by M. E. James
"Sure you were." The man threw back his head and laughed.
****
Mary Lou looked at her as if she was nuts. And not just a little nuts. No, the woman looked at her as if she deserved an all-inclusive pass for Crazy Land. As Emmy placed two cups of coffee on the kitchen table, Mary Lou groaned.
"When the father of your child asks to marry you, you say yes." Mary Lou looked five seconds from ripping out her own hair. "You don't tell him you'll think about it."
Emmy stared at her, flabbergasted. "You want me to marry a man that I hardly know?"
"In order to make a baby, you have to know a man somewhat," Mary Lou said.
"That's physical." Emmy was mortified the older woman was even thinking about that. "I want to know who Sebastian is on the inside. I don't know what he was like as a child, who his parents are, or what is favorite color is. He's practically a stranger to me."
"Can't you figure all that out once you get married?" Mary Lou raised an eyebrow.
"I want to make sure I'm not marrying a kleptomaniac," she said.
"You think he steals?"
"He could," she said. "Or he could light things on fire."
"Or he could have a sex addiction."
"Maybe he has a really bad jealous streak." She sunk into a chair. "You know, like in all of those scary movies."
"Or he could be a woman beater."
"True." Though that one she doubted. "Or he could have a weird attraction to Miley Cyrus's tongue."
Mary Lou gasped. "Why do you always have to take things too far, Emmy? Because of you, I'm going to have nightmares tonight. I get the heebie-jeebies just thinking about Miley Cyrus."
Both of them shivered.
"We really need to stop listing worst-case scenarios." She wrapped her hand around the handle of her coffee mug. "Now I'm all creeped out. What if Sebastian is a jealous kleptomaniac with a sex addiction? If I married him, my life would be ruined."
"First off, it's fun to list worst-case scenarios," Mary Lou pointed out. "And secondly, I've never met the guy, but I'm ninety-nine percent sure that he isn't a jealous kleptomaniac who…who…Damn, there's too much to remember. But I'm certain that he's not any of those things you just said."
She drummed her fingers on the table. "How can you be so certain that he's not a nut if you haven't even laid eyes on the guy?"
"Because you chose him," Mary Lou said.
The words stopped her in her tracks. "Excuse me?"
"You chose to sleep with him, didn't you?"
Great, now she was going red again. "Yeah."
"And you must like him quite a bit in order to jump into bed with him, right?" Mary Lou said.
"I was drunk," she said.
"I've seen you drunk." Mary Lou scrutinized her. "Your IQ may drop a few points, but you don't jump into bed with the first man who smiles at you."
"I suppose you're right." Sebastian was special.
"Of course I'm right." Mary Lou tutted. "Don't you know? I'm always right."
"You know what, you and Sebastian sound a lot alike," she muttered.
"I'm starting to like this man more and more." Mary Lou grinned wickedly. "Of course, he would be more endearing to me if he'd bagged his boomstick before putting it in you."
"Mary Lou…" She clapped her hand to her forehead.
"Well, it's the truth, isn't it?" Mary Lou batted her eyes. "I don't care if a woman has a steel trap inside of her vagina. A man should always be kind enough to put foil on his egg roll."
Groaning, she laid her head on the table. "You have such an endearing way of speaking."
"What's wrong with saying 'put foil on his egg roll'?" Mary Lou asked.
"I'd prefer not to think of any food products entering my body, thank you very much." Still she was grinning as she said the words.
Mary Lou's eyes held a mischievous glint. "So I suppose you wouldn't like it if I said that Sebastian needed to put a blank in his meat gun?"
"Ew." She wrinkled her nose.
"How about, he should have saran wrapped the schnitzel?"
She flexed her fingers. "One more euphemism and I might just murder you."
"Sheath the Excalibur?" Mary Lou winked. Twice.
"No more."
"You're such a party pooper," Mary Lou said. "It's a wonder he even whipped out his drumstick to begin with."
"Mary Lou!"
Chapter Three
Emmy was sitting beneath a tree on a blanket, stretching out her legs. A girl that looked no older than eight stood in front of her in a white dress. The girl's hair was in pigtails, and her gray eyes were bright behind her thick eyelashes. Emmy reached out, and the girl came tumbling into her arms.
"Mommy," the girl said.
As the little girl wrapped her arms around her neck, Emmy stared deep into her daughter's eyes—and then realized, to her horror, that she couldn't breathe.
Emmy sucked in air, trying to get her lungs in working order. Why wasn't she breathing? Was her child choking her? No, wait, that wasn't possible. She was still pregnant. Then what about the baby inside her? If she couldn't breathe now, then maybe there was something wrong with her baby. As she began to panic, her eyes flew open.
And she realized that she was in bed with a sheet wrapped around her throat like shed snakeskin. Somewhere in the distance, her alarm blared. She blinked, then laid eyes on her clock. Holy shit, she was going to be late for work. There were croissants to be made, cakes to be baked, and frosting to be mixed. The last time she'd left all of the morning preparations to Donavon, the early morning cook in training, he'd gotten the salt and sugar mixed up and she'd received a hysterical call from her sales clerk at eight a.m.
She climbed out of bed, though fell may have been a more appropriate term, and scrambled into the bathroom. After she managed to wrestle her blond hair into a ponytail—her hair had always been thicker than the ill-tasting custard Donavon had prepared—she put on her work uniform and rushed out the door as fast as her legs could carry her. She scrambled into the car and then drove to work, testing the limits of the engine.
By the time she reached the bakery, Donavon's car was already parked outside.
"Shit," she said, wondering how many éclairs he'd filled with salty custard that quite honestly tasted like cum.
She rushed inside and inhaled the sweet aroma of baking bread that she'd loved since childhood. Unfortunately, that was the moment when a wave of nausea crashed over her, stopping her in her tracks. Puke crawled up her throat just as twenty-four-year-old Donavon came out of the kitchen and smiled.
"Emmy, it's so good you're—"
"Got to go," she cried.
"Here."
Panicked, Emmy sprinted to the bathroom. She rushed into the back stall and threw herself onto the floor by the toilet. Vomit oozed up her throat, and soon a stream of sour stomach acid came pouring from her lips and into the basin.
She heaved until she was certain she was going to puke up her spleen, diaphragm, and kidney. Moments passed, and the nausea faded. Instead of getting up, though, she lay wrapped around the toilet, her heart aching. The smell of fresh-baked bread still snuck into the bathroom, torturing her instead of lulling her into a state of bliss.
Just when she was getting used to the whole I'm-having-a-baby thing, this happened. Her bottom lip trembled as she wrapped her arms around her legs.
I won't let this get to me.
I won't let this get to me.
I won't let this get to me.
Trembling from head to foot, she seized the bathroom wall and struggled to her feet. As she regained her balance, she took a shaky breath and stumbled out of the stall. After she disinfected her hands enough times that she was certain the skin on her hand was going to fleck off, she wobbled out of the bathroom and entered the kitchen. Donavon, who looked like he'd jump face-first into a vat of flour, stared at her as if he'd never seen her before.
"You okay?" he asked.
No, she thought, even as she picked up a bowl of s
ugar.
****
By the time twelve o'clock rolled around, Emmy had no energy. Before she became pregnant, getting up at four o'clock in the morning hadn't been all that painful. Okay, it had been a little painful, but not nearly as painful as this. Right now, she felt as though her legs were as limp as the pastry dough she was kneading.
With a sigh, she slapped her hand against the blob of dough, causing an upheaval of flour all around her. Her arm throbbed, and she let out a sigh. Oh, damn it all to hell, she needed a break. The pastry could wait for five seconds. It wasn't like it was going to evaporate into thin air. Grousing, she washed her hands and headed for the door. Unfortunately, that was when she heard the sound of her coworkers talking outside.
"I heard that Emmy is knocked up," Annabelle said. "I heard she's been puking a lot."
"Oh, please, who'd want to touch her?" her other worker, Tina, asked. "I bet you anything it's just the stomach flu."
Emmy's fists clenched at her sides.
"I suppose you're right about that." Annabelle chuckled. "But maybe the guy was really desperate or drunk."
The words stung.
She opened the door. "Maybe she has a contagious parasite living in her lower intestines."
"Gross," Tina said. "Do you really think—"
The girls turned around and froze.
"So…"
Eyes widened in horror.
"I'm so sorry," Tina said.
Annabelle scrambled to come up with an excuse. "We were talking about somebody else."
"Oh, so you know another person named Emmy who has been sick all week?" Emmy raised an eyebrow at the two of them.
Annabelle looked as if she'd been smacked.
"Don't do this again." Emmy pointed at the girls.
After the duo exchanged glances, Emmy rubbed her shoulder and headed outside. Once in the warm air outside, she leaned against the wall and squeezed her eyes shut. Just as she was contemplating trying to bake herself in the oven, her cell rang. She answered it without checking the caller ID.
"Hello," she said.
"How's the bakery?" a man said.
She stared at her phone as if it had grown antenna. "Excuse me? Who is this?"
"Sebastian, of course," he said.
Oh, duh. "Sebastian…"
"Do you have that many male callers?" he teased.
"I have so many male callers I don't know what to do with them." She forced a smile, despite how bad she was feeling. "I'm hot stuff, you know."
"I've known that since the moment I met you." He chuckled. "That's why I'm working so hard to convince you to marry me."
She should have known he'd bring that up. "Well, you'll have to work a bit harder because I'm still not sure I'll say yes."
"Believe me, I'm willing to do whatever it takes," he said.
"Mmm-hmm." She shook her head. "So what if I said that I want you to bring me five hundred and twenty-nine balloons in the next, oh, thirty minutes? Could you do it?"
The man grunted in determination. "I'd give it my best shot."
"You sound like a well-prepared man," she said.
"Always." He chuckled, then sobered. "By the way, are you feeling alright?"
She wasn't feeling well at all, but she didn't want to tell him that. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"I've been reading online about pregnancy," he said. "It says that you'll be tired and sick to your stomach during the first trimester."
His dedication to the baby shocked her. "You read up about pregnancy?"
"I want to know as much as I can," he said. "You can't do this on your own."
The words touched her, sending all of her negative emotions flying out the window. She couldn't believe he'd taken the time to read about pregnancy.
"You're sweet." So sweet it was shocking.
"I know."
"I thought you were going to say that." He and Mary Lou would definitely get along.
"See, you already know me so well," he said. "You can even predict what I'm going to say before I say it."
"I don't know about that."
"Hmmm." He paused, his voice laced with amusement. "Guess what I'm going to say next."
She thought hard for a moment. "You're about to tell me that you're an Elvis impersonator, and you're going to a convention in Napa Valley two weeks from now."
"Close." He chuckled. "I'm going to Vegas."
"Damn. I was wrong." She stared at the sky. "But seriously, I know you didn't call to impress me with your pregnancy-related knowledge."
"You're right," he said. "Actually, I was wondering how you felt about pasta."
"Doesn't everyone like pasta?"
He let out a pained sigh. "My brother loathes the stuff."
"Bastard," she said.
The guy chortled. "I call him that every day. He always reminds me that if he's a bastard, then I'm a bastard too."
"Smart man," she said.
"High intelligence runs in the family."
She rolled her eyes. "Yet somehow you managed to get me pregnant, Mr. Intelligence."
Silence fell.
"Kidding," she said.
"I thought you were, but I was worried I'd get smacked if I laughed."
"How could I smack you through the phone?"
"A woman scorned is a frightful thing," he said. "You'd find a way to do it."
She grinned. "Don't forget that next time you think about pissing me off."
"I solemnly swear to be on my best behavior at all times," he said. "And I'll especially be on my best behavior today if you let me take you out to lunch."
"So that's why you asked me about pasta." Here she was thinking he was just weird. "I wondered why it was so important to you."
"Are you kidding?" he said. "If you disliked pasta, it would trash our whole relationship. Pasta is that important to me."
"Yet I notice you still seem to be on okay terms with your brother who hates it."
"I tried to cut him off, but he keeps coming back." Sebastian gave a pained sigh, then brightened. "Though what do you say? Do you want to go out to lunch?"
"Fine. Is it a date?" she asked.
"Do I get to grab your butt?" he asked.
"No." Her eyes narrowed.
"Then yes."
"I'm confused," she said. "If I said yes to letting you grab my butt, would it not have been a date?"
"It still would have been a date," he said. "I just wanted to see if you'd say yes."
"You jerk!" Despite the jab, she gave a snort of laughter.
"Finally, you laughed," he said.
"That was the goal?"
"Naturally," he said. "So when do I pick you up?"
She stared at her bakery. Through the window, she could see that diners were eating rolls, croissants, pastries, and homemade cakes. She wasn't needed now. Most of the food was baked in the morning before the restaurant even opened. Even her pastry dough could wait until later. And besides, she was starving and tired. The chocolate-filled croissant she'd choked down that morning had come back up again a half an hour after she'd eaten it. She needed something substantial if she wanted to battle with her employees and her cook in training who couldn't even tell the difference between salt and sugar.
She bit her bottom lip. "Can you come, well, now?"
"Sweetheart, I'm already on my way," he said.
Sebastian ended the call. Sighing, she stared at the blue sky and pressed her hand against her abdomen. It would be nice if she could pretend that the light movement beneath her skin was the result of her baby swimming around within her, but she knew it was her churning stomach. Just as she was grousing about all of the pains she was experiencing, Sebastian drove a fancy black car into the parking lot. It was no BMW, but it was definitely not the vehicle of a poor man. She headed over to the window, and he rolled it down, giving her a grin that made her heart race.
"You were fast," she said.
"I was already in Seattle." He smirked at her.
She studie
d him. "Why?"
"I was just doing some work," he said.
"What kind of work?"
Suddenly, he couldn't meet her eye. "You know, just boring stuff."
"You're really great at giving nonanswers." She crossed her arms.
"I'm great at most things," he said.
"Are you really that conceited, or are you just pulling my leg?" she asked.
"I don't like the word conceited," he said. "I like to say I'm knowledgeable about my strong points."
"Okay, Mr. Hot Shot, name one of your weak points," she said.
"Humility." His grin widened.
Well, he had her there. "I'm going to give you points for irony."
"I'm good at being ironic too," he said.
"I'm never introducing you to Mary Lou," she muttered under her breath.
"Who's Mary Lou?" He straightened up, intrigued.
"You heard that?" What was he, a dog?
"I have—"
"You have good hearing," she interrupted, predicting what he was going to say before he said it.
"See, you're reading my mind again." He winked. "Pretty soon, we're going to be finishing each other's sentences like we've been married for fifty years."
"I doubt that." She grimaced. "Now I'm getting in. I'm starving."
Before he could make another comment, she trotted over to the passenger door and climbed inside. She settled into the seat and smelled leather.
"New car?" She glanced around.
"Had it for about a month," he said. "I think I'm going to trade it in."
She gazed longingly at his sunroof. "Why?"
"I'm going to need something more practical." He put the car in reverse and backed out of the lot.
"Like a pickup truck?"
"Like a van." He glanced pointedly at the back. "I'm going to need room for a car seat and a stroller. I also like the idea of getting one of those cars with a mini-TV built in the back of the headrest. That way, the baby will always be entertained."
The words stunned her. Here she was running around like a chicken with its head, wings, and rear end cut off, and Sebastian was calmly talking about trading his fancy-schmancy car for a van with room for a car seat and a stroller. Sebastian was taking the whole I'm-going-to-be-a-father thing by storm. She, on the other hand, was just counting herself lucky that she'd managed to make it through the day without suffocating on her own vomit. The man was sure making her feel inadequate in the parent department.