“Well, now. I guess I don’t have to ask you how you feel about the idea.” Lucas tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear, and it took supreme will not to slap his hand away.
“It doesn’t matter. We don’t have a ‘trying to get pregnant’ marriage and never will. Should I say it again? In Spanish, maybe?” She stuck a finger deep into his ribs. “Why did you tell your parents something so ridiculous? We don’t need any more window dressing. In fact, we should be taking the dressing off the window.”
“Since several people are at this very moment watching us argue, I believe dressing is peeling away rapidly with every finger jab,” Lucas responded. “Simmer down, darlin’. Matthew’s gone. I’m the only Wheeler who has a reasonable shot at producing the next generation. It’s Wheeler Family Partners. Remember?”
She swallowed, hard, and it scraped down her throat as if she’d gargled with razor blades. “So I’m supposed to be the factory for the Wheeler baby production? Is that the idea?”
“Shocking how people leap to cast my wife in that role. One might wonder why you’re having a meltdown about the mere contemplation of bearing my children, when you’ve been so clear about how our marriage is fake and we’re divorcing, period, end of story.” He stared her down with raised eyebrows. “Mama was upset when Matthew left, and I told her we were trying for a baby to soften the blow. Not because I have some evil scheme to start poking holes in the condoms. Okay?”
Oh, God. All part of the show.
She filled her lungs for what felt like the first time in an hour and let the breath out slowly, along with all the blistering anger at Lucas for…whatever offenses she’d imagined. It was a lot to balance, with the sudden presentation of alternatives and being an asset and baby talk.
Evil scheme aside, Lucas still had a serious obligation to start a family, and he’d never shun it. Her lungs constricted again. They’d have to be extremely careful about birth control going forward.
Going forward? There wasn’t much forward left in their relationship, and she stood in the way of his obligations. It would be selfish to keep seeing him after the divorce.
She grimaced at the thought of another woman falling all over herself to be the new Mrs. Wheeler. Cooing over his babies. Sleeping in his bed. Wearing his ring.
Soon, she’d be Señorita Allende again. That should have cheered her up. It didn’t. “We could have easily coordinated stories. Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
Lucas lifted one shoulder and glanced at his Rolex. “Slipped my mind. It’s almost eight-thirty. I’ll race you to the coat closet.”
She crossed her arms over another pang in her chest. “It’s seven-fifteen, Wheeler. What is going on with you? As slippery as your mind is, you did not forget casually mentioning we’re trying to get pregnant. You wanted to see my reaction in a place where I couldn’t claw your skin off. Didn’t you?”
A smear of guilt flashed through his eyes. He covered it, but not quickly enough to keep her stomach from turning over.
She was right. Oh, God, she was right.
Long-term marriage suddenly didn’t seem like an off-the-cuff, not-really-serious suggestion. The anger she’d worked so hard to dismiss swept through her cheeks again, enflaming them.
“Not at all,” he said smoothly. “I have a lot of balls in the air. Bound to drop one occasionally.”
“Learn to juggle better or a couple of those balls will hit the ground so hard, I guarantee you’ll never have children with anyone.” She whirled to put some distance between them before she got started on that guarantee right this minute.
Lucas followed her back into the mix of people, wisely opting to let her stew instead of trying to offer some lame apology or, worse, throwing out an additional denial. Matthew’s exodus had triggered more changes than the obvious ones.
Lucas’s commitment phobia had withered up and died and now he’d started hacking away at hers with a dull machete. How could this night be any more of a disaster?
Fifteen minutes later, she found out exactly how much more of a disaster it could become when she overheard a conversation between four middle-aged men with the distinct smell of money wafting off them. They were blithely discussing her shelter.
She listened in horror, frozen in place behind them, as they loaded up plates at the buffet with shrimp and caviar, oblivious to the fact that they were discussing her shelter.
“Excellent visibility for the donors,” one said, and another nodded.
Donors? Maybe she’d misheard the first part of the conversation. Maybe they weren’t talking about the hotel site or her new shelter. They couldn’t be. She’d made it very clear to Lucas she didn’t want to depend on donations to run the shelter. Hadn’t she?