“It’s not a concept.”
“But we don’t have that option right now. We can get married and raise this baby. Who knows, maybe in the future—”
“We can get divorced?” She smiled a smile he was quickly coming to identify as her sarcastic smarty-pants smile.
He scowled. “What? No. Maybe in the future we’ll grow to love each other.”
“People usually do that before they’re married. Right now we have to think about what’s best for all of us. You, me, and the baby. I’m not going to marry you because of duty or responsibility. The man I marry—”
“You’re not marrying anyone else.” He tried to check his temper. No other man was going to be a father to his child.
“Excuse me?” She matched his frown. Actually, hers was probably scarier. Especially when she stood on her tiptoes in a futile attempt to match his height.
“I won’t let you.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and pressed down gently until she stood back on her heels. There was no way in hell she was getting married to some other man. Not in this lifetime. He balled his fists and stuck them in his pockets.
“Funny, I don’t recall asking for your permission, Manning.” She poked his shoulder.
He sighed. “Fine, fine, poor choice of words. We should get married. We made a baby together, don’t fight what comes next.”
“I don’t want to be married to a man who leaves a woman in a hotel room right after having sex with her. I don’t want to be married to a man who then takes off without ever calling. And I certainly don’t want to be married to a man who takes another woman—”
“Claire.” He felt sick to his stomach because everything she was saying was true, and somehow he’d managed to convince himself that what he’d done was okay. He’d paid the hotel bill on his way out and then tried unsuccessfully to forget about her for six weeks.
She turned from him and started arranging flowers again.
“Nope,” she said over her shoulder. “We’re not getting married. We are completely wrong for each other. Let’s face it, I’m not your type.”
“What? What are you talking about now?”
She spun around to look at him. “Maybe if you were kind of losing your hair.” She paused, waving the flowers around his head. He was trying his best to follow her train of logic, but he wasn’t hearing anything logical.
“And maybe if you were thirty pounds heavier and wore your jeans a little higher we’d have a chance at making this work. But as it stands, nope.” She was shaking her head, and he realized he was, too.
“So you want to marry an overweight, balding man who wears jeans up to his armpits?”
She nodded and smiled, throwing the flowers into the sink. “Exactly!”
“I’m not following you.”
“You don’t need to. Just accept what I’m saying and let’s move on. We can come up with some sort of visitation agreement.”
“And exactly where are you going to live?”
She spread her arms out. He refused to look down at the nicely rounded breasts he just knew were straining against her T-shirt. This was the problem. This was exactly what had gotten him into the hotel room with her—she was too damn sexy. Her enticing floral smell, her curvy body, and those eyes that could tell him to drop dead or kiss him without saying a word, all made her bloody irresistible.
He shook his head. “You can’t raise a baby in this house.”
“Why not?” She folded her arms across her chest and tapped her foot.
“It’s the size of a shoe box.”
“Oh, and like your place is any better?”
Okay, so his one-room warehouse loft above the Manning Construction offices wasn’t exactly child-friendly.
“We’ll find a new place together.”
“I don’t think so,” she said and turned her back to him. Once again, he forced his eyes to focus on the top of her head and not on the back of her jeans. Pregnant women shouldn’t be allowed to wear tight jeans anyway. When things with her were on less shaky ground, he’d mention it.
“Why are you so opposed to us trying to make this work?”
“I told you. I am not going to marry someone who doesn’t want me.”
“Oh, I want you. I’m serious, marry me.”
…
Claire stared at her socks. They were navy with pink embroidered flowers on them. She liked her socks. They were so her, conservative but cute. Not the socks Amanda would wear. Amanda probably didn’t even own socks. Or any sort of undergarment, unless it was held together only by thin strings. The sound of Jake clearing his throat brought her back to the reality that was this insane moment.