by Donna Alward
When they were finally alone again, Lizzie picked up her fork. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to turn your life upside down for this.”
“I’m not,” he assured her. “Like I said, it was a year of goofing off. It’s not a big deal.”
But she could tell by the way he wouldn’t meet her eyes that it was. She picked up her knife and it slid through her tender veal like it was butter. She tried to eat normally, savoring the meat, pasta and marinara but it was awkward. He was turning his whole life upside down for this. And he was doing it because he was putting their child first—a child that wasn’t even born yet.
She remembered the look of wonder in his eyes when they’d heard the heartbeat today and the tender way he’d kissed her forehead.
Oh dear. She was in so much trouble here and it wasn’t all to do with being pregnant.
“I think you’re going to be a very good father,” she said quietly, putting down her fork.
He met her gaze over the flickering candles. “If I am, it’s because I had a good example at home. I know that my dad sacrificed for me and always wanted the best for me, and that’s what I want for my children, too.”
Children. She dropped her gaze to her food and picked up her fork again, surprised by her sudden reaction to that word. It really hit home then that they’d be coparenting but still having separate lives. He’d likely meet someone and marry her and have another family, and that woman would be her baby’s stepmother. And maybe she’d marry and have more babies, too...though for some reason, while she could see Chris surrounded by kids and a beautiful wife and the perfect life, she couldn’t quite envision that for herself.
This was always going to be complicated, wasn’t it?
“Liz? Is your food okay?”
“It’s delicious.” She smiled and made a show of taking another bite of veal parmesan.
“Hey.” She looked up to find him watching her, his fork paused midair holding a square of ravioli. “Remember what we said from the beginning. One day at a time and we’ll figure all this out. It’s going to be fine.”
She wished she had his confidence, but his easy manner and earnest eyes had her nearly believing him.
“Now, come on,” he urged. “Relax and eat your dinner. Because there’s tiramisu still to come.” He popped the ravioli into his mouth.
By the end of the meal there was still pasta left on Lizzie’s plate and she sat back, completely full. “I adore tiramisu, but I don’t think I can eat another bite.”
When the waiter came to remove their plates, Chris smiled up at him. “Could we have two orders of tiramisu to go, please?”
“Certainly, sir,” he answered, disappearing once more.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she said, toying with her napkin.
“It’s my favorite,” Chris shrugged. “And I know you like it, too. Just put it in your fridge. Or, if I know you, you’ll have room once you get home.”
“I doubt it,” she answered, patting her tummy.
“Wanna bet?” He grinned at her. “I noticed that you eat often, but you don’t eat a lot at a time. I did some reading and it said that sometimes eating smaller meals more frequently helps with the nausea.”
She wasn’t sure what was more shocking—the fact that he’d read up on pregnancy or that he’d noticed her eating habits. “The doctor said that should go away in a few more weeks. I have my fingers crossed.”
“I’m sure.”
The waiter came back with their desserts and the bill. Chris tucked a credit card in the leather folder and handed it back. When it had run through, he signed his copy and nodded at Lizzie. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
He carried the box of dessert and as they went through the door to the restaurant, his hand rested on the curve of her spine just for a moment until they were outside. The evening had cooled and Lizzie found herself wishing she’d worn a wrap with the dress, but seeing Chris in his suit and tie had fried her brain and she’d forgotten.
“It’s a bit chilly,” he observed. “Are you cold?”
“I’m fine.” They were nearly to the truck but he stopped, handed her the box, and took off his suit coat.
“Here, this should help.” He draped it over her shoulders and took the box back before starting across the last row of the parking lot.
The jacket was still warm from his body as it clung to her shoulders, and the scent of his aftershave surrounded her. Good heavens, he smelled good. Not only that, but without the jacket on she could see how his shoulders were broad in the crisp white shirt and tapered to his narrow waist and hips, tucked into his trousers.
Cowboy Chris was incredibly sexy. She’d found him so that first night, and since then, too, in his plaid shirts and jeans. But he could equally pull off the professional look and she was afraid the attraction she felt for him was in no danger of dying off. Thank goodness he hadn’t clued in to how strongly she reacted to him, or pressed the issue. He hadn’t, not since the kiss that first weekend in her condo.
He opened her door and she hopped in, and when he got in he put the cake on the seat between them.
“So when do you start your new job?” Lizzie curled deeper into the comfort of his jacket. The near-darkness outside along with the softly playing radio made it rather cozy in the cab of the truck.
“Monday. I’ve spent this week getting things in order in San Antonio, and went out to my mom and dad’s for a few days.”
She looked over at him. “Did you tell them?”
He took his eyes off the road for a moment. “No.” He looked straight ahead again, but kept talking. “I wanted to. Nearly did, but you and I hadn’t talked about saying anything to anyone and I didn’t think I should without discussing it with you first. So I just told them I’d been offered this job. They were disappointed at me being farther away, but happy for me.”
They were going to have to say something soon and she knew it. There was only so long she could manage to avoid the topic before people started asking questions. Her declining a drink at a social event, leaving the office for doctor appointments, the few times she’d stood up and been light-headed and had to pause to regain her equilibrium. Carly had stopped by the office once on her way back to Houston and brought coffee. Rather than explain, Lizzie had taken a few stomach-turning sips and then faked her way through the visit.
She just couldn’t imagine what the right time would be. Brock was home and grouchy because he was virtually immobile, and he picked apart her daily reports and added so much input that she knew he didn’t trust her in the job yet.
She sighed—loudly.
“Tired?”
She smiled halfheartedly and laughed a little. “Always.”
When they got back to her complex, he left the truck running but got out to open her door. She slid out but came a little too fast, rolling one of her heels, and his arms reached out to steady her.
The touch burned through his jacket sleeve straight to her skin. “Thanks,” she breathed.
He reached inside and handed her the pastry box. “Here you go.”
She looked up at him. “But your piece is in here, too.”
“That’s okay. You can have one now and save the other for later.”
Trouble was, she didn’t want the evening to end just yet. She shrugged off his suit coat and handed it back to him. “Thanks for the jacket.”
“You’re welcome.”
The evening air bit at her shoulders again and she knew she should get inside, but still she hesitated. “Where are you staying, Chris?”
His gaze burned into hers as he answered. “At a motel not too far from the office. I have a kitchenette and everything. I’m renting it by the week until I find something more permanent.”
That didn’t sound too exciting t
o her. She took a breath and said what she really wanted to and the hell with it. “Do you want to come up and have your dessert? It’s not fair for me to take both pieces.”
“You’re sure?”
“Why not?”
After she said it she knew there were tons of reasons why he shouldn’t. They were supposed to keep this businesslike. This would blur the lines. She still had these nagging feelings for him. It was late. He smelled good. And so on...
“I’d like that,” he answered, and he jumped into the truck and shut off the ignition, pocketing the keys.
The door slammed behind her as she led the way to the front doors, his footsteps sounding behind her.
Chapter Eight
Chris’s stomach was a bundle of nerves as he waited for Lizzie to open her door. Tonight had been good. Too good at times. There’d been moments of tension but other moments where their eyes had met and he’d known. Spending the night with her hadn’t been an accident. It felt an awful lot like fate. Something he’d never truly believed in before, but the more time they spent together the more it felt like something beyond his control was engineering his life.
He was bothered especially by the fact that he should be more upset about it than he was. And yet he wasn’t. Somehow being here tonight, with a pastry box of tiramisu, felt strangely inevitable.
The door swung open and they stepped inside. Lizzie hit a switch and the living room was bathed in warm light from the ornate wall sconces. There was the sofa where he’d slept the last time he’d been in town. The efficient kitchen where they’d shared toast and one not-quite-satisfactory kiss.
“Come on in,” she said, and to his surprise she kicked off her heels and left them by the door. She took her box of dessert to the kitchen. “You were right. I have room now.” She smiled up at him wickedly as she put the box on the breakfast counter and opened a cupboard door for plates.
He draped his jacket over an armchair and took a steadying breath. It was just dessert. Except right now she looked impossibly young and innocent with her hair down and the anticipation of the creamy confection written all over her face. How could a man expect to remain immune to that? Added into it that she was carrying his child and he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do.
“I don’t have coffee, sorry. This should probably be eaten with a good cup of espresso.”
“And then I’d lay awake half the night,” he replied, stepping forward and accepting the plate she offered. “Know what would really taste good with it?”
She looked up and he was hit with it again. That sense of rightness that scared the living hell out of him.
“What?”
“Milk. You got any of that in the fridge? Good, cold milk.”
She laughed. “That I’ve got. Boy, we’re really exciting, aren’t we? Sparkling cider and milk on our big date.”
The milk jug was in her hand, halfway to the countertop when she realized what she’d said and started to blush. “I didn’t mean it as a date date,” she stammered.
“Would it be so bad? Being on a date with me?”
The blush deepened. “Um...of course not. It’s just that it would complicate things. Haven’t we had this conversation already?”
She regained her composure and got out two glasses, but he noticed her hand shook slightly as she was pouring the milk.
So what the hell did he want from her? It was as though she had two faces. The first face was that of the mother of his kid. He saw that woman and knew that they both had to step up and act like responsible expecting parents. And then there was the other face, which was that of a beautiful, smart woman. A woman he was still attracted to. A woman he couldn’t get out of his mind. Putting the two together made an ungodly mess he couldn’t begin to sort out. If he pursued anything it would only mess up the parenting side of things.
But ignoring the way they looked at each other, the way his pulse seemed to quicken the moment he saw her, the way it was hammering right now...
He took the milk and cake and perched on a stool, trying to keep his thoughts cool. This was not why he’d decided to move to Dallas. It was about his child. About choosing not to be a long-distance father. About putting childish things away and looking after his family.
And that’s when it hit him.
Lizzie was his family now. They would forever be tied—on holidays, over parent-teacher interviews, with dating advice, weddings, the birth of grandchildren. She would always be a part of his life.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, and he shook his head.
“Nothing. I guess I’m just a little tired.”
She frowned. “Sorry if I kept you from getting back ho...I mean, back to the motel.”
“No, it’s good.” He made a show of taking a bite of the creamy tiramisu followed by a big gulp of icy-cold milk. “It’s just been a bit crazy lately. I’m kind of wondering when I’m going to get off the merry-go-round.”
“Tell me about it,” she grumbled, leaning her elbows on the counter and dipping into her own dessert. “I thought, with being on the board and all, that I knew what I was getting into by stepping into Dad’s shoes. Turns out they’re very big shoes to fill.”
Chris tried to ignore the way the V of her dress gaped just a little as she leaned over, revealing a delicious glimpse of cleavage. “Do you regret taking it on, then?”
She shook her head. “No. I still believe it should be a Baron at the helm. It would help if Dad would even listen to any of my ideas. But boy, he’s set in stone.” She blew out a breath, took a drink of milk and scraped a bit of mascarpone onto her fork.
“What sort of ideas?” This line of conversation was slightly more comfortable, and he dropped his shoulders, trying to relax.
“Diversification, for one. I’d love for Baron to start exploring alternate forms of energy, you know? And I know Jacob agrees. But Dad’s old-school oil all the way. It’s maddening. I tried to get him to see it from the Roughneck point of view.” She pierced the cake with her fork again. “We have the rodeo business and the stock. Then we have the farm part of it, which feeds into Savannah’s store—all moneymakers. And then we have Baron Energies. He kept saying that I’m just acting like the rest of the younger generation, with my idealist head in the clouds. And then I got mad and said that people with their heads in the clouds were innovators and maybe it would do him good to spend some time up there.”
Chris snorted. “And how did that go over?”
She looked up and a reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “He smacked his crutches on the patio floor, glared at me and said just how the hell was he supposed to get up there when he could barely get out of his chair?”
“Ouch.”
“Quite.”
“So what kind of alternate forms of energy were you thinking? Ethanol? Solar?”
“There’s been great success with converting livestock manure to gas. Several ranches I can list right now run their operations independent of the grid. Not to mention new technologies in solar cells and wind power...you’d know something about that.”
“Yes, I would.”
“Maybe you could talk to my dad.”
He polished off his cake and added blandly, “Would that be before or after I tell him I got his eldest daughter knocked up?”
She grinned. “Good point.” As she collected their plates, she kept talking. “Anyway, Dad’s thing is that if we expand into other forms of energy, it’s like saying we don’t have faith in the oil business anymore.”
“And what do you say to that?”
She met his gaze. “I told him that someone needs to start thinking about the future.”
She had balls. He had no doubt about that. And he agreed with her, too. He grabbed a memory of talking to Nicole about the job and how she’d asked about Baron and mentio
ned Lizzie’s views. “Have you been vocal about that before?”
She shrugged. “I’ve mentioned it a few times, but not since Dad got hurt. For now at least we don’t need any more ammunition for stock prices to drop.”
She put the dishes in the sink and turned around, giving a stretch. When she lowered her arms, they automatically went to her tummy and Chris’s gaze followed along. “Can you feel anything yet?” he asked softly. “It’s probably too early, isn’t it?”
“Not yet. Probably not until I’m sixteen, seventeen weeks. I’m kind of looking forward to it. Sometimes it doesn’t seem like it’s even real. And then it does, because I know he or she is in there.”
Chris got up from the bar stool and went into the kitchen. “I know this is kind of forward...”
She lifted her eyes, questioning.
He lifted his hand, moved it slowly towards her belly, giving her lots of time to refuse. But she didn’t. She saw where his hand was going and stood very still until he pressed his wide palm against the warmth of her stomach. It was firm, but she was slim enough that he could feel the slight bubble there and his heart did something strange. “He’s in there. Or she. What do you think it is?”
He wished he could feel movement but he supposed that would come later and he hoped that by that point they would still be open enough that she’d let him feel that, too.
“I don’t know. I’ve been referring to it as she. But I noticed today you said both at different times. What do you think?”
“I said that?” He didn’t remember doing that, and he left his hand against her middle. It felt good there. Good to have the connection...
“You did. I suppose all guys want a son, though, don’t they?”
Did he? He supposed he did. He could picture ball gloves and bats, tools in the garage, horseback riding out at his parents’ place....
But he could just as easily picture that ball player having a ponytail and the whisper of Lizzie’s freckles on the crests of her cheeks, holding out a wrench while he fixed something, or riding one of the quarter horses with ease.