Have Baby, Will Marry

by Christie Ridgway

  “Employer?” Dana offered.

  His gaze swiveled toward Molly, hers to his. “No,” they said together.

  “We’re—” Weaver broke off again. He couldn’t say friends.

  The two women apparently gave up on him. With an overbright smile, Molly dragged Dana toward the house to show off the baby. From the conversation that floated back to him, Weaver gathered that Dana was a new mother, that her own baby girl was at home with the baby’s father, and that Molly had been “way too quiet” about what was going on in her life.

  Weaver ran a hand through his hair. Damn me. What was going on in Molly’s life was that he was messing it up. Instead of latching on to Molly’s notion of friendship, he’d brought up lovers.

  Weaver speared both hands through his hair. Why was everything backfiring on him? Here he was, just your average Joe, trying to live his own life, and what happens?

  Mr. No-Commitments inherits a house and a baby.

  City boy finds himself in the suburbs.

  Confirmed bachelor shares quarters with a sexy, family-oriented woman.

  He groaned.

  A warm weight pressed against his legs and Patch gave his hand a sympathetic lick. Weaver glanced down at the dog.

  Toothy grin. A look that seemed to say, What’s wrong with a house and a baby?

  What’s wrong with a little grass and a neighborhood fleet of minivans?

  And with an insistent whine: What’s wrong with Molly?

  Weaver groaned, longer. “What’s wrong is that I don’t know the first thing about handling any of them.” The dog’s ears felt like warm butter against his fingers. “I tried it before and it didn’t work.”

  It’s not a knowing thing, it’s a feeling thing. Patch pressed harder against his knees.

  Weaver remembered those were Molly’s words, too. “You’re way too smart for a dog.”

  And for a man, you’re…

  An idiot. Weaver could finish that one for himself, easily.

  Dana and Molly emerged from the house, Daisy Ann cradled in Molly’s arms. Weaver ignored how right they looked together.

  “Leaving already?” he asked Dana, who fished her keys from her purse.

  She nodded. “Just a quick check on my friend here. I need to get back to Alan and the baby.”

  Weaver made the mistake of looking at Molly again, then couldn’t break his gaze away from the Madonna-and-child pull of her with Daisy in her arms. Even running shorts and a T-shirt advertising a fun run couldn’t dampen the maternal glow.

  “Nice meeting you,” he said, forcing his attention on Dana.

  “My husband would enjoy meeting you.” A gleam entered Dana’s eyes. “Hey, we’re free for dinner tonight. We could have a barbecue.”

  “Uh, Daisy…” Weaver hesitated. In his mood, a suburban barbecue was the last form of entertainment he needed.

  “We just declared her completely cured, so it’s time the two little girls made friends,” Dana said.

  Molly’s face was stiff. “Dana—”

  “Oh, come on. We’ll have it here so you won’t even have to take Daisy out of the house.” Dana smiled brilliantly. “What do you say, Weaver? It’ll just be a casual thing among friends.”

  Friends. That word again.

  Weaver suddenly pictured them all in the yard. Burgers and chips and soft drinks. Something to think about this afternoon besides Molly. People to be around tonight besides Molly.

  Suddenly, it sounded like a fine idea.

  “Okay,” he slowly agreed. “We’ll make potato salad.” After two minutes he’d be bored out of his gourd. Perfect.

  “Potato salad? Which one of the ‘we’ is going to make potato salad?” Molly looked at him as if he were crazy.

  Oh, no, Molly. My sanity is finally returning.

  “It’ll be, um…fun.” A boring suburban barbecue would remind him of all the reasons he and Molly could be nothing more than friends.

  Late afternoon, Molly used the butcher knife to push a newly chopped pile of celery toward the mound of diced hard-boiled eggs on the cutting board.

  On the countertop to her left, Daisy sat contentedly in her infant seat. Weaver rummaged in the walk-in pantry for paper plates and plastic cutlery. He stepped out, a stack of white rounds in his hands. “I’ll take these to the backyard.”

  Then he escaped. He’d been avoiding her since Dana’s unexpected visit. Or, more precisely, since that option four couldn’t-we-be-lovers suggestion.

  Molly sighed and guillotined an onion, wishing she could cut through her confusion just as easily. What confusion? she admonished herself. They’d agreed to be friends. But…

  Calling someone friend didn’t make his blue eyes fade, or his hair shine less, or his firm jaw stop pleading for the touch of her hand.

  Calling someone friend didn’t erase her memory of the silly faces that someone made to amuse a grumpy baby. Or the strange sense of rightness she felt in his arms.

  Calling someone friend could just about be the biggest joke of all time.

  Daisy gurgled, catching Molly’s attention. The baby stared, fascinated, at her own intricately woven fingers. Molly smiled faintly. It was going to be bad enough saying goodbye to Daisy, but on top of that she’d have to suffer lust withdrawal from Weaver, as well.

  The combination might just about do her in.

  Daisy gurgled again, her head now turned toward the clear bowl of gleaming red strawberries Molly had sliced. “Red,” she said to the baby. “Like fire engines and Santa’s suit. Pretty, like Daisy Ann and-”

  “You.”

  Molly whirled at the sound of Weaver’s voice. A stain of a different red crossed his cheekbones and he looked as surprised at his comment as she was.

  He cleared his throat. “Anything more I can do for you?”

  Molly licked her dry lips. “Absolutely not,” she reminded herself.

  He moved to stand in front of Daisy and picked up the bowl, holding it so Daisy had a better view. The baby gurgled again, and Weaver laughed with her.

  Molly tore her gaze away from the pair. “I hope you like strawberry shortcake,” she said.

  “Love it. But I thought women always wanted something chocolate.” He’d set down the bowl, and Daisy’s little hand was wrapped around one of his strong, long fingers.

  “Not me. I cured my addiction years ago.”

  Still clutching Weaver’s hand, Daisy smiled gaily into his face. “How so?” he asked, running his free palm over the fuzz on top of the baby’s head.

  Molly thought about his hand sweeping over her own hair, trailing over her bare skin. Her heart squeezed, pushing all the oxygen from her lungs. She gulped in air. “I binged myself out of it.”

  “How’d you do that?” His head turned her way, and he smiled.

  The smile hit her like the force of a thousand magnets. Atoms of attraction, pulling her, drawing her, making her want…him. “When I was fifteen, I spent a whole weekend eating it. Chocolate doughnuts. Chocolate ice cream. Chocolate cheesecake. Youname-it chocolate, I ate it twice.”

  “Whoa. You’re not kidding.”

  She nodded. “Cured myself of chocolate cravings forever.”

  “Sounds crazy, but I guess it worked.” He smiled again.

  “I guess it did.” She could hardly breathe again.

  As if he sensed her tension, he abruptly stepped backward. “I think I’ll go…do something.”

  He brushed past her, and the tiny hairs on her skin rose as if to follow him. She sighed. Her addiction to Weaver seemed as strong as the one she’d once had for chocolate.

  Clack. The sound of the butcher knife dropping to the cutting board punctuated the intriguing thought that flew into her head.

  Could she get rid of her lust for Weaver the same way she’d overcome her lust for chocolate?

  Goose bumps spread over her skin. Could she binge herself free of Weaver? Could becoming his lover cure her of him forever?

  Weaver assumed the barbec
ue would be a snooze fest. He expected two couples and two infants would incite enough yawns in him to swallow up any wayward desire he had for babies, dogs and family-oriented women. By the goodbyes, he’d be able to handle the intimacy of the darkness alone with Molly. He could be her friend.

  Sure, after this little dinnertime reminder of how little they had in common, how much her kind of life didn’t suit him, darkness with Molly would be a breeze.

  Just as he’d gotten this line of thinking down pat, she blindsided him two minutes before the guests were due to arrive. With quick steps, she carried to the backyard a patchwork quilt. She wore a tank top and a miniskirt, which, when she turned around, he discovered was actually a pair of shorts.

  Feeling noble, he contemplated the mysteries of female fashion instead of watching her bend to spread the quilt on the shaded grass beside the patio. Then she straightened, bit her lip and shot him an assessing look.

  She bit her lip again and nervously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve been thinking about that option four you mentioned.”

  He choked on his own gasp.

  “Are you okay?” She came toward him.

  He held her off with a hastily thrown-up hand. “You didn’t say what I think you did.” A statement, not a question.

  “If you think I suggested we might become lovers, then I did say it.” She rubbed her palms against her skirt-shorts thing.

  Drawing his attention to her long legs. The ones that night after night he’d fantasized about being wrapped around his waist. Oh, my God.

  The doorbell rang before his mind could speed up, or slow down, or whatever it needed to do to make sense of all this. “Why’d you bring this up now?” he asked, hardly recognizing the hoarse and cracked voice that came out of his throat.

  She blinked, her silver eyes serious. “To give you time to think about it.” Her head turned toward the sound of the second ring of the doorbell. “We can discuss the idea later. I’ll go let them in.”

  To give me time to think about it? He thought about wringing her neck. He thought about running, screaming crazily, into the night. He thought mostly about sending this nice, boring couple on their way and then dragging Molly off to his bed.

  But the nice, boring couple were already in his backyard, setting down bowls of food and six-packs and baby paraphernalia. Their little baby—cute little thing named Camille—was quickly ensconced beside Daisy Ann on the quilt Molly had laid on the grass.

  Alan Hartley, Dana’s husband, liked microbrewery beer and to sit near his wife and baby. He watched them with a faint, besotted smile on his face, as if they’d been put on this earth for his unceasing delight.

  The other man gave Weaver a much needed feeling of relief. He had nothing in common with this guy. Thanks to Molly—don’t look at her pretty, tempting face, he cautioned himself—it was up to Weaver alone to resist getting any closer. Alan Hartley was going to help him do it.

  A baby’s laugh drew his attention. Molly sat on the quilt with Daisy against her, tickling the little girl with the paintbrush end of her long, dark braid. Daisy kept trying to catch it in her pudgy hands, and for the first time, Weaver noticed the unbelievable perfection of the baby’s fingernails. And then Molly laughed, and he found himself fascinated by the wink of the earrings in her lobes. He’d never seen her wear jewelry before, and he imagined her taking them out that night before she went to bed…

  I’ve been thinking about that option four you mentioned.

  Oh, no. To turn off the thought and refocus on their differences, he escaped in the direction of the propane-fueled grill. Like the lawn mower, it had a beastly aspect to it and he welcomed the unpleasant challenge.

  The control panel looked like something NASA dreamed up.

  After several baffled minutes, a familiar perfume floated by his nose. He looked over his shoulder at Molly, who gripped a platter of hamburger patties. “We can either roast meat or launch rockets with this thing,” he said. “And I don’t have a clue which does what.”

  See, honey? There’s no way in hell we should be together.

  She laughed, apparently oblivious to his silent message.

  He tried again. “I can disassemble and assemble an assault rifle in six seconds. I know karate and tae kwan do.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “But I don’t have the slightest idea how to get this thing going.”

  “There you go,” she said. “You’re right. These suburbs are trickier than life in the spy-burbs.”

  “I’m not too good with barbecues myself.” Alan’s deep voice sounded on Weaver’s left. “Can’t always keep control of the flames.”

  Weaver groaned inwardly as Molly ran a supposedly reassuring, yet definitely heat-inducing palm down his forearm. “He’s not kidding, you know. And he’s a fireman.” She walked back—thank God—to Dana and the babies.

  Weaver forced his attention to Alan. A fireman? He’d pegged the man as an engineer or accountant or something. Not because Alan looked as if he pushed a pencil, necessarily, but it just seemed like the kind of job for a guy who so obviously doted on his wife and child.

  “Surprised you?” Alan grinned and reached down to twist one of several dials. Then he told Weaver to press the red button on the right side of the panel.

  Flames roared. Weaver leapt back, a hand rubbing at what he imagined were the remains of his eyebrows. It took a moment for his pulse to subside to prebonfire speed. Dull, he reminded himself, you’re finding this deadly dull.

  Alan handed Weaver a spatula, and he began to load the burgers onto the grill. The flames leapt toward them and a satisfying aroma curled toward his nose.

  Meat on the grill, Weaver crossed to the cooler and got out a couple more cold beers. He handed one of the sweating bottles to Alan and the two of them watched the flames.

  But the surprising satisfaction of conquering an other suburban animal couldn’t keep his mind off Molly’s mind-blowing offer.

  “Have you known Molly long?” he asked Alan.

  The other guy nodded. “I met her five years ago, on the same night I met my wife.”

  At Weaver’s raised eyebrows, Alan continued, a reminiscent smile creeping over his face. “At a cantina across the border, famous for tequila and Mexican beer. Those two were drinking virgin daiquiris and flipping pesos for designated-driver status.”

  Alan slugged back a mouthful of beer. “I took them under my protection.”

  A cool finger of concern jabbed Weaver. ‘They were in some kind of danger?”

  “Yeah. From dangerous leerers and dangerous gropers.” Alan grinned. “I wasn’t half as bad as the other guys. I might have leered, but I never groped.”

  Weaver ran his thumb over the wet bottle of beer, inspecting the clean swipe he made on the glass. “Molly still needs rescuing.”

  “From you?”

  Yes. He was wrong for her. But he couldn’t bring himself to say it aloud. Just as he couldn’t admit how much he liked the warm suburban evening air or the company, or the sound of feminine laughter wafting across the patio.

  To avoid answering, he looked toward the women, flanking the two babies on the quilt. Another laugh rose up, then suddenly baby Camille burped.

  Her father laughed. “Way to go, woman,” he called out. “She belches like a sailor.” He shot a proud grin at Weaver.

  Weaver tried letting the paternal comment pass. Failed. He held up an often infant-captured thumb. “Daisy’s got a grip like King Kong’s.”

  Alan appeared unimpressed. “When Camille’s hungry, she’s louder than Howard Stern.”

  “Daisy’s hair is as blond as Dennis Rodman’s—”

  “Was last week,” Alan finished for him. They exchanged grins and let the one-upmanship die while they finished their beers and watched the babies. Daisy’s Rodman do ruffled in the breeze as her chubby legs bicycled and her arms waved.

  He spoke more to himself than Alan. “She’s not really mine, you know.” That’s why he couldn’t have her.
In the distant, dark past, he’d tried taking on fatherhood. Tried and failed. “Not like Camille is yours.”

  The other man shrugged, took another swig. “I suppose it could make a difference,” he said, his voice neutral.

  Weaver buried the uncomfortable moment by turning his attention to the burgers. He didn’t let himself think of anything—Daisy or Molly—until they all sat down to the meal, the babies content in side-by-side infant seats.

  Dinner progressed smoothly enough, though Weaver discovered, ironically, that Dana’s stories as a psychologist, Alan’s as a firefighter and Molly’s as a teacher could be as hair-raising and infinitely more humorous than his. At one point, he laughed so hard at Molly’s description of first-grade “cootie” wars that she came around the table to pound him on the back.

  Her arm stayed around his shoulders as his coughing quieted. “You okay?” she asked. Her fingers brushed the hair at his nape.

  He stilled, afraid she’d remove her fingers, afraid she wouldn’t. “I’m terrible,” he answered in all honesty. He shot a look at Dana and Alan, who had gathered up the dishes and were heading toward the kitchen. “I’m supposed to be having a terrible time.”

  A frown puckered her brows. “I-”

  He put his fingers against her soft mouth. “Don’t try to figure it out.”

  His fingers slid away, but she put her own hand to her mouth, as if holding his touch there.

  He groaned. The battle was being lost, fast. At this rate, he wouldn’t even wait for the other couple to leave before taking Molly in his arms again. “Molly.” Without volition, he turned his chair and grabbed her hands. “This isn’t right.” A distant ring couldn’t stop his momentum. “This is crazy.”

  “This phone call is for you.” Alan came toward him, holding out the portable phone.

  Gut tight, Weaver grabbed the phone, the voice on the other end twisting his tension higher. He punched the off button and gripped the receiver, hard.

  “I’ve got to go,” he told Molly. “Emergency strategy meeting.” The Czech situation had come to a head, and as the one in charge of the mission before he’d left Maryland, he had to attend.