Her Baby and Her Beau

by Victoria Pade

  Immy wasn’t awake yet and he’d had even less sleep than usual, this time because he was so disgusted with himself. And not knowing what else to do with that disgust—or the whole slew of other feelings that seemed to be holding him under siege—he’d come down to the gym to try to work it out of his system.

  Discipline. He needed discipline. He was a marine and marines were disciplined. When they knew better than to do something, they didn’t do it.

  And he knew better than to go around kissing Kyla.

  But he had anyway.

  Friday night there was that stupid kiss on the forehead that was supposed to look like nothing but comfort and support—but who was he trying to fool? He’d just needed to touch her. To get closer to her. To kiss her. Landing it on her forehead rather than her mouth was as far as discipline had gotten him that night.

  And last night?

  Last night was even worse—he’d kissed her on the mouth. Twice. And it was still nothing compared to what he’d wanted. But he just kept giving in to the damn weakness he had for her—that was the problem.

  And God help him, he had a weakness for her...

  She was on his mind every minute and not only because he was taking care of her—he wasn’t merely thinking about whether or not she was overdoing it, or when she should rest, or if she seemed to be on the mend and how to help get her there.

  No, he was thinking about the way her hair shone like silk.

  He was thinking about her dark amber eyes with their streaks of honey gold.

  He was thinking about how small and cute her nose was.

  He was thinking about how downy her skin looked and aching to brush the side of her beautiful face with the backs of his fingers.

  He was thinking about how much he liked the sound of her voice, of her laugh. About the way she looked when she smiled and flashed those damn dimples.

  He was thinking about the view he got when she walked out of a room—of that perfect, tight rump.

  He was thinking about keeping his eyes from drifting down to her chest. And how much he wanted to get his hands on it.

  And yes, he was thinking about her mouth, her lips. How he hadn’t been able to get enough of kissing her that summer. How much he wanted to kiss her now...

  As if he were still a hormonal kid who didn’t have years of training and conditioning and discipline to teach him how to control himself.

  Get a grip! he mentally shouted as he picked up heavier dumbbells to do more biceps curls.

  This was no time to get involved in any relationship. He had to find his way in this new chapter—this new volume—of his life before he could let anything like that happen.

  He wasn’t messed up from his time in the service. He honestly wasn’t. Lily had been messed up. He had friends who were messed up. He knew what it looked like. What he had problems with was exactly what he’d told Kyla.

  Adjusting to things, getting his bearings, figuring out this next part of his life was still something to deal with. Enough to deal with to leave no room in his life for romance or relationships.

  Any relationship, let alone one with the extra complications of the past he and Kyla shared.

  Because that was part of what had happened last night. What had tripped him up.

  He wasn’t ever with her without being attracted to her, without wanting to touch her, to smell her hair, to kiss her. To do more than kiss her.

  But just when he’d thought he was keeping it all contained she’d taken that spoonful of ice cream...

  And he’d flashed back to their summer in Northbridge.

  To when they were just those two teenagers, wild about each other.

  And he’d been lost all over again.

  He’d confused fourteen years ago with now. And he had no idea what were old feelings and what might be new.

  Were things like last night just a retreat from his current problems? A return to that summer, to that first brush with love and awakening and desire and pure, raw sexual energy?

  Or was there more to it? Had it come out of the people that they were now? Out of the time they were spending together? The talking? The connecting?

  He couldn’t deny that he liked spending time with her, talking to her. He was even opening up to her a little in a way he hadn’t been able to open up to his family, or to anyone, since he’d gotten back.

  But he hadn’t lost his grip until he’d flashed back to that summer.

  So he couldn’t be sure what were memories and flashbacks and what weren’t.

  And as long as he couldn’t be sure, he couldn’t run the risk that he was just escaping what he was going through now by replaying something that had felt good a long time ago.

  Because if that’s what he was doing, down the road he could wake up and realize that he’d been using Kyla—using what they’d had in the past to make him feel safe and comfortable in his world here and now. And he never—never—wanted her to ever again think that he saw her as someone to be used.

  And as long as he couldn’t sort through it and know for sure, he couldn’t act on anything.

  He needed things clear-cut. Black and white. Strong lines of distinction.

  Murky waters were dangerous.

  And these were murky waters.

  Besides, it wasn’t as if Kyla had given him any signs of encouragement.

  Sure, she was still Kyla—sweet and kind and soft-hearted, thoughtful and caring and compassionate. With that twist of pluck and sass thrown in.

  And, yeah, sometimes he caught her watching him, looking at him with something in her eyes that he wanted to believe was attraction to him, too.

  But she was so careful to make sure they never had any physical contact when they handed Immy back and forth. So careful to keep things strictly friendly. There was no flirting. Nothing coy. Nothing that he could take as an invitation.

  And she couldn’t be thinking the same things about him that he was thinking about her or she wouldn’t have stiffened up when he’d touched her Friday night.

  She wouldn’t have been so wide-eyed when he’d kissed her last night, either.

  Although the second time she had kissed him back...

  But then she’d told him it wasn’t a good idea. To behave himself. That was pretty clear.

  And he had taken it as a message that she wasn’t flashing back the way he was. That she wasn’t having the same urges and inclinations—old or new.

  Which stood to reason, he told himself.

  She had to be carrying some scars, some bad feelings about their past—even if he had convinced her of his ignorance of what went on back then. She’d still hated him for more than a decade and that had to have left things pretty murky for her, too. Or maybe left them clear-cut in the negative—maybe she was clear on not wanting anything to do with him other than accepting the aid he was giving in her time of need.

  She probably just doesn’t want you, marine...

  Which was why she’d said what she’d said.

  So take the hint! he ordered himself.

  Besides, he agreed with her. He’d basically given her his word that he wouldn’t pursue her any further. So it would be dishonorable for him to kiss her again. Or to do anything else.

  He put the dumbbells on their rack and sat down on the end of his weight bench, finally allowing himself the rest every muscle in his body craved.

  And as he sat there he realized that he didn’t like the conclusion he’d come to.

  But, like it or not, he had to accept that things were the way they were.

  He had a job to do with Kyla, with Immy. A job he would do, and when he had, that would be it. Over and done with.

  That was clear-cut.

  So why wasn’t there any relief in it?

  Maybe because he knew how hard it was going to be to curb his thoughts. And his urges. And get his head straight when it came to Kyla.

  How hard it was going to be to walk away from her and Immy, too.

  Harder, possibly, tha
n he was finding it to adjust to civilian life.

  But that was what he had to do.

  That was what he was going to do.

  He was going to be marine enough to control himself and to get this job done.

  The problem was, while he might be marine enough to suck it up and accept what he didn’t like about civilian life, he wasn’t absolutely certain that he was marine enough to resist the pull of that particular woman.

  * * *

  “Ugh! I’m not going to eat for a week!” Kyla moaned Sunday night when she came downstairs after changing clothes.

  They’d been home from the Camden family Sunday dinner for about an hour—long enough to give Immy a bottle and put her down for the night.

  Then both Kyla and Beau had wanted to get into more comfortable clothes than the casual dress outfits that met GiGi’s no-jeans policy, so they’d gone to their separate rooms to change.

  Now, wearing a pair of red-and-white polka-dot lounging pants and a white T-shirt, Kyla found Beau in the family room.

  He’d gone from slacks and a polo shirt—that he’d pointed out had no military inscriptions or insignias—to a pair of gray sweatpants and another USNA T-shirt.

  Sitting at one end of the sofa, he was angled from the corner with his right arm stretched across the top of the back cushions and his left across the top of the high side of the soft tufted leather. He looked more relaxed than usual.

  Kyla plopped down onto the other side of the couch, her back against the side, her legs stretched out on the cushions so her feet weren’t far from his leg, groaning and holding her overly full stomach as she did.

  “I’ve learned to pace myself at Sunday dinner,” Beau said with some amusement in his tone as he watched her. “But today it was tough—there’s just no beating Margaret’s barbecue sauce. It’s one of her specialties—her secret sauce. She won’t tell any of us the recipe, she says we can have it when she dies.”

  “Everything else was so good, too,” Kyla complained.

  He nodded and his grin turned into a more reserved kind of smile. “Yeah, it was.”

  “Why does it sound like you’re talking about more than just the food?”

  He shrugged only his left shoulder. “This was the first Sunday dinner since I’ve been back that I actually...” another shrug “...I don’t know, felt comfortable, I guess.” Then he seemed to consider that and added, “It was nice having you there. And Immy took some of the pressure off me.”

  “She was happy being the center of attention,” Kyla said, glossing over the fact that he’d liked having her there—which she liked hearing but didn’t want him to know.

  “Having your suggestion to make to everybody about what I can do in Camden Incorporated helped, too,” Beau said then.

  “It seemed to go over well.”

  “It did,” he agreed. “Because it’s a good idea.”

  He’d given her credit for it in front of his entire family. That had embarrassed her a little, so she didn’t want to talk about it.

  “Have you not really liked the Sunday dinners since you’ve been back?” she asked to change the subject.

  “I have,” he hedged. “But I’ve also felt kind of on the spot—that I don’t like. And there’s been that not-fitting-in thing. Today I got to be just one of the gang again—that was great. And it was also great having something to contribute—I wasn’t just fielding everybody’s pitches about what I might want to or be able to do. I was throwing out some things myself, and that felt really good. How about you? Was it all okay for you?”

  “I loved it!” Kyla gushed. “You don’t know how many fantasies I had growing up of what a traditional family was like. And there it all was today! Brothers and sisters and cousins, your grandmother and her second-husband-just-since-June—who made me think of a jolly little grandfather—and even Margaret and Louie who might as well be your live-in aunt and uncle. It’s just what I hoped having a family was like. I know some of that closeness can feel smothering and has been kind of bothering you, but it was what I always wanted. And they all made it feel like Immy and I were a part of it—at least for today. I loved it!” she repeated.

  He nodded again. “Different than what you had.”

  “Worlds different. But it’s what I dreamed of having.” And probably why it had made losing their baby especially difficult, because a small part of her had pictured it as the potential for that family...

  An inquisitive frown drew Beau’s well-shaped brows together. “So—given that—I would have thought getting married and having a family of your own would have been a priority for you—” He stopped short as something else seemed to occur to him, then said, “Oh...I know you aren’t married now, but maybe it’s you who’s been married and divorced two or three times.”

  Kyla delighted in the expression that idea put on his handsome face because he looked distinctly startled by it. She pretended he’d guessed her secret and, as if it were true, said, “Three times.”

  But she didn’t fool him. His eyes narrowed into slivers of blue. “You haven’t been married at all.”

  Kyla gave up the ghost and laughed. “So you’re a human lie detector, too, huh? No, I haven’t been married or divorced.”

  “How come, then—if a big family has always been your dream?”

  “I thought you didn’t want to know about my dating history,” she reminded him.

  He seemed to consider that before he said, “Okay, I admit it—I’m curious. But maybe just about the ones who didn’t measure up to me...”

  “That would have been all of them for a long time,” she confessed before she realized she was going to.

  “But not for the whole time?” he asked with mock offense that she thought might not be completely bogus.

  She decided to answer him honestly. “No, not the whole time, because it occurred to me a while ago that I was measuring grown men against...well, against a seventeen-year-old who was as carried away as I was with a summer romance full of bigger-than-life emotions,” she admitted. “But we were kids and so what we’d had was kid stuff. And that probably wasn’t anything realistic to measure other relationships against. Or to measure other guys against.”

  “You had grown men who couldn’t live up to me as a seventeen-year-old, so you found a way to excuse them?”

  “Oh, the ego!” she said, nudging his knee with her foot to chastise him. “Come on,” she challenged him. “You probably couldn’t live up to the romantic seventeen-year-old you were then. I still have a box of things...among them a pair of origami butterflies folded by none other than—”

  “Okay, okay,” he cut her off with a self-conscious half grin.

  She let him off the hook and went on. “So I decided I had to stop comparing things—or guys—to that. And you. And when I finally did, that was when I starting having more than a date or two with anybody.”

  “How long did it take for you to get there? Till last month? The month before?” he joked. But again she thought he was not totally pleased to hear she’d gotten over him.

  “Shouldn’t marines be humble?” she mocked.

  He laughed. “All right, let me have it then—the full picture of your adult relationships.”

  “There have only been two guys who were more than just a few dates. There was a musician in California the last year I was there, after my parents died—”

  “That was quite a while after us.”

  Kyla gave him a stern frown from under her brows to silently rebuke him for going back to that.

  He got the message and changed tacks. “After everything with your parents, you actually went for a musician?”

  “Unlike my parents, Cal was actually successful at it—he writes scores for movies and TV. If I’d met him before, when they were alive, he actually might have been their ticket into the music industry somehow—”

  “How did you meet him?”

  “In an elevator. Cal had just been to his agent’s office and I was picking up all of t
he demos my parents had given to another, much more sleazy agent in the building. Cal and I were alone in the elevator, he saw the box of demos and thought they were mine, that I was taking them in to someone rather than retrieving them. He used it as an opening to hit on me.”

  “So maybe he was a little sleazy.”

  “You can think that if you want, but no. He was just making conversation. And he was a nice guy—like I said, if my parents had still been alive I’m sure he would have bent over backward to help them. He even lets music students from UCLA intern with him to learn the business.”

  “Ah, I get it—he’s a saint,” Beau said derisively.

  Kyla knew from listening to what he’d said about the women in his life that it wasn’t easy hearing about replacements, so she ignored his tone.

  But she did sort of like the idea that he was jealous.

  “No, Cal wasn’t a saint, either. He was a pretty regular guy—”

  “Who you didn’t end up with. Why?”

  “He had a big house in Malibu, he really was a success, but... There were still too many similarities to my parents. His feet just weren’t on the ground. He had a business manager who paid his bills and a housekeeper who kept the place clean and the refrigerator full, or he would have needed a daughter to do it for him, too. And I just never knew from one minute to the next if he would follow through with promises he made or if he’d forget about everything and everyone to do something that caught his interest or to chase some whim.”

  “Like your parents.”

  “Yeah. The last straw was when his mother broke her leg. Cal had decided he needed to hone his skills on the cello, for some reason. He was obsessed with it, day and night. It was me who went to the hospital when her friend called. I sat there alone through the surgery and afterward, and spent time in the hospital with her and found her a rehab center to go to when she was ready to be transferred—”

  “He was still practicing his cello then—days later?”

  “Like my parents, everything fell by the wayside if he was inspired. His mom was out of rehab and back at home with a nurse I’d found for her before Cal did more than the occasional phone call or text to her. So there was still that flighty, unreliable...self-absorption...about him. His just seemed more justifiable because he actually was making a living off his ‘artistic temperament.’ But to me—”