Something Unexpected

by Wendy Warren

  “Anyway, I think there would be a lot of gossip. And even if it isn’t ill intentioned, it would be difficult to deal with. Difficult for the library and, when the baby grows up enough to understand, difficult for her. Or him.”

  A silence as pregnant as Rosemary ensued. Dean broke it.

  “What’s your solution?”

  Her heart began to race at a dizzying speed. “I think it’s not unreasonable to cater to the conservatives in this case. I mean, I think sometimes discretion is the better part of valor.”

  He raised a brow. “Yeah?”

  As gentlemanly as he was, he didn’t intend to rescue her. Rosemary broke a sweat.

  “Yes. So here’s what I propose.” She winced when the last word left her mouth. Couldn’t help it. Deep breath. “I think we should…or at least I would like to…for the baby’s sake more than anything…get…” Say it, Rosemary, say it. “Mm… Mmm…” She swallowed, licked her dry lips. “Mmm-a…” Oh, God in heaven.

  She was going to have a heart attack before she said the damn word. Maybe there was another solution, after all. Maybe she really should move….

  Dean reached into his back pocket and withdrew a leather wallet. He pulled out a few bills, tossed them onto the table and reached for her wrist. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter Eight

  They wound up driving their own vehicles to Dean’s apartment. He led the way, driving slowly enough for her to follow even though she knew exactly how to get there. Upon arriving on Main Street, Dean directed her around the rear of his building, where they parked and walked up the alley entrance to his place.

  Neither of them mentioned her botched proposal again until they were seated at the small dining table, eating omelets he’d made expertly with Gruyère cheese, oil-cured olives and thin crescent-shaped slices of avocado.

  “You’re good at this,” Rosemary commented, awkwardly breaking their tense silence. “I’m not a very inspired cook.”

  “I took a class when I was in college. My roommate and I thought it would be a good way to meet girls.”

  “Was it?”

  “For him. He married someone he met the first night.”

  “And she got a husband who could cook.”

  “No. He dropped the class.”

  “You stayed and learned how to make omelets?”

  “And fish tacos and a dangerous chocolate cake.” He pointed the tines of his fork in her direction. “You’re getting a husband who can cook.”

  With the point of their meeting on the table, they both set down their forks.

  Wiping his mouth, Dean rested his forearms on the table and made his usual straightforward eye contact. “I like the idea of getting married.”

  Rosemary nodded slowly. With that one decision agreed upon, a host of new issues opened up, and her stomach roiled. “It seems like the best solution…for now.”

  Dean watched her closely. “Are you putting a time limit on it?”

  He’d hit fine-point number one solidly on the head. “Yes. I think it should be time-limited from the outset. Everything should be as clear and businesslike as possible to avoid confusion and resentment down the line.” She’d already given this point extensive consideration and was able to present her case without stumbling. “Confusion and resentment on the parents’ part is toxic for a child. If we plan in advance exactly when and how we’re going to separate, then when the time comes we should be able to do it amicably. And that will be good for everyone.”

  “What makes you certain there’ll be a time when we want to part?”

  The question truly shocked her. “We don’t know each other. We’re getting married for the sake of the baby…and maybe our jobs. But mostly for the baby.”

  “Marriages have begun on flimsier foundations than wanting to create a family for a child.”

  “I doubt those marriages last.”

  “I’m sure they take work.” He buttered one of the rolls he’d set out. “Then again, all marriages do. We’d be more aware of that than most, which could give us a leg up.”

  She frowned, watching the steady, even swipes of the butter knife over the bread. “I’ve already told you, I don’t want to be married again. Ever.”

  “Which seems to be the real crux of the matter.” Calmly, he took a bite of the roll then reached for his fork and tucked into the omelet again.

  Suddenly they could have been discussing Honeyford’s plan to hold a spring parade rather than a matter that would affect the rest of their lives; he was that nonchalant. The tide of tension inside Rosemary rose dangerously. “How can you still be hungry when we’re talking about this?”

  “About marriage?” He shrugged as he forked up another bite of egg oozing with melted cheese. “See, that’s the difference between us. The thought of marriage doesn’t kill my appetite.”

  I have good reason, she almost said, but wisely remained silent. They didn’t have to know everything about each other to make this work. For the length of time that it had to work.

  “All right.” Someone had to be reasonable and realistic here, and obviously it was going to be her. “What I’m thinking is that a year and a half of marriage will give us time to have the baby, establish that you are the legal father and that we tried to make the relationship a go. Unfortunately, because we rushed into things, we will realize that we need to separate before the baby is old enough to be confused and hurt by our continual problems. We’ll say we did our best, but the writing was on the wall.”

  “Why didn’t we get counseling?”

  “Because—” She shook her head and blinked. “What?”

  “Counseling. Professional advice about how to make it work.”

  Rosemary squinted as if that might help her see his point. “We’re not trying to make it work.”

  He washed the food down with decaf then nodded. “Ah, right. What if someone asks that, though? It’s a reasonable question, especially with a child involved.”

  “We’ll say we tried, and it didn’t help.”

  He gazed at her. “Pity. So a year and a half. Is there a contingency plan if we decide we don’t want to separate?”

  “We’re not going to decide that.”

  “You might. I’m incredibly easy to live with.” Polishing off his roll, he spied the one she hadn’t yet touched and plucked it off her plate. She regarded him dubiously as he picked up his knife to split and butter her bread.

  “Why do you want to talk about staying together?” she asked, snatching the roll back. “If you want a wife that badly, why haven’t you gotten married before now?” She took a big bite of roll. She was the pregnant one, after all, the one who needed the most nourishment. If he could eat during this conversation, then by golly so would she.

  He looked at his plate, and she wondered if he was going to respond at all. Finally, instead of answering her, he looked up and asked a question. “Why did you go to the motel with me?”

  Oh, Lord in heaven, what a question. “Lust,” she said baldly, shoving every other memory from her mind. “I was using you. Sorry, but that’s all.”

  He laughed. “That statement doesn’t carry the same negativity for a man that it does for a woman. We’re generally happy to have you go ahead and use us. From whom were you on the rebound?”

  “I didn’t say I was on the rebound.”

  Dean narrowed his eyes.

  Fine. “My ex, of course.” She took another bite of the roll, this time a big one. “Good bread.”

  “It’s from Honey Bea’s. I’ll take you there one morning before work for decaf coffee and the best apple fritters you’ve ever tasted.”

  “One apple fritter has enough calories to feed a major city,” she informed him, seriously tucking into the omelet now while simultaneously shaking her head. “Do they serve dry toast?”

  “I sincerely hope not. Why are you worried about calories? Your body’s great.”

  “I’ve always been kind of fleshy. By month nine of this pregnancy I’ll probably
weigh more than you.”

  “Fleshy.” This time he muttered an expletive. “Women and body image. This is why I won’t carry weight-loss aids in the pharmacy.” He buttered the other half of her roll. “So you were on the rebound from your ex-husband. Somehow I was under the impression you’ve been divorced awhile.”

  “Two years.” She held out her hand. He put the roll into it.

  “And you’re still rebounding?”

  “Not ‘still.’” She put a little bit of the omelet onto the roll. “You were my first rebound. And my last. I’m done with all that. I’m going to be celibate now.” She popped the impromptu sandwich into her mouth and rolled her eyes in pleasure. “I can’t believe how hungry I get at night.”

  “Join the club.”

  Rosemary glanced up from the food to find him gazing at her with an appetite that couldn’t be misunderstood. Her body responded like a firecracker set alight.

  Exploding low in her body, desire rushed through her, making her limbs go weak as noodles. The food lost its appeal.

  Dean leaned forward, almost imperceptibly, but his intention was clear in every angle of his tightly wound body. He looked as if he was waiting for her to give him the okay so he could leap across the table to devour her instead of the food.

  Wanting him wasn’t the question. Whether Rosemary was willing to give in to the urges trying to overtake her—that was the question.

  Never one to be carried away by the needs of her body, she could hardly fathom the strength of her desire to rip off his clothes and to feel him again over, inside and around her.

  “A year and a half.” His voice, deep and gravelly, interrupted her thoughts. “That won’t be nearly enough time to burn out this desire. If we make love again, even once, I’ll end up wanting you more, not less. So my answer to ‘Do you want to get married?’ Yes.” His mouth quirked. “Great idea. But unless we’re going to keep it open-ended—and very real—I think we should call it a night tonight.”

  Even though he’d made a statement, a question lingered in his tone and in his eyes.

  An open-ended marriage…one that was ‘real’…

  What made a marriage real? Sex? That wasn’t enough to turn a legal union for the baby’s sake into the genuine article—or to make a marriage last. Sometimes not even the best intentions or the strongest desire could do that.

  Edging out sexual hunger came the fear that was never far from the surface for Rosemary. What if she really did fall for Dean? Or for the dream of a traditional family again? What if she bought it all, hook, line and sinker, and he turned out to be another really good salesman?

  Her sister Lucy was a family law attorney in Portland, specializing in divorce for women. Lucy had handled the dissolution of Rosemary’s first marriage, and Rosemary planned to have her handle this one, too. Lucy was a pit bull, one of the most sought-after attorneys in Oregon. She didn’t have a sentimental or romantic bone in her entire body.

  Lucy was thirty-four, but she had never thrown herself into a relationship with the fervor of an Olympic athlete going for the gold. She had never cried for months because a man no longer loved her.

  Channel Lucy.

  As it turned out, Rosemary didn’t have to say a word. Dean read her answer on her face.

  “A shame,” he murmured, removing the napkin from his lap and setting it on the table.

  The evening was over.

  She thought—although she wasn’t positive—that they had just come to an agreement: a time-limited marriage, no sex.

  That was good. That was…that was smart.

  The next time she and Dean were together they would need to discuss an actual prenuptial agreement—printed on paper with a watermark, witnessed signatures, the whole nine yards. Lucy would scream if Rosemary entered another marriage without one.

  And, her sister would positively murder her if she knew that right now Rosemary wasn’t thinking about practicalities at all, but rather imagining what it would feel like to have one more night of astounding sex with Dean then walk to the bakery in the morning before work, thinking of nothing more important than the calories in an apple fritter…and of how fortunate a woman was when her lover thought she was simply delicious just the way she was.

  Three days later, Dean had agreed to allow Lucy Jeffers to draft a prenuptial agreement. It would include the details of the apparently inevitable dissolution of his marriage to Rosemary and specify that he agreed to an uncontested divorce when the time came.

  “Give me something to do,” he told his brother as they stood before a section of barbed-wire fencing Fletcher was working on. It was Sunday, the day Dean typically spent riding his mountain bike when the weather was good, or working on plans for the clinic he dreamed of opening. More recently, he spent his day off here at Pine Road Ranch, playing uncle to his brother’s new family and enjoying one of his sister-in-law’s stellar home-cooked meals. Today, though, he was here to get advice—from the brother he’d once thought wasn’t fit to advise a toddler not to play in the street.

  “What are you doing,” he pressed when Fletcher continued to work without responding, “twisting those pieces together? Do you have another pair of pliers?”

  Fletcher continued to work steadily and with practiced skill. “This is manual labor, Deano. I don’t want you to hurt yourself. Why don’t you stand there, look pretty and keep talking. So far, this has been the most interesting conversation we’ve ever had.”

  “Hand me the damn pliers.” Shrugging, Fletcher complied, and Dean attacked the fence, working without skill, but with a fervor fueled by frustration.

  Fletcher stepped back and took a long drink of the lemonade Claire had packed for him. Then he sat on the hard ground and recapped what his brother had told him. “So you’re going to get married in time to fulfill that one condition of Victor’s will, but you’re not going to stay married long enough to actually claim your inheritance. And this woman, Rosemary, doesn’t know you need to be married two years to inherit the building on Main, because you haven’t told her about the will at all, even though this isn’t a love match to begin with. Have I got that right?”

  “That’s the gist of it.” Dean gave a vicious twist of the pliers.

  “Don’t snap that wire. If you leave me with more work to do, it’ll piss me off, and I’ve been working damn hard lately to control my temper.”

  Dean clenched his jaw as he wrapped one piece of wire around another. “I thought marriage has mellowed you naturally.”

  “It has. Toward Claire and the kids. Fools still try my patience.”

  Looking over his shoulder, Dean glared. “Meaning I’m a fool.”

  Fletcher removed his sweat-stained Stetson and scratched his scalp. “Ah, let’s see, how did Claire tell me to word this crap? Oh, yeah. I don’t agree with your decisions in this arena, Dean. I’m afraid you may get yourself into some trouble.” He replaced his hat and spit on the ground. “But as soon as you take your head out of your ass you’ll be fine.”

  Dean tossed the pliers into Fletcher’s tool kit. “Just say it.”

  “All right. From what you’ve told us, Rosemary wouldn’t go on a date with you, much less get married, unless she felt she had no choice. So you’ve got nothing to lose by telling her about Victor’s asinine will. Tell her the Kingsleys put the fun in dysfunction and that you can’t inherit the building you live and work in unless you get married by summer and stay married two years. That’s only a half year longer than she already wants. No big deal.” He reached into a canvas lunch box and withdrew a thick cookie that looked as if it had been made for a giant. Taking a huge bite of his wife’s baking, Fletcher grinned. “She knows what I like.” He chewed contentedly, and Dean wanted to kill him.

  “The thing is,” Fletcher continued once he’d swallowed, “you don’t want to tell Rosemary the truth even though you had no problem telling Amanda. Seems to me that’s because Amanda was the woman you always thought you’d marry—cool, intellectual, didn’t give
a rat’s ass whether you were marrying for love or not. Very safe for you since you don’t like to feel anything below the neck.”

  “Hey, that’s bull—”

  Fletcher held up a finger—not the index one. “You asked. I respect you too much to sugarcoat the horrible truth.”

  Dean clenched his fists to keep from picking up the pliers and hitting his brother in the head with them. “And the horrible truth is?”

  “Loving a woman is the most ass-kicking, out-of-control, cannot-get-your-head-around-it, frightening feeling in the world.” He leveled Dean with a laser-sharp stare. “I’m talking about real love.”

  “As opposed to?”

  “Everything else. The stuff people fill their time with so they won’t be alone or be able to think too much. Being with someone because you want a relationship isn’t remotely the same as being with a woman because you can’t imagine taking another breath without her in your life.”

  Dean shook his head. “I feel as if I’m having an out-of-body experience, listening to you give a dissertation on love.”

  It was a fact that before he’d met his wife Fletcher had spent his life disdaining affection. He took no offense.

  “Thing is,” he said, “people assume love is a soft feeling. It hasn’t been for me, and I doubt it will be for you. When you need a woman like you need air and water, you’ll be on fire until you know she wants you, too. Then you’ll stay on fire, wanting to keep her happy, figuring out how to let her know she’s the best thing that ever happened to you. Add kids to the mix, and every muscle in your body will be on alert, ready to kill or die for them. It’s damned exhausting.”

  “But you love it.”

  “Wouldn’t have it any other way. Ever. That’s what’s so freaking terrifying. Once you meet the woman, you know damn well that if anything ever happened to her, you’d want to die, too.” His gaze narrowed. “When I met Claire, she made me want things I thought I’d given up half a lifetime ago. So how is it for you? You haven’t known Rosemary that long.”