“Can you just imagine a little Junkyard Smardo running around? Big ears, buck teeth and double chin.”
“Hopefully, it turns out looking like B.J. I’m still convinced she’s got a body that just won’t stop under all those man clothes.”
Brushing past the men, Grady hurried inside to finish his business. He had to talk to B.J...now.
Realizing that was probably the reason she’d been trying to get a hold of him, he couldn’t help but feel a little stung by the fact she hadn’t wanted to see him personally, she’d merely wanted to deliver an update.
She was pregnant.
God, he hadn’t even considered that possibility.
It’d taken so much work for Amy to conceive, he’d been under the impression a lot more than one time was needed to get the job done. But one night with B.J. definitely wasn’t one night with Amy on any level.
103
Grady returned to his truck. He even started the engine and put the gearshift into drive, but he kept his foot on the brake, unable to move.
This wasn’t fair. Amy, who’d wanted children her entire life, had died trying to get the baby she desired. For years, he’d felt like a failure because he’d been unable to grant her deepest wish. Yet now, after one stupid try, he’d planted a child in B.J., and there was no way in hell she’d been desperate to become a little mama.
He felt like hell. How could he so easily
impregnate one woman, a woman he hardly knew, but he couldn’t manage to come through for his wife who’d been the absolute love of his life?
Taking his foot off the brake, Grady pressed the gas. He had to talk to B.J. He had to know how she could do this to him. He didn’t want to be a father.
He didn’t want to look down and see a bloody little corpse ever again.
Why couldn’t she have just left him alone in Houston, damn it?
Since B.J. lived in a small two-bedroom
bungalow farmhouse hardly two miles from the filling station, Grady pulled into her drive only minutes later. Her truck was sitting out front, telling him she was home. As he parked behind it and slid out of his cab, he took a long, calming breath.
Realizing he was probably going to hate this encounter, he slowed his step but still reached her porch all too soon.
When he knocked on her door, he heard her call,
“It’s open.”
Grady stepped inside. As soon as he’d gained entrance, he stopped and let the door quietly fall shut at his back. Her living room was small but tidy.
It looked like a neat bachelor pad. The furniture was old, ugly and mismatched but appeared incredibly 104
The Trouble with Tomboys
comfortable. The colors were neutral, nothing flashy or feminine. She had posters on the wall of four-wheelers and airplanes. And the television was on, turned to NASCAR.
B.J. entered from a doorway on the left. She was barefoot, dressed in an old pair of faded blue jeans with holes ripped in the knees. She had on an equally old T-shirt with a beer logo on the front, and her wet hair was pulled back into its usual ponytail.
She carried a bag of microwave popcorn and tugged it open as she strolled in from the kitchen.
The voice of the gossipmonger from the filling station filled Grady’s head. I’m still convinced she’s got a body that just won’t stop under all those man clothes. He knew just how true those words were.
Lithe form, long legs, tightly packed muscles, soft curves, breasts that more than filled his hands. His mouth watered.
When she saw him, she jerked to a stop. “What are you doing here?”
His first thought had nothing to do with
children. The first—and pretty much the only—
declaration to enter his head was, Mine.
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Chapter Nine
“You wanted to see me?” Grady asked, clearing his throat and returning to his senses.
B.J.’s eyes widened, and she shook her head. “N-no.” Grady’s jaw went hard. “You called twice and stopped by once this morning,” he reminded. “What was it you needed to tell me?”
Her head once again swung back and forth, “I don’t...nothing,” she insisted.
He bit back a sigh. The woman was an awful
liar. It did nothing to ease his growing anger.
“So, the gossip around town isn’t true then?”
B.J. frowned. “I don’t listen to the gossip around town, so I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He lifted a brow and sent her an arch look.
“That so? You have no idea what I’m talking about, huh?”
“I just said I didn’t,” she snapped a little too defensively; her stance went from cowering to attack-mode.
“Well, I heard about five minutes ago that
someone had knocked up B.J. Gilmore.”