rests on her heels.
She’s still gripping the seat with her hands, but with every movement, she seems to grow more confident that she’s done.
“Okay?”
“Besides humiliated you’ve seen me puke again, yeah, I’m okay.”
“Come on.” I hold out my hand for her to take, and when she puts her palm in mine, I lift her to her feet. “I was bringing you a drink and crackers. Perhaps if I’d thought about it sooner, you wouldn’t be here.”
She turns and gives me a tired, worn-out smile. “I agree. This is your fault.”
Not exactly what I meant, but I’ll play along if it means she keeps smiling at me. “Of course it is.”
I settle her on the bed. While she nibbles on a cracker, I go back to the bathroom, clean up the floor and counter, and bring her the antinausea pills. “Have you taken this yet?”
“No. And I’m sure if I had, it’d be flushed by now.”
She’s barely looking at me. Stupid. She has no reason to be embarrassed around me. I’ve seen more of her body than she probably has. “I’ll let you get ready. Is there anything you need?”
“Pants to wear home? Have any women’s yoga pants lying around?”
Her smile tells me she’s teasing, but I’m not stepping on that trap. If I want to keep my dick, the answer to that question is always no. Fortunately, I’d be honest in saying it too.
“I have some sweats you can wear.” They’ll swim on her, though.
She must be thinking the same thing because she says, “That’s not necessary. I can wear the jeans I had on yesterday. They’re just uncomfortable.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, but thank you.”
She nibbles on another cracker and I wait until she’s taken her pill and sipped her drink and she still hasn’t looked at me.
Being embarrassed is one thing.
Avoiding me is something else and it burns something painful in my gut.
I can chalk it up to us being mostly strangers, but I’ve heard enough about her over the last couple of years to get the general idea that’s she’s pretty damn cool.
That was the opinion I had of her at the wedding as well—down-to-earth, slightly crazy in a good way, full of fun. She was definitely sexy as hell. Yet, since she walked into MadInk she’s had one hand up, like she wants me involved in this pregnancy but doesn’t want me getting too close.
Well, too damn bad for her. I haven’t fought my way out of the slums only to become successful enough to open a half-dozen-and-counting tattoo parlors, some of which have been shown on cable network reality shows, to stop fighting for what I want now.
* * *
—
I find a rare spot of street parking and pull to a stop in front of Cara’s worn-down old building in the Pearl District. This makes no sense. She alluded to her family’s wealth yesterday talking about her dad’s career, but Dan has also mentioned her parents are crazy rich. And she’s living in a crumbling apartment that looks barely habitable?
The question You live here? burns on my tongue but tastes sour in my mouth.
She said it to me yesterday, and I refuse to talk to her the same way or risk throwing it back in her face. The ride was quiet, filled with stilted conversation until I turned on my Jazz Rock playlist. Usually it helps calm me, but there’s been nothing calm flowing through my veins.
“This is it?” I ask, taking the crappy tone out of my voice.
“Yep. Home sweet home.” Her eyes glance to the top level of the five-story building and her shoulders sink, as if the thought of walking up that many stories is already daunting.
She lives in a shithole. Across the street, two homeless men are huddled in the overhang to another building’s entrance. More are wandering up and down the street, most likely trying to decide where to hang for the day. Homeless people are common in Portland, and typically harmless. Hell, I never hesitate to either feed them or hand them a few dollars.
Knowing Cara lives where so many congregate settles like a rock in my stomach. She has to be careful. She’s pregnant with my child.
I’m three seconds from throwing my gearshift into drive and taking her back to my place when she opens the door. “Thanks for the ride.”
“Wait.” I climb out and close my door at the same time she does. “Let me walk you up.”
She shifts her gaze to the building and back to me, nodding. “Okay.”
Finally, accepting help unwillingly but without the argument. I could get used to this.
It’s at least a step in the right direction.
I meet her at her side of the car, and take the small bag I gave her to carry her medicine and some extra crackers I’d insisted she bring for the short ride.
Following her to the door, I look over my shoulder and notice the attention we’ve received—along with my BMW—and glare at the few men eyeing us. Damn it.
Her living here makes absolutely no sense. She has to at least have some money.
“What floor do you live on?” I ask, as we take stairway after stairway. Turn after turn.
She looks at me over her shoulder. Already her healthy color from yesterday is fading.
Shit.
I move quickly, wrap her in my arms, and lift her.
Hands fly to my shoulders. “What are you doing?”
“What’s it look like?” For good measure, I flash her a wink. Damn, this feels good. Other than yesterday when she was passed out, there have been more times I remember enjoying her in my arms. I will those memories away before my dick springs to life like a teenager having his first glance of Dad’s stolen Playboys. “What floor?”
“Top. Fifth floor.”
“Not to sound like a dick, but how have you been doing all these stairs with being so sick?”
“Slowly.”
The smile she was wearing disappears and I do feel like a dick. Something must have happened to me when we were in the hospital and I was watching fluids get pumped into her thin frame.
I’m protective of her. She has my child inside of her and hell if I’m letting anything happen to either of them. The fierce need to force her back in the car and return to my place returns. There’s plenty of room for both of us. I even
have a spare for a baby’s nursery. Hell, I’m even considering what fucking color to paint the baby’s bedroom walls and I haven’t touched a single wall since I moved in…when she stops me and I set her on her feet.
She opens the door and waves me in but I freeze at the threshold.
“Holy shit. Did you get robbed?”
Chapter 7
Cara
“No, I didn’t get robbed.” I look around the one-room studio apartment just to make sure, but everything looks to be right where I left it, and I inwardly cringe. This isn’t the first time I’ve been embarrassed around Braxton, but I thought we’d be on level footing. I mean, how much can a tattoo parlor owner make? And I don’t care about the money, or how much of it he has, I’ve just been around so much of it in excess my entire life that part of his original appeal was he was so normal.
Now, he’s living in an amazing penthouse, just as rich as every other guy I’ve dated. Who cares that my apartment is the size of a shoebox with my bed being a couch that pulls out and my clothes and art supplies are crammed into one room?
And, well, it could look like I was robbed because I’m not the tidiest person in the world. All my belongings are scattered, literally, over every single square inch of the apartment, including the floor. But, hey, maximizing storage space in a teeny-tiny rental is difficult on the best of days, and I’m saving for my future plans.
Which I now have to change. And that’s been overwhelming to think about.
I certainly don’t need his judgment about where I live, and the irony of that isn’t lost on me.
I kick several pairs of shoes out of the way and turn to Braxton, still standing in the doorway. “Thank you for the ride home.”
