Scoring the Player's Baby (WAGs Series)

by Naima Simone

  Several moments later, she flushed, brushed her teeth again, and exited the bathroom—resisting the urge to scrub down the toilet—still feeling like microwaved death. But at least her stomach wasn’t crawling up the back of her throat anymore. She glanced at her watch. Five minutes left.

  “Great,” she muttered, rushing from her apartment with her coat, briefcase, and purse tossed over an arm. Focused on getting to her appointment, she almost missed the buzz of her phone. Grumbling, she dug in her purse, and just as her fingers closed around the cell, it stopped. And seconds later, started again.

  Had to be Alex.

  Smiling, she removed the phone, and a glance at the caller ID screen proved her assumption right.

  “Why haven’t you called me in the last couple of days?” her older brother asked in lieu of the usual polite greeting. But this was Alexander Bishop. Rarely did he do “polite.” And yet, Kim loved the hell out of him.

  “Uh, because I have a life. And am neck-deep in a sensitive project that requires more hours than I’m awake to manage,” she drawled.

  A snort echoed in her ear. “You could do that hotel shit in your sleep,” he said, his dismissal both irritating and warming her. Alex had never doubted her abilities or his belief in her talent. Unlike the man who’d doled out his DNA to both of them. She deliberately shoved away thoughts of Malcolm Bishop. Not going there this morning. “Besides, we both know the rebranding isn’t why you’re all the way across the country—ow! Damn it.” In the background, a lighter voice snapped something that Kim could’ve sworn sounded like, don’t be a prick, pumpkin.

  “Tell Morgan I said hi,” Kim sang out, knowing her sister-in-law had intervened on her behalf. Because no. No. She just wasn’t going to discuss Matt and her divorce and her empty life on today of all days.

  A heavy, beleaguered sigh came across the line. “Since I apparently have the sensitivity of Shrek’s ass, and that’s a direct quote, I’ll just ask how’re you doing.”

  Chuckling, Kim switched the phone to her other ear, holding it in place with her shoulder as she unlocked her door and shoved her belongings into the passenger seat. “Fine. Deciding to target the bridal demographic instead of business conventions has already started to pay off. So has offering local businesses a discount for booking their events with us. Now, we’re placing national ads to invite women-centric organizations to consider the Grand for their next convention venue. Our research has shown that the history, beauty, and elegance of the hotel appeal to women more than men, and we’re capitalizing on that.”

  “That’s wonderful, Kim. I knew you could turn it around. But that’s work. How’re you?” Alex asked, his usually gruff voice softening.

  And damn if that didn’t reach into her chest, seize her heart, and squeeze. Alex rarely did soft. Only his wife, baby daughter, and Kim ever saw his gentler side, and right now, she couldn’t handle it. She needed him to be stern, abrupt. Because this side of her brother had the words, “I’m pregnant,” pushing at her windpipe, eager to leap out in a fearful and excited confession. Besides her mom, he’d been her rock for more than half her life. No one knew her like he did. Had her back like he did. Understood her like he did.

  But she wasn’t ready. Not ready to vocalize the words. Not ready for him to hear the hope tempered by worry. He’d sat up at night with her after the miscarriage when Matt had returned to work. She’d cried on his shoulder, soaking his expensive silk shirts, and he’d just held her, silent, offering her tissue and company.

  And then there was the fear of disappointing him. It was one thing to be pregnant by your husband. A totally different one to be knocked up by a man you barely knew. She didn’t want to hear that displeasure in his voice.

  So she remained silent about the most important thing in her life and went with, “I’m fine, Alex. Really.”

  Not a lie. Not exactly the truth either, but not a lie.

  “If you say so. But if it’s not ‘fine,” then you know you can call me, right? And you can always come home. Fuck Seattle. Fuck Dad and his hotels. This is your home, and it’s always here waiting.”

  She curled her fingers into a tight fist, her nails biting the tender skin of her palm. The sting helped stave off the burn of tears. “I know,” she rasped. Clearing her throat, she slid behind the wheel and turned the car on. “So how’s my darling Caitlin? And why haven’t you sent me pictures…?” She switched the subject to her niece and, for the next few minutes, listened as her normally reserved brother gushed over his baby.

  When she pulled into the parking lot of the doctor’s office, a half hour later, the warm glow from the conversation had started to fade.

  Damn, she hated being late. But with morning traffic and the lethargy that seemed to be a constant companion the last few days, she couldn’t muster up the energy to be irritated. She stepped out of her car and locked it, and though she was running behind, she didn’t immediately turn and head across the lot. Gripping the handle, she closed her eyes, pressing her other hand to her belly. This time, the churning wasn’t due to morning sickness but nerves. Chest-tightening, paralyzing, almost debilitating nerves.

  “Hey, you okay?” A large hand stroked down her hair, surprising her. Spinning around, she bumped into a wide, hard, oh-so-familiar chest. “Whoa.” Ronin clasped her shoulders, steadying her. He pinched her chin between his thumb and finger, tilting her head back. “What’s wrong, hala? No offense, but you look like shit.”

  In spite of the anxiety playing kickball with her organs, humor welled up in her. “Now I can see why you’re lady bait. All that chivalry and charm.”

  A corner of his mouth quirked, but his contemplation remained unwavering and searching. She fought not to fidget or dodge it. “Morning sickness, yeah?”

  She frowned. “How’d you guess that?”

  He sighed, releasing her face but repeating the strangely comforting sweep over her hair again. “I have two nieces. My sister suffered with it through the entire pregnancy. And since her asshole husband—ex-husband now, thank God—usually was nowhere to be found, I was the target of many I-hope-your-dick-shrivels-up-and-falls-off curses.”

  “I’ve only met one of your sisters, but I kind of like them.” Kim snickered.

  Shaking his head, he settled a hand on the small of her back, the heat from that big palm penetrating her wool coat, suit jacket, and blouse to her skin. She stole a peek at his strong, noble profile. Today, he wore a paperboy-style cap, and his long, dark hair hung loose over the shoulders of his black pea coat, but neither could hide the elegant slope of his nose, the sensual fullness of his mouth, the full, bristly beard that was a lure to a woman’s fingers. Beauty, power, and sex all wrapped up in a Paul Bunyan package.

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  He looked down at her, an eyebrow arched. “You’re welcome. What are you thanking me for?”

  “For coming today.”

  “I said I’d be here,” he reminded her.

  “I know, I just…” Her voice trailed off. She couldn’t finish the sentence. Admitting she hadn’t let herself trust in his promise because she’d learned that men had a hard time keeping their word would just sound ungrateful and petty, since he had shown up.

  “Hey.” He slid his hand up her spine and cupped the back of her neck, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “All I have in this world are my balls and my word, and I don’t break either for nobody.”

  She blinked. “Did you really just quote Scarface?”

  He grinned. “You know Scarface? God, that makes you hotter.”

  She scowled, fighting not to smile at his ridiculousness. “I thought you said I looked like shit.”

  He shrugged one of those massive shoulders. “The two don’t have to be mutually exclusive.” She almost missed his words because his thumb started a slow, sweeping motion over the side of her neck, shooting curls of smoke through her. One did not get aroused in the OB-GYN’s parking lot. It just wasn’t freaking done. “Hotness isn’t just phy
sical. It’s mental, a state of mind. It’s intelligence, confidence. It’s strength. And you, hala, got all that down. Your swagger is sexier than the most gorgeous woman naked.”

  Holy fuck.

  Desire swamped her—flat out crashed over her in one of those apocalyptic waves that took out metropolises. It flooded her, pebbling her nipples, twisting her belly, and pooling between her legs in a sweet ache that she knew for a fact he could satisfy. Again and again. She’d read somewhere that pregnancy hormones increased a woman’s sex drive, but this had nothing to do with hormones and everything to do with Ronin Palamo.

  Platonic. No sex. No fuck buddies. These were your stipulations.

  She nodded, agreeing with the internal dialogue ticker-taping through her head. Right.

  Ronin gripped the handle of the glass door of the building, and a rush of cool, air-conditioned air brushed over her face. Thank God. Walking into a doctor’s office, face flushed and overheated, wasn’t a good look.

  Stepping forward, she deliberately dislodged his hand from her nape. His touch wasn’t conducive to rational thinking, and around him, she needed every wit available.

  They didn’t speak as they entered the elevator and rode to the fifth floor where the office was located. Every second that passed, her nerves crept back in, infiltrating and overtaking the fleeting moments of peace and amusement she’d enjoyed. By the time he opened the office door and let her again precede him into a spacious waiting room filled with comfortable-looking arm chairs and beautiful portraits of newborns decorating the walls, she was a walking, breathing nerve ending.

  “Good morning. Are you a new patient?” One of the nurses at the wide, long desk smiled at her as she completed the information on the sign-in clipboard.

  “Yes.” Kim returned the smile. “I’m here to see Dr. Pruitt.”

  “Ms. Matlock?” When Kim nodded, the nurse waved a hand toward the door that bordered the desk. “If you’ll go through this door here, I’ll meet you on the other side.”

  True to her word, the other woman—her name tag read Shelly—guided them to a more private area and handed her another clipboard with new patient forms to be filled out.

  “Why the special treatment?” Ronin murmured, removing his coat and sitting down beside her. His leg pressed against hers from hip to thigh on the low couch they’d settled on.

  She tried her best to ignore the zing of electric sensation the contact caused to zip up and down the left side of her body.

  “I let them know who you were and requested more privacy,” she explained, writing in her personal info. “Apparently, you aren’t the first celebrity they’ve dealt with. They had no problem with it.”

  “Hmm.” His arm brushed against hers as he removed his cap. “Don’t want some camera-phone-wielding patient to catch a picture of us? Not ready for the world to know I’m your baby’s daddy?”

  The words, though teasing, contained enough of an edge that she paused and lifted her head, studying him. He didn’t shy away from her contemplation, meeting it head on.

  “No,” she said softly…honestly. “I don’t want to be Ronin Palamo’s baby’s mama. I want to be Kim Matlock, a double master’s degree, successful public relations consultant and vice president who is choosing to raise a baby as a single mom, co-parenting with its father.”

  All her life, she’d been someone else’s “something.” Wilhemina Matlock’s daughter. Alex Bishop’s half sister. Matt Cooper’s wife. Malcolm Bishop’s bastard. She didn’t want another label. Especially when it came to Ronin.

  She wasn’t ashamed of her child. But being reduced to a random side piece or gold digger who’d gotten knocked up by a playboy football player was cliché as hell. And no one would remember she was a self-sufficient professional who didn’t need or want his money. All they would see was one more woman spreading her legs to nab an athlete.

  “That’s fair,” he finally said. Several more seconds passed before he spoke again. “But what’s also fair is to not expect me to lie.”

  Unease curled into a tight, gnarled knot inside her. “I don’t want my name to become fodder for tabloid sites.” She’d experienced all that during her divorce from Matt. And not just the avaricious glee of bloggers and so-called journalists, but the nastiness of people who commented. Those who blamed her for his cheating, accused her of not satisfying him in bed. And then there’d been the “exclusive tell-all” from the stripper he’d fucked.

  No, she didn’t want to suffer through that again. Especially since she would be seen as a “pro ho” for being with another football player.

  Just the thought of enduring the ugliness made her ill.

  “You’ve made it more than clear how you feel about ‘my kind,’ hala.” He uttered the endearment, but there was nothing gentle or teasing about his tone. It contained that edge again, but instead of a hint, she got the full blade. “I can only imagine what the asshole ex of yours put you through, exposing you to the ‘mercy’ of gossiping people. I’m sorry you had to go through that. But let me make something clear, too. I’m not him. And again, I won’t lie. If asked, I’m claiming my child. That’s not up for negotiation.”

  They stared at one another, the tension around them nearly as tangible as the couch they sat on. She wanted to rail that he could dismiss it so easily because it wouldn’t be him they attacked. It wouldn’t be his reputation trashed. But the longer their visual showdown continued, her irritation flickered, wavered, transmuting to something darker, hotter, more volatile.

  His attention dropped to her mouth, then lower, before returning to her face again. She knew what he noted. Her slightly parted lips, the increased rise and fall of her chest. And from his suddenly hooded gaze, the color that darkened the slash of his cheekbones, and the hard, carnal slant of his full lips, he liked it.

  Unwanted desire wound a sinuous path through her, heating her cheeks, scorching a trail over her chest, belly, and between her thighs. Even the soles of her damn feet tingled.

  “Excuse me,” the nurse who’d first greeted them interrupted. Thank God. “If you’re finished completing your forms, I can take them.”

  Jerking her too-enraptured attention away from Ronin, she forced a smile. “I’m not quite done yet.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll return in a few minutes,” the nurse said, then disappeared.

  Refusing to look at Ronin again, Kim bent her head over the intake papers and purposely shut out everything but completing the information. The following ten minutes passed in silence, although a tense one. Every time he shifted, drummed his fingers on his thighs, hell, breathed, she was aware of it.

  Once they were ushered to a room, Kim settled on the exam table, and the nurse ran through the routine of taking her vital signs and collecting samples from her. The doctor entered several minutes later.

  “Hello, Ms. Matlock. I’m Dr. Pruitt.” The obstetrician, a beautiful black woman who appeared to be in her mid-to-late forties, and who rocked gorgeous dreadlocks, extended her hand to Kim with a warm smile.

  “It’s nice to meet you.” Kim accepted the firm handshake. “This is Ronin Palamo.” He’s the father hovered on her tongue. God, what did she say? He’s the father, but we’re not married. Or, We’re not together. Well, obviously, we’ve been together, but we’re not together, together.

  Shit.

  But Dr. Pruitt didn’t seem hung up on the details. She turned to Ronin with the same warmth. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Palamo. I’m a huge fan, as is my husband.”

  “Thanks.” He grinned, and Kim had to give the doctor credit; she didn’t bat an eye at the beauty of that thing. Kim—and her ovaries—weren’t so damn lucky. “It’s a pleasure.”

  The obstetrician crossed to the sink and washed her hands. “Since you’re a new patient, I’m going to need to conduct a pelvic exam. Mr. Palamo, we’ll want privacy for that, but I’ll have the nurse bring you back as soon as we’re done.”

  True to her word, Dr. Pruitt had the exam done and Kim redr
essed and Ronin back in the chair twenty minutes later.

  “Well, you are indeed pregnant.” She grinned. “Congratulations. Based on your last menstrual cycle, you’re thirteen weeks along, which gives you a due date of”—she glanced at the chart in her hand—“May twelfth.”

  Thirteen weeks. Kim heaved a sigh of relief. She was officially out of her first trimester.

  But you were sixteen weeks when you miscarried.

  The reminder slid through her, leaving ice gliding through her veins. Only three more weeks before she passed that benchmark. And then maybe this insidious, horrible fear would disappear.

  Three more weeks.

  She clutched the thought like a lucky talisman.

  “Now, how would you like to hear your baby’s heartbeat?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes.”

  Her and Ronin’s replies were simultaneous. His eagerness touched a place inside her that she’d believed sealed off.

  “I thought you might say that.” Dr. Pruitt laughed, pulling open a drawer next to her. “Seems like I’ve run out of gel. Be right back.”

  She exited, and, that quick, the anxiety rushed back in. As did the memories. Another doctor’s appointment almost two-and-a-half years ago. When there’d been no hint of a staticky, strong heartbeat. When a sonogram had revealed an empty womb.

  Please, God, take care of this one. I want him or her so badly. I’ll do anything, promise anything. I—

  A large hand wrapped around her cold, numb fingers, warming them.

  “Hey,” Ronin said, his rumble of a voice closer. She turned her head to find he’d scooted nearer so his arms rested next to her thigh, and she lifted her gaze to meet his dark one. “Did Renee tell you how Zeph and Sophia met?”