Mountain Man's Baby Plan

by Nikki Chase

  “Maybe you’ll finally be ordering some blue cupcakes soon.” Daisy grins.

  Despite Daisy’s protests, I pay for the cupcakes in full, ringing in the order myself at the register.

  I know nobody in Bertha’s family is hurting for money, but that doesn’t mean I can just take their stuff for free.

  I mean, the whole reason I quit working here—aside from us adopting Astrid and Ariana at the time—was because Eli’s furniture business blew up online, and he needed help dealing with the customers.

  “I’ll talk to you later, okay? Looks like Eli’s got his hands full,” I say to Daisy.

  “Go. Go. You told me you don’t get to spend much time with Nicole anymore, right?”

  “Yeah. We have to schedule our weekly visits here or we’d never see her at all.”

  “Teenagers.” Daisy rolls her eyes, laughing.

  I grin as I waddle toward our table. I pull out a chair and take my seat.

  “You should’ve let me take care of the payment,” Eli says. “You need to stop moving around so much.”

  “I wasn’t just paying. I wanted to chat with Daisy, too.”

  “I know. You can talk about the city and stuff.”

  Eli still thinks I miss living in the city and working a high-powered job. The truth is, Daisy and I never discuss the city at all.

  But there’s no need to tell Eli that because we talk about our kids and our men instead.

  Eli doesn’t need to know that I’ve told Daisy about our seven-year separation and Nicole’s origins.

  He also doesn’t need to know that even though Caine and Daisy first met at the hospital where she worked as a nurse, the next time they met was when she was moonlighting as a lingerie waitress. I was shocked when sweet, soft-spoken Daisy told me that after seeing her half-naked, Caine had paid her a large amount of money so she’d live in his apartment for a month.

  I mean, I love my life. And, as far as I can tell, Daisy loves hers, too.

  But when day after day I spend my time looking after my kids, sometimes it’s fun to talk about my grown-up life before the children came.

  Nicole is fourteen now, so we can at least talk about make-up and boys. She has also asked me about her mom, Angela, and I told her the truth.

  I told Nicole that Angela and I had used to be friends when we were her age but then stopped being close before she had a baby and left town. I also told her about Angela applying for a job at the office where I had worked in the city, which was the last time any of us ever heard from her.

  Nicole had a lot of questions for me to answer, but I didn’t have much to tell her. Still, Eli and I are probably Nicole’s only sources of information on her biological mom because she lives with her Grandma, who still doesn’t like to talk about her missing daughter.

  Eli and I moved out into our own place when we got married. We had the chance to christen every room in the house before we adopted Astrid and Ariana, who are biological twins. They were only two years old when we got them, and they’re seven now.

  I don’t know what we were thinking when we decided we could handle twins. To be fair, though, we love them and they seem to be happy, well-adjusted girls.

  Even Astrid and Ariana are starting to grow more independent from us day by day. They’re eating on their own, taking the school bus on their own, and …

  “Mom, we need to use the restroom,” Ariana announces.

  “Yeah. Restroom,” Astrid parrots her sister.

  I start to get up from my chair, but Eli puts his hand on my shoulder. “You should stay, pregnant lady.”

  “Yeah, Mom. We can go ourselves,” Ariana says as she walks away.

  Astrid says nothing as she turns her back on us, trailing behind her sister.

  “Can you go with them?” Eli asks Nicole.

  “Sure,” she says reluctantly, her head buried in her phone as she makes her way to the restroom, too.

  Eli and I exchange a look.

  “You think a boy will be easier?” I ask.

  Eli laughs. “Not a chance, if he’s anything like I was.”

  “You were a good kid. You helped your mom a lot, and you even helped raise Nicole.”

  “Yeah. That was when I was older,” Eli says. “When I was the twins’ age? Trust me, I wasn’t an easy kid to deal with.” He notices the worry in my eyes and adds, “We’ll be okay, though. I promise you.”

  “Yeah. I know.” I turn to look at the door of the restroom. “Do you remember when I hid in there, waiting for you to leave the shop?”

  “Of course,” Eli says, laughing. “It feels like yesterday.”

  “Yeah.”

  We share a wistful look, wrapped up in our own little, private moment—a rare thing these days, with two young kids in the house.

  “Did you ever regret …” I let my sentence hang in the air as I rethink my words. “Never mind. I’m being silly. Silly, pregnant lady.”

  “Come on. You can’t just stop there.”

  “Did you ever regret not having more biological kids?” I let out a sigh. “It’s been seven years. I know we’re lucky I’m even pregnant at all, but you could’ve had up to seven biological kids by now if you were with someone else.”

  “Princess …” Eli takes my hand and looks into my eyes. “I have no regrets. My life is perfect.

  “I was an idiot when I told you the thing about wanting, like, ten kids. Now that we have … two and a half and another one on the way, I—”

  “Wait a minute. Does Nicole count as a half?” I laugh.

  “Yeah. We kind of share custody of her with my mom.” Eli shrugs. “Anyway, we’re going to have three and a half soon, and we’ve got our hands full, wouldn’t you say?”

  I nod. “I guess …”

  “I wouldn’t say no to more if that’s what you want. But, I’m perfectly happy with what we have,” Eli says. “Things may not always go according to plan. But I’ve learned that if you’re lucky and keep readjusting your plan as life happens, you may end up somewhere amazing, still.”

  “And you’re lucky?” I ask even though I already know his answer.

  “The luckiest man alive.” Eli leans in and kisses my smile.

  “And you’ve made me the luckiest woman alive.”

  Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed Sophia and Eli’s story.

  If you want to read about Daisy and Caine, there’s a whole book about them. It’s called His Virgin and it’s available on Amazon. :)

  His Virgin is also available in the Billionaires and Bad Boys Box Set, which contains SEVEN stand-alone (but related) romances and a bonus exclusive, never-before-published novelette, featuring the seven couples from the stories included in the box set:

  Guilty

  Stripped

  His Virgin

  Billionaire Protector

  Virgin Fiancée

  Single Dad’s Fake Bride

  The Billionaire’s Bride

  Bonus Novelette: After the Happily Ever After…

  Click here to get the Billionaires and Bad Boys Box Set.

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  I’ve included some free bonus content in the hopes that you’ll check out the rest of my catalog. Just flip the page to continue reading! :)

  xx,

  Nikki

  Bonus: My Brother’s Friend, the Dom

  Prologue

  Something cold and wet falls on my forehead. I look up, but it’s not raining. I wonder if someone’s window A/C’s dripping.

  Then, all of a sudden, my world goes dark.

  I start to scream, but a large, masculine hand covers my mouth, muffling my voice. A thick arm wraps around my waist and presses on the valley between my breasts.

  “I thought you’d be happier to see me … doll,”
whispers my captor. His breath falls hot on my ear and spreads as goosebumps all over my skin.

  He’s here.

  PuppetMaster’s here.

  And he’s a big, strong, burly man. Even though he’s just one person, it feels like there are hard, solid walls of man surrounding me on all sides.

  His chest is broad and sturdy against my back; his arms are so strong I can barely move in his steel grip. Yet, he’s careful not to hurt me or put me in discomfort in any way … for now, at least.

  I kick and scream, knowing that will irritate PuppetMaster. Maybe I’ll annoy him enough to make him want to hurt me.

  He tightens his hold on me, sliding his hand up to my neck and squeezing until I stop struggling. “Remember the safe word, doll?” he asks again in a raspy whisper.

  “What safe word?” I ask.

  “Exactly.” PuppetMaster continues to speak in a strange, low whisper. “Promise you won’t fight me, doll?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “You don’t want people to stare and get us into trouble, do you?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “Good girl,” he rasps.

  Sarah

  In ancient India, when a man died, his widow would throw herself into her husband’s funeral pyre and burn to ashes.

  Of course, not every widow did this. If the husband had chosen to be buried instead, she could simply join him in his coffin—alive. She could also choose to drown herself.

  So, you see, plenty of options for those widows.

  This practice was outlawed in the nineteenth century, not long after Europeans entered India and started meddling in their affairs.

  I know. It sounds like a terrifying, inhumane practice.

  But right now, I wish those Europeans would’ve seen some good in it and spread the custom throughout the Western world instead.

  As men lower a shiny, brand-new, wooden casket into the ground, undeterred by heavy rain, I raise my gaze to stare at her—the woman who’s made my life a living hell more times than I can count.

  Her ex-husband died years ago, and this funeral is for her son, but better late than never, right?

  I guess, technically, she’s not a widow because she’d already gotten divorced when her ex-husband died, but I don’t think divorce existed in ancient India.

  I imagine myself pushing her off into the damp, muddy hole while black-clad mourners cheer and egg me on. I’d be doing the right thing. I mean, I’d prefer to see her go out with a literal blaze, but it’s raining pretty hard right now, and I don’t think we could start a blazing pyre if we tried.

  Or maybe we can. I don’t know. I’m really not an expert on the subject; it was just something I came across on Wikipedia when I was bored.

  I don’t feel like looking it up on my phone now because that would be disrespectful to the good man whose funeral I’m attending. Besides, the wind’s trying to snatch my black umbrella away, and I need to hold it with both my hands.

  I don’t care about being historically accurate. I just want to fantasize about my mom dying a horrible death.

  It’d be easy, too, because she’s practically skin and bones these days.

  Her hair is dull. Her skin is pale and blotchy. The darkness around her eyes isn’t just makeup.

  She looks bored with her empty gaze, no doubt because she’d rather be shooting up some drugs at home. I’ll bet good money that underneath those long sleeves, she’s hiding needle marks.

  Even though it’s only been five years since I last saw her, it looks like she’s aged twenty years. The lines on her face are so deep and numerous that her skin appears leathery.

  If she showed up at a plastic surgeon’s office, asking for Botox, they’d have to restock their supplies when they were done with her. I can’t even begin to imagine how she’d look with permanently tight facial muscles, though. As it is right now, her face shows no emotions. Or, maybe she doesn’t have any left anymore.

  That said, when I was growing up, it felt like she was always wearing a scowling mask. Maybe her current lack of facial expression is an improvement.

  I tighten my grip on the umbrella handle as the wind pulls it in all directions. My black lace dress is already half wet, despite my best efforts in rotating the umbrella every time the wind changes directions. It’s chilly, and I can’t help but shiver every once in a while, gritting my teeth together.

  Almost everyone else is battling the elements, including the minister, who’s got an altar boy holding an umbrella over his head while he reads from his holy book.

  Yet, there’s one man who doesn’t seem perturbed by the weather at all. Water’s soaking his clothes until they’re dark and heavy. He can’t be comfortable, but he doesn’t appear to care.

  Taller than everyone else, his head pokes out above the dark umbrellas. His eyes are red, but if he’s crying, I can’t tell. Droplets of water shower down on him and drip down his entire body—his dark hair, his somber face, his collared black shirt that sticks wetly to his hard body.

  I’m going to hell for this, I think to myself when I find my eyes wandering up his rolled-up sleeves and settling on his muscular, tattooed forearms. This is my brother’s funeral. I shouldn’t be checking out an old one-night-stand, not even if all I feel like doing now is cry on his broad shoulder.

  But I can’t deny it’s almost impossible not to notice Luca today.

  He stands apart. Although most people are huddled together as close as their umbrellas will let them, there’s at least three feet of space between him and the next person. Thanks to his myriad of tattoos and ex-convict status, the townsfolk are distrustful of him.

  To be fair, Ashbourne is a small town that’s suspicious of any outsiders, especially those who keep to themselves.

  That was probably why he got along so well with my brother. They were both misfits.

  Luca doesn’t scare me, though. In fact, it was probably those bad-boy vibes that grabbed my attention in the beginning. I did it for the thrill.

  I do a quick mental calculation. He must be thirty-one now.

  He’s let his facial hair grow. Dark shadows line his strong jawline, his chin, and the bit of skin above his lips.

  Like my mom, he appears older, although that’s probably just a temporary effect of grief. He’s just lost his best friend, and it shows. He slouches his shoulders and stares blankly at the grave. It’s like only his body is here.

  Except he suddenly turns his gaze on me, jump-starting my heart until the beats compete with the pitter-patter of raindrops all around us.

  What’s wrong with me?

  Those green eyes … I forgot how intense they are. It’s almost like there’s a source of light in that brilliant head of his. In this gloomy, damp atmosphere, they seem greener than the blades of wet grass underfoot, or the leaves on the trees lining the perimeter of this cemetery.

  He gives me a solemn nod, a small gesture that somehow conveys the crushing weight of his sadness and sympathy.

  I swallow my nerves, and without breaking eye contact, I return his nod. My vision blurs, and for a moment, I think some rain must’ve gotten into my eyes, until I realize the droplets rolling down my cheeks are warm.

  For some reason, seeing the anguish in Luca’s eyes has taken me from “anger” and “denial” to whatever the next stage of grief is. For the first time since I heard the news, it feels real.

  And so, as the minister drones on about the fleeting nature of life, I start to sob.

  My brother’s no more, and I’m all alone in the world.

  Sarah

  As soon as the minister stops talking, I thank him and slip away, avoiding the crowd.

  Ashbourne being a small town, everybody’s here, regardless of what they thought of my brother while he was still alive and regardless of how close they were to him.

  Many of these people probably hadn’t talked to him in a year when he died, and they probably don’t have anything of value to tell me, other than the clichés. You know, “sorry fo
r your loss,” or “you’re in my prayers.”

  I don’t need prayers or sympathy. I know exactly what I need, and it’s nothing I can mention at a funeral. Hell, it’s nothing I’ve ever said out loud anywhere.

  It’s probably not the healthiest coping mechanism, but who cares? This is, without a doubt, the lowest point in my life. I’m pretty sure I’ve earned the right to indulge in any vice I want.

  Ever since I got back to Ashbourne, I’ve been busy making arrangements for Peter’s funeral. I never knew there was so much paperwork to be done and so many bills to pay when someone dies. When Dad died ten years ago, I was only thirteen, so Peter was the one who handled everything. Turns out dying’s pretty expensive.

  Luckily, I’d been saving up while I was working in the city, so I had just enough money to cover all the expenses. Currently, my bank account balance is as close to zero as it’s ever been, but at least the funeral’s over, and my work is done.

  I’ve been looking forward to putting this behind me, but now I don’t know what to do with myself.

  All I know is I don’t want to be around people—not these people, at least. They’re way too wholesome to be part of the depraved plans I’m marinating in my mind.

  I open the door of my brother’s old, beat-up car. This car used to be Dad’s until he died, at which point it was handed down to Peter. And now, I guess it’s mine.

  After the divorce, Dad had just enough money to keep the animal clinic running and buy this piece of junk. Dad could’ve said “no” to house calls and gone without a car, but he was the kind of guy who’d rather sleep in the clinic before doing that, so that was exactly what he did.

  There were always plenty of farm animals in Ashbourne that wouldn’t even fit inside our clinic, but it was roomy enough for the three of us—Dad, Peter, and me—to live upstairs.

  As my butt hits the driver’s seat, the smell of burned nicotine fills my nostrils. This stupid car smells like Peter.

  I pull on the door handle, but it won’t budge. As I lift my gaze up, I realize Luca’s got his hand on it.

  “Sorry,” he says in a hair-raisingly familiar voice—deep, calm, peaceful. “I called your name, but you didn’t hear me.”