Stop thinking about that.
Yes. He really did have to stop thinking about the sex.
“You’re upset,” he said after a moment, choosing his words carefully. “And I’m sorry for that. I don’t mean to distress you but…” He hesitated, studying her for reaction. She was trying to wipe away the tears and getting great smears of mascara everywhere.
“Oh, don’t let me stop you,” she said, waving a hand. “Please, I’m dying to hear what pearls of wisdom are going to come out of your mouth next.”
More sarcasm. Well, okay, he could cope with that. “We should discuss what we’re going to do. We can go to my house, I think. That would be best. It’s quiet and private. We won’t be disturbed.” That strange possessiveness was sinking down into him, holding on tight. The need to get her back to his place, so they could discuss this. Put some kind of plan in place for the baby.
Your baby…
Shock was there at the thought, definitely. And something else, too. Something like wonder. Because this was the kind of normal he didn’t think he’d ever have. Or want.
But now that it’s here, you do want it.
Hell, yes. He did want it. With a ferocity that surprised him. Though how he was going to manage this with the OCD, he had no idea.
Her mouth opened then shut again. “What? Like now?”
“Yes. The sooner we deal with this the better.”
“No. I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Luke tried to stifle his impatience. “Why not? We can’t discuss it here. There are too—”
“I don’t want to discuss it anywhere, McNamara. Not tonight.”
“I understand you’re in shock. But—”
“I’m not in shock.”
“Yes, you are. And stop interrupting me. You’re pale, you’re trembling, and that purse of yours is going to split open if you keep twisting it like that.”
She glanced down at her hands. “Oh. Dammit.” Her hands stilled, but the sequins on the purse glittered, casting spots of light everywhere. “Yeah, okay, so I’m in shock. Which means I need to go home, sit down, and eat a whole tub of ice cream and chick-flick myself into a coma. Not go home with you and ‘discuss stuff.’”
“Avoiding the issue won’t help. The quicker we deal with it the less shocking it will be.”
Her head came up at that. “Oh honey, you have no idea how long an issue can be avoided.”
Honey. It had been weeks since he’d heard that in conjunction with himself. And he really didn’t like it. It made him feel odd. He found himself wanting to adjust his tie. Quelled the urge. “Yes, well, you may be used to avoiding issues but that’s not the way I handle things. Especially not things like this.”
Marisa raised a hand, touched her forehead briefly as if she had a headache. “Luke, please. Don’t go all alpha on me. I don’t think I can handle it right now.”
It was the first time she’d called him by his name and notsounded angry. And that made him feel even odder.
No, don’t think about it. There are far more important things you have to do.
This was true. Marisa’s news was chaos, and if he was going to manage it, he’d have to make some kind of order from it.
For a strange moment his mind went into free fall, trying to consider all the implications of this, how he would manage the issue of the OCD, not to mention all the checking compulsions and anxiety having a child would generate.
Of course the main problem was how in the hell he was going to hide it from Marisa. He kept his liaisons short and sweet for a reason—so no one would find out about his condition. But if she was having his child, she’d be around for a lot longer than a few weeks. God, what if it he had a bad episode and Marisa saw it? She’d think he was crazy, like everyone else had…
Through sheer force of will, Luke got a grip on his flailing brain. No, he could manage this. He would have to manage it. There was simply no other option.
“We need to talk, Marisa,” he said, trying to make it less of a demand. “Sorting something out now will help, I promise you. You’re not the only one whose life is going to change.”
She glanced back at him, and he got the impression she was searching for something, though what he didn’t know. “Do you have a handkerchief?” she asked after a moment.
He did. It was white and clean. Perfectly pressed and meticulously folded. Well, if he couldn’t give her the kind of comfort she needed, the least he could do was give her his handkerchief. Without a word he pulled the piece of fabric from his pocket and handed it to her.
She took it, eyes widening at the snowy white material and the perfect creases. “Did you iron this?”