Beginning With Their Baby

by Tracy Wolff

  Pregnant.

  Camille was pregnant.

  He kept hoping that repeating the words would make them seem more real—and him less clueless. But the truth was he didn’t even know where to start trying to figure this mess out.

  When he got to room 213, he pounded on the door hard enough to let Camille know he wasn’t taking no for an answer. How she’d thought he’d want to wait until tomorrow to talk to her, he’d never know. But then again, he’d never been able to figure out what was going on in Camille’s brain. Case in point—the whole debacle three months ago when he’d begged her to stay. And she’d batted him away as if he were a pesky gnat.

  Then Camille’s door was swinging open and any and all confused thoughts he’d been able to form between his house and here completely flew out of his head. Not that it was anything new—his first glimpse of her, even when they’d been dating, had always done that to him.

  There was just something about her that knocked him stupid.

  Trying to buy himself a few seconds, he glanced at the half-eaten container of ice cream in her hand, cataloged the lines of strain around her eyes and mouth.

  “You look tired,” he finally said.

  “I’m jet-lagged. I just got in from Italy today.”

  “How long have you known?”

  “About the baby?”

  He nodded.

  “Five days.”

  Something cold melted in his chest. She’d just found out she was pregnant and had come straight back to Austin to tell him about the baby. At least she hadn’t been keeping it from him.

  At least she’d been willing to trust him that much.

  “Okay.” He glanced behind her, to her empty motel room. The television murmured quietly in the background. “Can I come in?”

  “Yeah, sure.” She turned away, leaving him to follow.

  When she sank onto the bed, he had a moment’s indecision. Should he sit next to her? Stand? For a man who always knew where he was going and what he was doing, it was a less than impressive feeling.

  He glanced around. It was a typical motel room—a bed, a table and chair, a dresser. He crossed the worn beige carpet, pulled out the chair and sat down. He didn’t trust himself to get too close to her—the room smelled like her and he could feel his body responding, despite the numerous warnings he’d given himself on the way over.

  Judging from the look on Camille’s face, he figured anything she viewed as an advance on his part would be met with solid resistance. Not to mention a kick in the ass.

  Not that he wanted to put the moves on her, he assured himself and his unruly erection. He’d given up on that stupidity a few weeks before, when he’d finally figured out that she wasn’t going to come back. He’d resigned himself, then, to the fact that he would never be with her again.

  Too bad his body didn’t feel the same way.

  Silence seethed between them. With each second that passed he could see Camille getting more agitated, her eyes darting between him, the TV and the Ben & Jerry’s container in a pattern that would have been funny if he wasn’t so damned strung out himself.

  Maybe he should have mercy on her—she looked as shell-shocked as he felt. But as he watched her, Matt realized he was still too raw to feel very merciful. Her abandonment had really done a number on him—more so than he’d ever expected.

  So, instead of breaking the uncomfortable quiet, he just watched and waited. Finally, when her spoon scraped the bottom of the ice cream container—and she had nothing else to hold her attention—she murmured softly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin your date.”

  Who was this woman and what had she done with the Camille he’d known? That Camille had never apologized once in the time they were together. So what had changed?

  The difference made him uncomfortable, as if the ground beneath him was shifting with each step he took. Because of it, his voice was harsher than he’d intended when he asked, “You think my date was more important than talking to the mother of my child? What the hell do you think of me?”

  “I didn’t mean that.” She shoved up from the bed, then tossed the empty ice cream container in the trash before crossing to him. There was a shadow of anger in her own eyes and he couldn’t help being relieved. This was the Camille he knew—fiery and strong. He preferred her to the cold, fragile woman who’d opened the motel-room door.

  “So what did you mean?”

  “I know this is a shock—and my timing couldn’t have been worse.”

  “It’s no big deal. Ariane understood.”

  “Good.”

  The silence was back, yawning between them like an underground cavern waiting to be explored. This time, he was the first to break it.

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to keep it.”

  “You said that earlier. I meant, what are you going to do when the baby comes?”

  “I don’t know. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the idea that there is a baby.”

  He glanced at her still-flat stomach, knowing exactly what she meant. He felt like he’d been pulled up short, run over by a steamroller. Pulled into a swirling abyss of emotions and decisions he was in no way ready for.

  “I want to help.” The words came out stilted, cool, and she stiffened in response.

  “Look, I didn’t come here to hit you up for money.”

  “Still, I want to help. And I don’t just mean financially. That’s my kid, too.”

  “Well, that wasn’t the reaction I’d anticipated.” The careless, mocking tone he knew so well was back, and he couldn’t help being relieved. He knew how to deal with this Camille.

  “So what did you anticipate? You fly halfway around the world and show up on my doorstep with no warning—you must have been expecting something.”

  “You didn’t even ask me if the baby was yours.”

  His stomach churned acid at her words, until all he could think of was Camille in the arms of another man. Other men. How many had there been since she’d left him, anyway? He shoved the uncomfortable images away—regret wouldn’t change anything.

  “I figured if you made the effort to tell me, you had to be pretty sure…”

  “You’re the father.”

  He released the breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “All right, then. So what do we do now?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you seen a doctor? Figured out where you want to live? Thought about getting a job? You don’t have to work right now, if you don’t want to. I make enough money to—”

  “Whoa, Matt.” It was the first time she’d said his name since she’d come back, and warmth curled through him. At least until her next words hit him. “I’ve barely begun to think things through. I came back because I figured I owed it to you to tell you about the baby face-to-face. But nothing says I’m going to stay here.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Austin isn’t exactly my dream spot, you know.” She glanced around the generic motel room. “I never planned to settle here.”

  “But my business is here. My life is here.”

  “That doesn’t mean mine has to be.”

  Ice skated down his spine. “What are you saying, Camille? That you don’t want me to be a part of this baby’s life?”

  “Are you saying you really want to be a part of its life?” She looked him up and down skeptically. “You don’t exactly come across as a family man.”

  Her words came at him from left field. Sure, when they’d been together, he hadn’t talked about wanting to get married and have a family. He hadn’t wanted to spook her. But he’d always anticipated having a wife and kids someday—just because his parents’ marriage hadn’t worked out didn’t mean he didn’t believe in the institution.

  The thought gave him pause, made him wonder if this thing with Camille would ruin all his plans for the future. He’d always planned to do things the normal way—wife first, then kids. Having a kid first—with a woman who h
ad no feelings for him and no plans to stick around—hadn’t been part of the agenda.

  Would a woman like Ariane—smart, savvy, driven—accept his ties to another woman, accept the fact that he’d had a child out of wedlock? Or would his lack of formal relationship with Camille make her suspicious about his ability to commit?

  With a sigh, he let the worries go—things were what they were and there was nothing he could do but to make new plans, plans that included his baby and its commitment-phobic mother.

  “I find it hard to believe that you think you can criticize me on my lifestyle. When you can’t even hold a job for more than a month at a time.”

  “I choose not to hold a job. There’s a huge difference.”

  “Yeah—and the distinction’s not a particularly flattering one to you.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she drawled. “I think footloose and fancy-free is a lot better than buttoned-up and bitter as hell.”

  “For the second time, I am not bitter.”

  “Now, there’s a good defense.” Her eyes mocked him even more than her words. “Denial’s not just a river in Egypt, Matt.”

  “Babies have a way of tying you down, Camille. They need things like security and stability.”

  She clenched her hands into fists, and he stared at her long artist’s fingers, fascinated. They still bore traces of blue and green paint, as if she’d finished a painting and caught a plane to America all in the same hour.

  Of course, she might have done just that—it was her way. Attacking her on it was going to get them nowhere.

  “Look, Camille, it’s my turn to apologize. This whole baby thing came out of nowhere and it’s made me a little punchy.” He pushed out of the chair, strode over to where she was. “I can’t imagine what it’s done to you.”

  “It’s freaked me out,” she admitted candidly. “Turned my whole life upside down—and the kid isn’t even here yet.”

  “That’s kind of what I figured—and I’m not making this any easier for you.” He settled himself next to her on the bed, rested a soft hand on her knee. A jolt of electricity ripped between them, but he worked to ignore it. Chemistry—or a lack thereof—had never been their problem.

  Too bad he couldn’t say the same thing about communication.

  “Look, nothing has to be decided now. Right? So we can just take things slowly, see how they work out.”

  “How do you think they’re going to work out?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

  She didn’t answer, just stared at him for so long that he began to feel like a bug under a microscope—and a dead one, at that.

  Just when his nerves were at the breaking point, she whispered, “Okay.”

  Relief swept through him, though he didn’t know why. This baby was a complication he didn’t need. Yet the idea of her taking off again, of never seeing the baby he’d helped create, left him cold.

  Clearing away the sudden lump in his throat, he asked, “Have you seen a doctor yet?”

  “I figured I’d do that here.”

  “Do you have anyone in mind?”

  She shook her head and he started to relax. This is what he was good at. Planning. Thinking things out. Getting things done. If she’d let him, he’d take care of everything. “I’ll figure something out. My friend Reece’s wife had a baby just a few weeks ago—maybe she knows someone.”

  “Same old Matt, taking care of anyone who will let him.”

  He forced himself not to take offense. “You’re not anyone. You’re the mother of my child.”

  “Matt, I didn’t tell you about the baby because I wanted to guilt you into anything. I don’t work that way.”

  “I realize that.” He studied her, with her wild black curls and bottomless gypsy eyes. He did know it—that was the kicker. But that didn’t mean he didn’t feel responsible. Hell, he was responsible.

  “I just thought—” She blew out a breath, let her hand with its multicolored fingers rest on his. “I figured you should know.”

  “Well.” He forced a smile. “Now I know.”

  “Now you know.”

  He reached into his pocket, pulled out his cell phone.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Texting Reece for the name and number of Sarah’s doctor. I want to get you in to see someone as soon as possible.”

  “Why do tomorrow what you can do today, huh, Matt?”

  He looked up from the message he was composing. “Why do today what you can put off until tomorrow, huh, Camille?”

  She smiled at him, the first real smile he’d seen from her since she’d walked out his door all those weeks before. And just that easily, the knot in his stomach dissolved.

  Everything was going to be fine. He’d get Camille to a doctor, get her set up in an apartment that had enough room—and light—for her to paint. After he’d checked with the doctor, of course, and made sure the fumes weren’t bad for the baby.

  He’d take care of everything—like he always did. After all, how hard could caring for one pregnant woman be?

  CHAPTER THREE

  CAMILLE JERKED INTO a sitting position, her foggy brain struggling to figure out what had woken her when it felt like she had just drifted to sleep. After rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, she glanced down at the clock on her bedside table and realized that she had only gotten two hours of sleep.

  With a groan, she sank back under the covers and pulled her pillow over her ears—anything to get the incessant ringing to stop. A few moments later it did stop and she eased the pillow onto the bed beside her—only to scramble for it once the noise started up again.What on earth was making—the motel phone. She squinted at the offending object, taking in the red message light blinking maniacally at the same time she reached the conclusion that her caller wasn’t going to just hang up and try again later. Besides, she’d been in town less than a day—only one person knew to call her here and he wasn’t known for his willingness to give up.

  Fumbling for the phone, she dropped the receiver—twice—before managing to get it to her ear. “Hello.”

  “It’s about time.” Matt’s voice came through the line, smooth and sexy and oh-so-efficient. It was more than enough to put her teeth on edge. “I was beginning to think you’d drowned in the shower.”

  “I was asleep.”

  “Well, get up. It’s nearly ten and we have an eleven o’clock appointment with an obstetrician.”

  “What?” She struggled into a sitting position. “I told you I was pregnant twelve hours ago and you already have a doctor’s appointment?”

  “You’re three months along—you need to be seen.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. We can talk in the car. The doctor’s office is across town and we need to get there early to fill out paperwork.”

  He hung up before she could say another word. Camille slid the receiver back into its cradle and then flopped back onto the bed. Since when had Matt turned into a general marshalling his troops for battle—and how had she been enlisted as one of those troops anyway?

  As she stared at the ceiling, she couldn’t figure out if she should be angry at his presumptuousness—and at the orders he’d barked at her—or just grateful that he’d handled the details of finding a doctor for her. At three months along, she knew she needed to be checked over—and soon—and she hadn’t been relishing the thought of combing the yellow pages for a doctor. Still, it rankled that Matt hadn’t even asked for her input….

  Deciding to go along with his plans for now—she’d never been one to cut her nose off to spite her face—Camille threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. She stumbled to the bathroom, where a quick glance in the mirror showed she looked as bad as she felt. Maybe even worse.

  The day was off to a fantastic start.

  One quick shower, manic tooth brushing and hit-and-miss application of lip gloss and mascara later, she was feeling almost human. At lea
st, until the knock on her door had her jumping in surprise and knocking her shin against the motel room’s sharp-cornered dresser.

  Her eyes darted to the clock. Had it really been fifteen minutes—yes, it had. Fourteen, to be exact. Not that she was surprised. In the time they’d been together, Matt had never once been late. As she was always running fifteen minutes behind, she’d admired that about him…then.

  Slipping into her robe, she yanked open the door with a snarl. “How’d you get an OB appointment on such short notice?”

  “He’s a friend of mine. I knew him when I was at grad school.” His eyes swept over her from head to toe and his mouth tightened. “He did me a favor, which is why I don’t want to be late. Go get dressed.”

  “If you’d given me more warning—”

  “I’ve been calling, off and on, since I got off the phone with him at 8:30. It’s not my fault you sleep like the dead.”

  “I’m jet-lagged.” She tossed the comment flippantly over her shoulder as she yanked a pair of jeans and a tank top out of the suitcase she had yet to unpack. No need for him to know that she’d spent the night staring at the television while thoughts of the future spun through her mind like a Tilt-A-Whirl at high speed.

  “I know. And the articles I read last night said that pregnant women are always exhausted in the first few months—we’ll go to the doctor and then I’ll bring you back here to sleep.”

  “Why, thank you, Daddy. I really appreciate it.” She sauntered into the bathroom, closed the door with a snap.

  “Don’t go there,” he called through the door. “I’m not trying to order you around—I just want to make sure you and the baby are okay.”

  His concern warmed her, even as it made her heart hiccup a little in her chest. She’d been prepared for anger, annoyance, dismay—but his concern was unexpected. Not to mention disconcerting. She got dressed quickly, then took a couple of minutes to primp in the mirror—not because she thought she could do anything about the too-thin face with the dark circles that stared back at her, but because she didn’t want Matt to think he could rush her. It set a bad precedent.