“Mm-hm.” His reasoning made sense, but she had reasons of her own for agreeing.
We should do it again every few hours until morning because being with you is better than a pan of warm gooey brownies.
Tate stretched, or as much as she could with Jim’s big body curved around hers. Her muscles protested, but the slight soreness reminded her how she’d spent the night. Between the spectacular episodes of intimate exploration and profound physical connection, they’d slept tangled in each other’s arms and legs, lying skin to skin until they recharged enough to do it all over again.
Warm lips against her forehead fanned the still-glowing embers, tempting her to steal a quickie before she had to leave. Her brunch-to-lunch hours would then give her time to contemplate what to do about the strange tickle in her insides that had nothing to do with mind-blowing sex, her reproductive organs, and trying to get pregnant.
“Morning.” His husky greeting amplified all of the feelings. “I wish we could stay in bed all day, but I need to head down to the farrowing barn pretty soon for a delivery and you need a ride home first. How about some breakfast before we drive into town? I make a decent fried egg sandwich. Not as good as yours, of course.”
She burrowed closer, holding him tighter, and kissed his fuzzy chest. “You don’t have to go to any trouble.”
“No trouble.” He combed his fingers through her hair, gently working them through when the strands knotted. “I like doing stuff for you.”
Giddiness made her heart swoon. He was kind, generous, and selfless—all qualities she appreciated in a lover and hoped to pass on to their child.
She smiled up at him. “I think that’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me. Now we better get out of bed before I can’t resist thanking you.”
His husky chuckle voiced the amusement and something else shining in his eyes. Exercising far more self-control than she could muster, he rolled toward the edge of the bed. “You’re welcome anytime.”
“Good to know.”
He looked back at her over his shoulder, an adorable blush coloring his cheeks. “I’ll go start breakfast while you get dressed.”
He rubbed his beard stubble as he sauntered to the dresser, his tightly muscled butt drawing an appreciative sigh from her. Then he pulled a pair of athletic shorts from the middle drawer, tugged them on, and hurried out of the room.
Swoon.
She grinned and hugged his pillow to her face, savoring his scent, their scent.
No regrets. I never thought I’d say that about sleeping with a guy on the first date.
She hadn’t really expected him to agree to father her baby, either. Why had she doubted her body’s instincts and waffled over spending the night with him?
Still floating on the high of multiple orgasms, a relationship worth exploring, and the possibility of a child nine months from now, she hummed through washing her face, emptying her bladder, and dressing in yesterday’s clothes. After a last check of the floor for her belongings, she hooked her tote over her shoulder and scuttled down the steps. The smell of bacon and eggs lured her into the kitchen, where Jim stood at the stove, looking incredibly sexy in his shorts and a bib-style apron.
Wielding a pancake flipper, he turned toward her. “Egg sandwiches are almost ready. Have a seat while I finish up. I’ve only ever seen you drink tea, so I made a cup of hot water for you. Tea bags are on the table.”
“Thanks.” She sat, an eye trained on him while she chose an herbal-blend bag from the basket. The muscles in his back rippled and shifted with each movement, making her fingers itch to be sure she’d touched each and every one.
He transferred the fried eggs to a trio of sliced bagels, put on their tops, and placed them in the panini grill on the counter. His bicep bulged when he pressed down the lid. “Auggie’s baby Swiss bagels are really good for breakfast sandwiches. Do you get your bread and rolls from him?”
“You bet I do. Riley recommended his bakery when I was contacting suppliers.”
“Good. He’s a good guy.”
“And his chocolate éclair cake is going on my menu board at least once a week if I can talk him into a standing order. Thank you for introducing me to that piece of heaven.”
“You’re welcome.” As he lifted the hinged lid on the panini grill, he slid two plates in front of it.
“Smells delicious.” A buzz came from her tote when he set one dish by her mug. Tempted though she was to ignore it, she dug her phone from the depths to check her messages.
Riley’s name and number shone on the screen. “Hey, answer the door! I brought the bundle of parsley you asked for yesterday.”
Crap! Answer or make her wait?
Jim sat down across from her and released a noisy exhale. “So…I was thinking. I really want to have kids. Well, not just kids. I want a wife too. Anyway, what if we got married?”
Chapter 9
Replaying the scene with Tate at breakfast, Jim pushed through another set of reps. The burn in his pecs and triceps barely distracted him from the pain of her rejection.
She hadn’t even considered his proposal. Heck, she hadn’t taken a single bite of her bagel sandwich before the color had drained from her already pale complexion and she’d raced out the door. Shock and finding a pair of shoes and his keys had waylaid him at least five minutes. When he’d finally gone after her, she had already disappeared somewhere into the pre-dawn darkness.
Twelve hours later, she still hadn’t returned his calls.
Man, this is not how it was supposed to go.
“Jimbo, you in there?” A knock on the gym door announced Beau’s presence, giving Jim no chance to sneak into the changing room.
He closed his eyes and hoped his friend hadn’t heard the clank of the weights. Maybe Beau would go away and let him wallow in his regrets alone.
Regret. Only one—asking her to marry me too soon.
“I was on my way home and decided to stop by. Dude, are you taking a nap?” The voice moved closer, too close to pretend he wasn’t there. Beau kicked Jim’s foot and snorted. “Not enough sleep last night?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“That bad, huh? The way you were sucking each other’s faces off in the garage and all the handholding during the picnic, I figured you’d be planning the wedding today.”
“Not funny. I asked her to marry me and she ran away.”
The bench on the other side of the machine creaked. “Ouch. What happened? Performance anxiety? She decided things were moving too fast?”
Jim sighed, wishing the problem was that simple. “I don’t know what went wrong. She spent the night and everything was perfect. Everything.”
“You’re sure? Women need a lot more care and feeding than guys do, if you know what I mean.”
Throwing a glare at Beau, Jim stood and stalked to the rack of free weights. “Amazing. That’s what she said. And I don’t think she’d lie.”
Beau leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Okay, no need to get defensive. Assuming you’re right about the, um, physical part, my guess is she freaked about the marriage proposal. You gotta admit asking a woman to marry you on the first date is a little unconventional. Plus, her ex-husband lied to her, cheated on her, and wasted a good chunk of her life. I wouldn’t exactly be thrilled to jump off that bridge again without being really, really sure. The worthless prick deserves to have his dick cut off and shoved down his throat. Have you tried calling her?”
“Twelve times. Other than a text saying Riley took her home, she hasn’t answered her phone or called me back.”
“Hey, that’s a good sign. If she didn’t give a damn about your feelings, she wouldn’t have told you she got home okay. Give her a day or two to calm down and then try again. It’s not like she’s going anywhere. Speaking of going, I better head home.” Beau grinned as he rose. “Let me know if you decide you want to talk about it.”
“Butthead.” Jim walked his friend outside, ignoring
the laughter echoing through the pole barn. His stomach lurched at the crunch of gravel in the lane, but an unfamiliar car dashed the momentary spark of hope.
By the time they reached Beau’s sedan, the vehicle had parked next to it and a woman in a red suit and matching lips emerged. “Mr. Cochon?”
He nodded. “Yeah, I’m Jim Cochon.”
She rounded the trunk of her sleek black roadster and held out a large envelope. “Georgina Swofford, Tate Madison’s attorney. My business card is inside. Please call or email my office once you’ve had an opportunity to review the enclosed documents. I expect to hear from you no later than Friday at the close of business, as mentioned in the cover letter. Have a nice evening.”
Frozen in place, he gripped the envelope while she returned to the driver’s side of the car. “Attorney? What for?”
“To represent her interests in the sperm donor agreement, of course.”
Petra’s mouth fell open and the spoon in her hand clattered onto the table. “He what?”
With a scowl true to her reputation, Riley set down her wine glass and stabbed her fork into the pickle jar. “He had the audacity to suggest marriage after she specifically asked him to be her sperm donor. Not only that, he insisted on actual intercourse instead of artificial insemination. As if a one-night stand gives him the right to propose to her. Can you believe the nerve of him?”
Petra stuffed a brat into her mustard-and-onion prepped bun. “Please tell me the sex was at least decent and you got a couple orgasms out of it.”
Tate pressed her lips together, determined not to incriminate herself any more than she already had since Riley had picked her up at the end of Jim’s gravel lane and Georgie had grilled her for details that morning before the restaurant opened for brunch.
Riley’s frown deepened. “She wouldn’t tell me, and she has a better poker face than I would’ve expected.”
Wally waved a bowl in front of Tate’s face. “Sauerkraut?”
Shaking her head, she pushed away from the table. “I’m not hungry.”
Her stomach flipped, flopped, and scrambled for cover as a flash of red caught her eye at Riley’s patio door. The blood of her adversaries. That’s how the woman had described the color of her suit earlier when Riley had complimented her on it.
A knock followed and Georgie let herself into the kitchen, the stern-lawyer expression she’d worn during their interview giving way to a satisfied smirk. “It’s done. Hand-delivered. And I have a witness. Tall male. About six-two. Reddish hair. Mid-thirties. Wearing an Ohio State sweatshirt and driving a gunmetal-gray Ford sedan with a toddler car seat in the back. One of your brothers?”
“Beau, the youngest. He and Jim are best friends.” Why did I let Georgie and Riley talk me into this? Jim probably hates me and now my family is involved in this mess too.
Georgie sat in the chair Tate had abandoned and grabbed the bowl of potato salad. “Does he know you planned to have a baby using a sperm donor?”
“No. I didn’t tell anybody other than Riley, Petra, and Wally. And Jim.” Why, oh, why didn’t I just pick a random guy from one of the websites?
“And you haven’t returned any of Mr. Cochon’s calls?”
“No.” She hadn’t even listened to the dozen or more voicemails Jim had left on her cell, for fear he’d talk her into a second doomed marriage.
Why couldn’t he have taken things slowly, giving her time to consider whether she wanted a romantic relationship again? His afterthought about wanting a wife hardly supported a desire to marry her, even though he’d acted like the world revolved around her while they shared his bed. His mixed messages made her warier than ever and sorry she’d been brave enough to let her hormones convince to sleep with him.
“Good. Don’t respond. The ball is in his court for now.” Georgie added a brat and a generous helping of kraut to the bun on her plate. “You should eat. Assuming you conceived is the best approach until we know otherwise. And for God’s sake, no moping. He violated the terms of the oral agreement you made last night. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I liked him.” The words slipped out against her will, as did the tears blurring her vision.
Wally wrapped her in a hug before the sound of her chair scraping across the floor registered. “Oh, honey, you’re such a trusting soul and I love you for it.”
“Trusting is just a nice word for gullible.” Tate bit her lip to hold in a sob, but the hurt still squeezed her heart.
“Nonsense. Come sit down.”
Petra shoved out the empty chair beside her. “Gullible is going back for a sixth helping after the five dicks you were previously engaged to screwed you over.”
“I thought one of them died.” Plate in hand, Wally loaded it with mound of fruit salad.
“Because he got squished by a cement mixer while he was running from the cops during a drug bust. Pickles. She needs pickles.” Her butcher friend guided Tate into the chair. “And I’ll get you a bowl of ice cream.”
Intermittent buzzing sent Tate’s stomach tumbling again and Georgie slammed her hand over the phone next to her glass. “You’re not answering that.”
Silence reigned for a full five seconds before a single muffled buzz vibrated beneath the lawyer’s palm.
She peeked at the screen and laughed. “You got a text from your brother Beau. ‘What the hell, Tate?’ That’s an exact quote. I’m guessing Mr. Cochon let him read the contents of the envelope. That means my intervention had the intended effect.”
But was it my intention?
How can I know when everybody’s telling me how to feel?
Ruthless?
Evil?
Tate racked her memory for the exact wording she’d used to ask Jim for his sperm. Had she given him any reason to think his involvement included anything beyond conception?
No, but I told him I wanted him, that I truly liked him. It wasn’t only about making a baby.
True to her word to Georgie, she hadn’t answered the endless calls or responded to the dozens of texts from Jim, Beau, or anyone who might question her sanity and motives. She had, however, listened to every voicemail and read every message from her brothers and the father of her potential child over the last two-and-a-half days. Her siblings had attacked her on his behalf, using adjectives a thesaurus would be proud of to describe her intent to abscond with the product of their friend’s unsuspecting swimmers and her seductive egg. Jim had only asked what he’d done wrong a hundred times, as if he proposed marriage to all the women he dated and had never been turned down.
Maybe he does. What do I even know about him?
Besides the obvious. Her subconscious hadn’t let her forget his good-guy friendliness or his bodybuilder physique for a second. Her dreams, both day and night, were a constant barrage of sexual escapades, albeit a rather tame reminder of their night together. Her heart, on the other hand, hurt.
The alley door buzzer interrupted her mindless refilling of salt and pepper shakers.
Delivery?
What day is it?
“Please not Tuesday. God, it’s Tuesday, isn’t it?” She trudged to the compost bucket and picked it up by the handle rather than lifting the lid. “Full, damn it.”
If only she hadn’t spent the last forty-eight hours slicing and dicing, chopping and grinding, and cooking and baking to distract herself from her mixed-up feelings.
The buzzer sounded again.
Just tell him the truth.
“I can do this.” She bit her lip to distract her nerves. Then she slid the locks and opened the door, not really prepared to face her inadvertent adversary.
A young man in a well-worn WHS Varsity Football t-shirt greeted her with a smile and a wave. “Hey there, Ms. Madison. I’m here to pick up your kitchen waste for Mr. Cochon.”
“Oh, um, thank you.” Stomping on the unexpected disappointment, she pointed to the bucket. “Careful, it’s full.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He hefted the container and carried it
to a smaller version of Jim’s massive pickup. Even the same Big Jim’s Itty Bitty Pig Farm logo adorned the extended-cab side doors. The clunk of the bucket on the pavement punctuated the stitch of pain in her heart. “See you Thursday!”
As she nodded a farewell, her cell vibrated against her thigh and Georgie’s ringtone sang out. Locking herself in the café, she pulled the phone from her apron pocket. “Hello.”
“I have news.” The brief statement didn’t bode well, considering her lawyer’s usual long-windedness.
A sigh snuck out and Tate headed to her office. “Give me a sec to sit down.” She switched to speaker, set the phone on her desk, and sank into the chair. “Okay, go ahead.”
“Jim refused to sign the donor agreement. He’s demanding that he be allowed at all prenatal visits, that the baby have his last name on the birth certificate, and that he retain all rights associated with shared parenting. In other words, this is likely to get very messy. Long, drawn out, and incredibly nasty. His attorney claims Jim didn’t explicitly agree to your original terms for artificial insemination, so our assertion that they apply, either partially or wholly, is invalid.”
Your assertion, not ours. Regret bloomed in Tate’s chest and spread to her stomach, her throat, and her eyes. “I guess the best I can hope for now is that I’m not pregnant. I didn’t mean to…”
“Didn’t mean to what? You can’t be nice about this, Tate. Custody cases are often worse than divorces. People fight over houses, cars, and bank accounts, but kids and pets are my bread and butter for billable hours. If you don’t want to spend the next eighteen years arguing over whose house your child is going to for birthdays and Christmas, you have no choice but to be brutal, especially since you and Mr. Cochon didn’t part ways in an amicable situation. He isn’t likely to negotiate terms that are favorable to you.”
Her insides threatened to rebel against the little bit of lunch she’d managed to eat after closing and cleanup. “I don’t want him to hate me.”
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