Waking Up Pregnant(3)
Their child’s.
Her frenetic brushing slowed and she spit the paste.
God, what was he going to want? The mess cleaning reference didn’t exactly suggest an instant, joyfully embraced, paternal connection. And how she felt about that...she didn’t know.
On the one hand, her child would be lucky to have the kind of emotional security afforded by two parents who wanted it. But on the other, did either she or her baby really need to be tied to some overgrown kid who, by all appearances, didn’t know the meaning of the word no? The man had made a desk of some repurposed airplane wing and a conference table from a disassembled jukebox topped in glass, for crying out loud. Essentially turning his workspace into a playground filled with the toys of a boy’s heart.
And, yes, that boyish, world-on-a-string mentality packaged within a rugged all-man’s body may have held some appeal when she first encountered it in Vegas. He’d known how to laugh. How to grab life with both hands and live in the moment without overanalyzing every move he made, without weighing every decision. And for a few incredible hours he’d shown her how to do the same.
But now, as that same mentality applied to the father of her child and with her body as exhibit A as one of the consequences to that just for fun mindset?
She let out a slow breath. Reached for the mouthwash, went for a bracing swish and spit.
Not so much.
Darcy placed a hand over her still flat belly, her emotions caught in a tug-of-war between awe over the precious life within her and resentment directed at herself. Disappointment. Frustration.
She’d known better. She’d spent years saying no to every temptation, because she’d had no one to count on but herself. No net to fall back in. No desire to allow herself to be trapped the way her mother had been.
She’d always been so relentlessly careful.
So how was it, this time, this one night, this guy...she’d said yes?
TWO
Three months earlier...
And here he’d thought he might be bored.
Within the swank Vegas lounge, Jeff Norton folded his arms over the tabletop, leaning forward in what had turned out to be a ringside seat for the crash-and-burn All-Stars playing out before him as a table of guys tried to score on the leggy blonde who’d just served him his Scotch.
He couldn’t believe the one kid was throwing her a line after the world-class freeze she’d laid on the last chump. And his friends were encouraging him. Forget that on the hot scale, this woman ranked so far out of the kid’s league, they weren’t even on the same planet, let alone page. But hadn’t they seen her eyes? The flat, wholly uninviting, all-business expression leaving zero wiggle room for misinterpretation: not interested. Period.
Probably not. These guys had a just legal look about them, which, coupled with their collection of empties lined up like trophies on the table, and the frequent “Vegas, baby!” fist pumps suggested they hadn’t made it past the admittedly dynamite body before their brains blew out.
Live and learn, boys.
Thirty seconds later, the kid was taking a round of conciliatory back slaps from his cohorts and Jeff was back to waiting for Connor. His best friend fresh off a broken engagement and the reason behind this “guys’ weekend” in Sin City.