From Enemies to Expecting(49)

“I don’t understand how this happened,” she sniffled out brokenly to Cass through the sobs still racking her chest. “What am I going to do?”

“Do you want the baby?” Cass asked, cutting to the chase in her usual style. And of course that was the most important question, and Trinity knew the answer instantly.

“Of course. But that’s not in the cards—”

“Stop. You don’t know that. You’re going to get the best prenatal care possible,” Cass countered. “And then we’re going to stage sticky-baby sit-ins, ply you with peanut butter, whatever it takes to make this work for you this time. Your womb has had eight years to develop, to mature.”

The words filtered through the crushing pain in Trinity’s chest but did nothing to absolve it. She couldn’t do this, couldn’t bear the idea of eventually—soon—having absolute confirmation that she was indeed as broken as she’d always assumed.

But what if Cass was right? What if the baby actually stuck? What if this was the start of the most amazing chapter in her life? For today, right now, she was pregnant with Logan’s baby.

Fledgling emotions that she’d never allowed herself to embrace welled up and over with the realization that she had a piece of him inside her, that the universe had conspired to make their relationship real in the most wonderful way possible.

She could admit that when he talked about having a family, she wanted that, too.

And then she realized. She couldn’t tell him.

Instead of fearing that he’d take off, the opposite would be true. He’d want to be there every step, to go to the doctor’s appointments, pick out a crib. That’s who he was, and he’d be devastated if—when—she miscarried. And then she’d have to deal with it alone, because what else would bind them together? He’d be done with her at that point, forever.

She could not take the double loss.

They had nothing between them except a successful publicity campaign and a mass of cells that would never become anything but another heartbreak.





Nine

New York had been brutal. Johnson’s forty-five-game suspension destroyed the Mustangs’ morale, precisely as Logan had expected when he’d received the verdict.

He’d appealed, naturally, which meant extending his stay longer than he would have liked, but the appeal would take a while to work itself out. Plus, it was strictly a formality; the inquest had Johnson dead to rights, including video of him frequenting the clinic that sold the PEDs.

The whole thing was disheartening.

Once a day, he’d reached for the phone to call Trinity and beg her to fly to New York, just so he could see her. So he could touch her. Hear her laugh, lose himself in her sweet body at the end of a long day of meetings that ripped his team apart. He wanted to be with her, to let her make the horrible reality better.

He wanted more.

But he never dialed. It wasn’t fair to start that discussion over the phone. So he held off until he got back to Dallas. While waiting for his luggage to appear from the bowels of the airport, he texted her.

At the airport. Can I come by Fyra to see you?

God, that was bold. Trinity had a job. He had a job. Jumping off a plane and driving straight to her wasn’t smart. But it was the only thing he wanted to do.

She didn’t text him back right away. Probably in a meeting. He went home, which was what he should have done anyway. The house smelled stale and musty from disuse, even though he’d only been gone for a few weeks. The emptiness crawled onto his last nerve, and he hated it. Why had he bought such a monstrosity of a house when he had no one to share it with?

What was today? Thursday? Maybe he’d see if Trinity would ditch work tomorrow and spend a three-day weekend at his place. He’d never brought a woman home, and he could picture Trinity draped across his bed with frightening ease. She’d like his giant marble garden tub, too, he had a feeling. Or rather, she’d like what he did to her while she was in it, which was practically the same thing.

They could order takeout, or maybe he’d cook steaks on the massive grill in the outdoor kitchen that overlooked the pool. Afterward, he’d strip her down to her bare skin, pick her up and lower her into the hot tub at the north end of the pool, cleverly tied into the design via an outcropping of natural river rock.

He checked his phone, but she hadn’t texted him back yet. His plane had landed four hours ago. Maybe she hadn’t seen the message. He called her this time.

No answer. Fine. She was busy. He’d been gone for a while, and they hadn’t really talked much since he’d left Dallas.

Thursday stretched into Friday, and he made the long trek from Prosper to his office in Arlington. The team was in Pittsburgh playing a three-game series and getting their asses handed to them. Myra had some very depressing numbers regarding the decline in ticket sales, which of course had taken a hit with the double whammy of losing the Mustangs’ marquee slugger and the lack of new, steamier pictures from the club’s favorite poster boy.