by Elise Faber
“Hmm,” she said.
I peeked at Rich, who was smiling widely. He gave me a thumbs-up.
I nodded at him, said goodbye, then got the hell out of that conference room before Heather changed her mind.
“Yes!” Seraphina fist pumped as she let me into her house. She would be accompanying me that afternoon on my thus far unsuccessful house hunt.
Though the realtor had supposedly found a few more options for me in the competitive market.
Near wine country and in a city with more millionaires than anywhere else on the planet meant that my trust fund only went so far . . .
Okay, that wasn’t totally true.
If I splurged, I could probably buy half the town.
But I didn’t like using the money in the first place—my father had made it, not me—and if it was just going to be the baby and myself, then I didn’t need a gigantic mansion.
Unfortunately, there weren’t too many non-gigantic mansions in my town. Not if I wanted to be in the best school district.
And with the baby on the way, I needed to be.
“This job sounds perfect for you!” Seraphina said once I’d showed her the description.
“The salary is kind of low,” I said. In fact, it was barely more than what I’d made with Frank and Susan, and RoboTech was a big corporation.
“You could negotiate for higher,” Seraphina pointed out.
“Yeah, I could,” I said. “But I kind of feel like Heather is waiting for me to pull the ‘Bernie Roberts’ rich daughter’ card.”
“You think it’s a test?”
I shrugged. “Maybe. Is that crazy?”
“Maybe?” Seraphina smiled. “But by the way you described Heather, I wouldn’t put it past her.”
“I know.”
“Well, only time will tell. And now speaking of things unrelated to both time and craziness, you’re a little pale,” she said, and led the way into the kitchen. Once there, she handed me a sandwich and pushed me onto a bar stool at the peninsula. “Did you skip a meal again?”
My eyes flicked down at my phone, checking the digital clock on the home screen. “No. But I am hungry and tired. I’m sure the interview is what exhausted me. That was a lot of stress for one morning with the prep and then Heather spending the whole meeting hmm-ing at me.”
“You kicked butt in that meeting, I know it.” Seraphina filled a glass with water then sat down next to me. “Now tell me about the houses we’re seeing.”
“I upped my budget.”
Seraphina smiled. “Please say enough so that we can be neighbors?”
“I’m not sure I’ve upped it that much.” Her wrinkled nose and pursed lips made me laugh. “Pout much?”
“I want you to buy the house next door and then for you to just randomly pop over for coffee all the time. It’d be like Desperate Housewives only less desperate and more fun.”
“Desperate Housewives? How old are we? That show came out like fifteen years ago.”
“Fourteen, thank you very much.” Seraphina set the glass down. “I’ve been bingeing it and it’s fabulous.”
“You’re crazy.” I shoved the last bit of sandwich in my mouth, already feeling more energized. I hadn’t even known I was exhausted until I’d sat down.
The adrenaline from the interview, I guessed.
“We could binge it together, you know . . .”
“We could . . .” I said, not wanting to commit. Christmas movies I loved. Romcoms, cheesy Hallmark movies. Yes, yes, sign me up.
Dramatic TV shows, not so much.
“Or . . .” Seraphina’s expression was way too innocent. “If you moved in here, we could watch the whole thing and all the other bad movies we want. We could share books. It’d be great, like being college roommates again.”
“Sera—”
“And eat ice cream and stay up late and . . .” I waited for her to wind down, knowing that once she went on a tangent, there was no interrupting her.
“It would be awesome!” she finished on another fist pump.
And since my friend wasn’t known for excessive fist pumps, I crossed my arms, raised a brow, and waited. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Mmm hmm,” I said. “Spill, girl. You know we tried living together in college and it was nearly the death of our friendship. We are not hospitably compatible.”
“We’re older now.”
“And you’re not telling me something.”
She slumped, sighing as she rested her head in her palm. “It’s really nothing, not compared to what you’ve got going on.”
I reached across the cream-colored marble and put my hand over hers. “My drama doesn’t trump everything that is happening in our lives. Your stuff is important too.”
“What you’re saying is that it’s not all about you?” Her lips quirked into a half smile.
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far . . .” I smirked. “Tell me.”
“I was dating someone.”
“For how long?” I asked, surprised she hadn’t mentioned it. We shared everything.
“I thought he was—” She made a face and shrugged. “I—it’s stupid now, but I thought he might be my HEA.”
Apparently we didn’t share it all.
I squeezed her fingers. “But how? When?”
“Since that day at the bar. When I got called into work. I was running for my car and literally ran into Him. Or who I thought was a Him.”
Him was our code for that mythical man, the hero from our novels, the person who we’d run off with into our happily ever after.
A Him was a really big deal.
I gasped. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You had a lot going on and—” She grimaced. “That’s not fair. The truth was, I didn’t want to share the fantasy with you. Not because I was worried you’d ruin it or anything,” she rushed to say when I sucked in a breath.
Her words stung, but it wasn’t about me in that moment. “It’s okay.”
“No. It’s not like you’re thinking.” Seraphina stood up and began pacing around the kitchen, the glass-tiled backsplash glittering behind her as she walked. “I didn’t want to share because I was worried it would all go to shit and then I would be sad, and it did g-go to sh-shit, and I am sad and—”
The doorbell rang.
“Damn. That must be the realtor.” I stood up, pulled Seraphina into a quick hug. “I’ll cancel with her and be right back.”
“No.” She blew out a breath, swiped a finger under one eye. “I can wallow later. Right now, since you won’t live with me, I want to convince you to spend some more money and live next door.”
“Are you sure?” I gripped her hands. “We can put on jammies and eat chocolate. I’ll even watch an episode of Desperate Housewives.”
“Tempting.” She put an arm around my waist. “But you need a house more than I need chocolate.”
I made the sign of the cross and hissed. “How dare you say such sacrilege?”
She snorted. “I love you, dork.”
“Love you more.”
The doorbell pealed again. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go house hunting.”
Twelve
Jordan climbed the stairs to Abigail’s apartment and was surprised to find the door was wide open.
He frowned and peered inside, stomach jarring when he saw the living room was empty.
“Can I help you?”
An older man with a beer gut and blue coveralls came out of the hallway. He peered at Jordan suspiciously.
“I’m looking for Abby.”
The man’s mustache twitched. “She’s at the doctor.”
“What?” He took a step forward, feeling, for the first time in weeks, the frost seizing him shatter. “The baby. Is she okay?”
The man shrugged. “All I know is that she left in a big hurry.” He turned to head back down the hall.
Jordan ran out of the apartment. He’d come . . . to apologize? To
make her see reason? To get her to collar her bulldog of an attorney? His lawyer was complaining about an office full of briefs and filings and affidavits.
But Abby was at the doctor and that meant—
He sprinted for his car, stopping at the bar to beg the use of a phone so he could call his assistant.
“I need you to find out what hospital Abigail Roberts is in,” he ordered when Brent answered. He pulled out his wallet and opened it to find the business card with the obstetrician who’d seen Abby in the hospital. “Check at Geary Regional first. Dr. Stephens. Call me back.”
“For a man who says he doesn’t need an assistant any longer,” Brent said, “you sure call me a lot.”
“Shut up and do it.”
“Love you too. Give me five.” He hung up the phone.
It only took Brent three.
“Suite 201, Geary. Dr. Stephens,” he announced when Jordan answered the return call.
“Thanks.”
“A thank you?” Brent asked with mock incredulity. “That might be the first verbal expression of gratitude in the history of all time you’ve—”
Jordan hung up, thanked the bartender for the use of his cell, and left the bar. He ran to his car, unlocked it, pressed the button to start the ignition, and tore off for the hospital.
The fifteen-minute drive was horrendous, one of the longest of his life. He didn’t know why he even cared.
Relief should be coursing through him, not terror.
But . . . he did care.
It took him an agonizing few minutes to find a parking spot, during which time he seriously considered just leaving his car in the middle of the lot.
He didn’t do that, one, because he wasn’t usually an asshole and, two, because the car was brand new.
He’d upgraded to an SUV.
The one with the best safety reviews. He’d even had his assistant order a car seat and a crib.
Okay, so maybe he had been putting Brent through the wringer lately.
Jordan guessed it was a good thing his unneeded assistant was still on the payroll.
In any event, he parked the car and was hustling for the stairs less than a half hour after walking into Abby’s apartment.
He pushed out of the stairwell, ripped open the door and . . . found a waiting room full of women.
All of whom glared up at him with narrowed eyes.
So much suspicion being thrown his way today.
“Can I help you?” the receptionist asked.
He gave her The Smile. The one that had always melted his nanny’s heart, even when he was in deep shit for having eaten a gallon of ice cream.
It was the same one that usually got him whatever female attention he required.
Coincidentally, it was also the smile that didn’t work on Abby.
But he couldn’t think about that now. He had to keep his game face on, find out what was going on, and most importantly, he needed to remember that she was exactly like all of the other women in his life.
Exactly like the women who’d nearly ruined his father’s business.
Who’d managed to successfully decimate his family.
“I’m sorry,” he said when her look went from guarded to dazed. Yes, he’d mentioned before he wasn’t usually an asshole, but he knew his effect on women and wouldn’t shy away from using it. God knew the female population did it all the time.
Jaded much?
He stifled a sigh, leaned against the counter, and dropped his voice conspiratorially. “I was rushing in because I’m looking for Abigail Roberts. I’ve never been here before, and she’s—”
The receptionist’s lips curved up, her bright red lipstick jarring against the maroon of her scrubs. “Oh, of course. Don’t worry, she was running late herself. Go on to the other door, and I’ll send the nurse out to get you.”
“Thank you,” he said, moving to the side. The panic that had been gripping him eased.
The receptionist was calm. Surely if Abigail was in any danger, her demeanor would be more serious, or they would have sent him down to the Emergency department.
Maybe she just wasn’t feeling well?
Which probably meant that he should just turn around and leave. It wasn’t a crisis. He had no business being there.
Except . . . something inside of him would not let him leave until he’d laid eyes on Abby.
He needed to see for himself that she was okay.
“Here you go, Mr. Roberts,” the receptionist said, using Abby’s last name like it was his and they were married. He didn’t bother to correct her, especially when she ran a hand down his chest and leaned so close that her breasts brushed his arm.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said when he flicked his eyes down and raised one brow. Hurriedly, she stepped back. “Ms. Roberts will be in the second room on the right.”
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
The way she said those two words was not flattering. It was slightly creepy and very much over the top.
But he supposed that it was his fault for unleashing The Smile.
God, he was an asshole.
Instead of letting that stop him, Jordan walked down the hall and opened the second door on the right.
In retrospect, he should have knocked.
“Jesus Christ!” Abby shrieked. “What is it with you and trying to expose my vagina to the world? Get out!”
He stood frozen for a moment, round two of sights he could never unsee now burned on his retinas, before stepping through the door and closing it behind him. “Dr. Stephens,” he said.
“Mr.— oh, you’ll have to forgive me. I’m terrible with names.”
“Jordan,” he said, and released The Smile for the second time. Why not? He was already in deep with the receptionist. He may as well use it to get on the doctor’s good side. “You can call me Jordan.”
Dr. Stephens raised a brow at Abby. “Got a dangerous one there.”
Abby snorted. “Yeah, and his sperm is the most dangerous part.” She glared at him. “What are you doing here?”
“I went to your apartment.”
She rolled her eyes. “I changed the code.”
“The door was wide open,” he countered.
The doctor coughed and Abby jumped. “I’m sorry—”
“Carry on,” Jordan said. “I’ll just sit over here and not bother anyone.”
Another snort from Abby, but she didn’t protest as he moved to the chair at her side.
“Cold,” Dr. Stephens warned and then moved her hand under the paper blanket thing Abigail had draped over her legs.
Abby winced but didn’t say anything, just turned her attention to the machine next to her.
Jordan’s breath caught. “Is that—?”
Dr. Stephens smiled. “That’s your baby. Here’s the head and the feet and that little oval there is the heart.”
He watched the rapid flutter-flutter of his baby’s heart, heard the whoosh-whoosh as the organ pumped furiously on the black and white screen, and something unlocked inside him.
“Here.” Dr. Stephens handed him a printout of the image. “For the scrapbook. Or wallet. Or whatever.” She passed a larger stack to Abby. “Everything looks good. I’ll see you in two weeks, okay?”
“Okay,” Abby said.
“Keep it up with those small meals and call or email me if you experience any dizziness or fainting.”
Abby agreed and the doctor left.
Jordan leaned toward Abby to getter a better look at the ultrasound pictures, but she pushed him away.
“Are you serious right now?”
“I just want to see the pictures.”
She shoved them into his hands. “Look all you want, but get away from me.” She gulped, clapping a hand over her nose. “Haven’t puked in two freaking weeks. Five minutes with you and I’m a hairsbreadth away. You’re wearing it again, aren’t you?”
“Wearing what?” He was barely listening as he flipped through the phot
os of his baby. His baby.
How was this his life?
“Satan’s deodorant.”
That got his attention and he shifted his gaze to Abby. “What are you talking about?”
“Your deodorant smells like shit.” She stood up, careful to keep the drape around herself.
Disappointing, that. He hadn’t seen nearly enough of her.
And he was fucking insane to go there. Even if it was just in his head.
“You just turn your back, mister,” she ordered, shuffling toward the pile of clothes on the bench. “Last thing you need to see is more of me.”
He could argue the point, but Jordan opted not to.
Instead, he did what any normal man would do: acquiesced to Abby’s wishes and shifted in the chair—then watched like hell out of the corner of his eye.
Thirteen
Why the hell was Jordan there?
I pulled on my underwear and pants, moving quickly to get decent. The man had horrible timing.
“Okay,” I said once I’d slipped on my sweater and boots. “You can turn around now.”
Jordan spun in the chair, his long legs cluttering up the small space between the exam table and the wall. The room had been plenty big without him. Then he’d barged in and taken over.
I could smell him. I could feel him, his presence somehow radiating into the space between us and reminding me of the spark that was always there when he was near.
So far, that spark had brought me nothing but frustration and anguish.
I needed to remember that.
Because when he wasn’t actively being a jerk, my body seemed to forget the fact that I hardly knew him and that he was batting at a less than ideal average, both in the bedroom activities—okay, coffee table shenanigans—and normal human interactions.
“Why were you at my apartment?”
He sighed. “Should we continue this conversation somewhere that isn’t a doctor’s office?”
I huffed, slammed my hands on my hips. “Why, Jordan?”
“I want you to call off your lawyer.”
I laughed and started for the door. “You’re kidding right?”
“No, I’m not.”
Turning the knob, I said. “Then you must just be stupid because I’m not calling off Bec—”
