by Ava Miles
His eyes fired. “You’re perfect as you are. Don’t let Farley or anyone else tell you any different.”
“I was talking about my biological clock,” she said, her stomach clenching at the words. “Kids.”
“Oh,” he said, looking away for a moment. “Grace, I want kids too. I’ve told you that, but not right now. I can’t give you and a family the time and attention you deserve. But in a few years—”
“I can’t wait anymore, Jordan.” She’d been waiting…and waiting…and waiting. What if their paths diverged more? What if he met someone who was more in line with his path and left her?
“So you want to break up with me.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Hearing you talk, I don’t seem to be good for you anymore, Grace.”
That statement pretty much drove a pitchfork through her heart. “That’s not true. We’re just growing into different people, moving in different directions. Jordan…I still love you. That’s what makes this so hard.”
He caressed her cheek ever so softly. “I love you too, Grace.”
They stared at each other, and Grace could feel the weight of the decision at her feet. “I think we should call it so we can still think back on all the good times we had together.”
Swallowing thickly, he lowered his hand from her face. “There were a lot of those.”
“For me too.”
“Come on,” he said, reaching for her hand. “I’ll take you home.”
The thought of him dropping her off one last time was too much. “I can take a cab.”
“Please, Grace,” he said, raising her hand to his mouth and giving it a sweet kiss, a gesture he hadn’t used since their early dating days.
“All right,” she said and let him lead her down the stairs.
Leaving the party proved a little challenging since so many people tried to delay him, but Jordan managed it with the assertive charm he used on the sports media after a game. By the time his silver Maserati GranTurismo arrived from the valet, Grace was holding on by a thread.
They drove in silence back to her apartment in the historic and charming Virginia Highland neighborhood, the soft strands of Usher playing in the background. When he arrived, he stopped on the street and put the car in park.
“I don’t think I can walk you to the door and be a gentleman,” he said harshly. “I wish…we’d had one last time.”
Suddenly, tears were streaming down her face.
“I do too,” she whispered, clenching her fists in her lap to keep from doing something she’d regret.
“At least let me hold you,” he said, and then he was unbuckling his seat belt and hers and putting his arms around her.
She buried her face in his chest and inhaled his sandalwood cologne, trying to memorize the familiar feel of his body against hers. He sniffed in her ear, and then he was leaning back and grabbing her face in his large hands. Illuminated by the low light of the car’s instruments, she could see the tears in his eyes.
“Be happy, Gracie,” he said and kissed her hard on the mouth before releasing her.
She bit her lip to keep from crying out as she opened the car door. “You too, Jordan. I’m sorry. So sorry.”
“Just box up my things,” he told her, facing forward again. “I’ll have yours sent over by courier, and you can send the package back with them.”
Digging into her purse, she pulled out her key ring. He swore fluently, something he knew she hated, something he never did in front of her.
“Keep it!” he said harshly. “Just in case you ever need anything.”
Anything she might have said backed up in her throat.
“Okay, Grace. Now I’ve really gotta go.”
She stepped back and shut the door, keeping a tight grip on the key he wouldn’t let her give back, and watched him speed down the street until he was out of sight.
Chapter 1
Three months later…
Jordan privately thought the leather-studded throne was a little over the top. Sure, he’d won his first Super Bowl over a month ago, and it was flattering to be crowned a king at yet another Atlanta Rebels victory party. But the endless celebrations were starting to lose their luster.
Still, he couldn’t deny the chair fit his massive frame and gave him a good view of the party. A brunette whose name he couldn’t remember had plopped down in his lap to drink her cosmopolitan. Her waist-long hair kept brushing his chest whenever she leaned forward to talk to him. She was nearly as tall as he was in her four-inch stiletto knee-high boots, but while she was gorgeous, she didn’t really have anything interesting to say. He was already tuning her out.
He’d been seen with a lot of women over the past few months, which had somehow only made him more popular. He’d been a sex symbol before. Now he was one of the hottest bachelors out there, and women were prowling around him like cats. In fact, his reputation had changed from being a nice guy to a playboy, one his agent and publicist were loving since it was bringing in more endorsements and magazine covers.
What he didn’t like was the media asserting he was acting out after being with “Dean’s Dull Girlfriend,” who must have been crimping his style. He hated them talking badly about Grace and hoped to high heaven she hadn’t heard about it. She’d been hurt enough by his fame.
The club’s music pulsed a sensual and enthralling beat while a mysterious blue light covered the patrons like fog. He let the music’s rhythm wash over him as he absently rubbed the model’s hip. After months of a grueling schedule, he was starting to relax. Life was good.
Well, he was working on making it good. After Grace…
Stop it.
He had a nice buzz going, courtesy of a steady stream of Jack Daniel’s. He didn’t drink much during the season, respecting his body’s limits, so it felt good to have a few more than usual.
The model on his lap gave him a smoldering glance, her glistening magenta lips pursing. It looked so much like a cover photo for a fashion magazine that he fought a scowl. God, he’d thought he could get over Grace by plunging himself into parties, hanging out with beautiful women, and living the high life. In the beginning, the euphoria of winning the Super Bowl had made him think it was working, but now he had to admit he was getting tired of all the cloying hands.
He missed her.
The phone in his jeans pocket vibrated, and he angled the model off to the side to dig it out. His heart stopped when he saw the caller. Grace. He blinked, making sure it was really her. Hadn’t he just been thinking about her again? Without football to keep him occupied, she was on his mind way too often now. Maybe he was on hers too.
He was assailed with memories every time he scrolled through his call list—the look in her eyes when he brought her flowers, the way she’d laughed and laughed that time she splashed sauce all over the stove after he snuck up behind her and kissed her neck, the sensation of making love to the one woman he loved and trusted and honored more than anyone—but he still couldn’t bring himself to delete her from his contacts. How could you delete the love of your life?
Jordan gently pushed the model aside, shrugging off her clingy arms as he hurried to the back balcony of the penthouse.
“Hey,” he said when he reached the outside. “I was just thinking about you. How are you?” The words were small compared with what he wanted to say.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Jordan.” The voice was familiar but formal, and the sound of it twisted the knife still stuck in his heart. “I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t important.”
He went on alert immediately. “Tell me what’s the matter. Are you okay? Is it your parents?” He’d known Meg and Pat Kincaid his whole life, and they were the salt of the earth.
“No, Mom and Dad are fine. Jordan, I need to see you. I’m sorry, but I think it would be better if you came over.”
She was inviting him over? His stomach gripped with worry. “Stop saying you’re sorry.”
Grace cleared her throat. “Okay, I won’t apologize—yet. Jord
an, can you come?”
He wasn’t sure what she meant, but one thing about Grace was that she never exaggerated. He tried to rein in his anxiety. “Name the time, and I’ll be there.”
“From the background music, I’d guess you’re out, but would you be able to come tonight? I know it’s late, but I just got off work, and my schedule’s been a little crazy…”
Her tone had the Jack in his stomach turning to acid. “I can be there in thirty. Can I bring you something?”
“No, just bring yourself. Thanks, Jordan.” She clicked off.
Jordan pocketed his phone and took a moment to settle. Atlanta’s city lights glowed mellow orange, and the traffic below him flowed sparsely. He could only wonder what could have compelled Grace to call him. Now.
She hadn’t called him at Christmas, which he’d spent away from her family for the first time in years. They’d been like a second family to him. Losing them had been almost as bad as losing her. She hadn’t even called or texted after the Super Bowl. Though it wasn’t something he liked to admit—even to himself—he’d been devastated. Of course, he hadn’t contacted her to wish her happy birthday either. He might have worked out in the Rebels’ gym all night to fight off the urge to call and hear her voice.
Taking one last deep breath, Jordan straightened and walked back inside to start his farewells. Almost forty minutes later, he stepped out of a private sedan in front of Grace’s apartment building. The Virginia Highlands neighborhood suited her and her wish for the quaint, small-town flavor while his modern Midtown residence near Piedmont Park was situated close to Atlanta’s nightlife. Even their addresses had shown how different they were as people—a thought that gave him a moment of regret.
He’d arranged for the driver to wait. He needed to be discreet about this stop because the media was following him around like crazy since the win, always eager for a new headline about the Super Bowl MVP for their readers. Grace liked her privacy, and since his fame had been one of the reasons for their breakup, he wasn’t going to throw more gasoline on that fire by having the media speculate that they were back together.
The fact that she’d invited him over here anyway, knowing it might create speculation, sent another wave of worry through him as he walked up the red brick path to the glass doors.
God, he’d missed coming here to be with her. Being back here only reminded him how much. In his mind, a vision of her opening the door to him smiling in a simple blue dress came and went.
Since he’d sent her keys back, he buzzed her apartment and heard the lock click moments later. Of course, she’d sent back his keys with the boxes of his things even though he’d told her to keep them. Just Grace being Grace.
When he knocked on her door after taking the elevator to the fourth floor, he heard her yell, “Come in.”
He let himself inside. The smell of chocolate chip cookies assaulted him like a cloying perfume. Grace only cooked like this when she was upset. Really upset.
“Hey,” he called out.
“I’m in the kitchen.”
He followed the voice to the kitchen and stopped in the doorway, stupefied.
“Your hair!”
She’d whacked off her glorious cinnamon-colored hair to short wisps that framed her head. His heart exploded at the sight. What the hell? He hadn’t seen it this short since second grade, when her mother had let her cut her hair like her older brothers, Mike and John.
She sat at her farm table, clutching her tea mug like it was a life preserver. “I got it cut.”
“I loved your hair.” The minute he said it, he wished the words back. He stalked over to the table and stood there scowling. She was wearing an old Notre Dame sweatshirt and looked like shit. Was she still upset about their breakup?
He pulled out a chair and sat down across from her. “It looks nice,” he lied smoothly. He hated it. She looked fragile. While always petite, Grace had never appeared fragile. She had always bounded with energy and grit.
He gazed around the kitchen. “You certainly cooked up a storm.” Every workspace was covered with her large chocolate chip cookies on wax paper with paper towels underneath. “I thought you said you’d just left work.”
Her small shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I’ve been home a while.”
Grace didn’t often stretch the truth, which made him even warier. Something was really wrong, and he took his time studying her, trying to decipher what it was. Her normally golden skin looked gray. Circles lined her green eyes, and her face was puffy. A wave of fear enveloped him.
“Tell me what’s going on.”
Grace reached for his hand, and he blinked at her in shock. Her green eyes were pleading, and his fingers curled around her palm of their own volition.
“There’s no easy way to tell you this,” she said haltingly, “and if I could, I wouldn’t for the entire world.” She paused, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry, but…I’m pregnant.”
He sat back in the chair. Fell back, more like. “What?” He felt her squeeze his hand again.
“I’m pregnant.”
“Wait.” His mind clicked on like a backup generator. He did the math. They’d split up in December, over three months ago. Jordan shoved her hand away. “You’re just telling me now?”
“I went to Italy for a while to work in our sister restaurant.” Grace stood up slowly. “I needed some time to think about things.”
He shoved out of his chair. She’d been in Italy? “Time? Are you kidding me?”
The pleading in her eyes turned to anger. “Do you think this has been easy? Our breakup hurt me.”
“It fucking hurt me too! How could you think it hadn’t?”
“Please don’t swear at me! And maybe I didn’t think you weren’t affected because of all the women you’ve been photographed with.” She looked down.
“I’m sorry for swearing, and the women were…” Crap, what was he supposed to say? “A distraction. Hype. I can’t believe you’ve waited this long to tell me, Grace.”
Her silence was unnerving. “I decided to wait until I was past the first trimester.”
His head buzzed as he realized why. She’d been waiting to see if she’d miscarry. “Jesus.”
“I told you to stop saying that!” she said in a hard tone. “You know I hate it.”
He blew out his breath slowly, reaching for calm. The first chef she’d worked for in New York had bullied her with bad language, and Grace had promised herself she wouldn’t be around that kind of ugliness again. Jordan had complied. Mostly.
Grace sat down again and drank her tea, clearly upset if her shaking hands were any indication. He’d bet the bank it was chamomile flavored with lemon and honey, her favorite. He was grateful she hadn’t offered him any.
He raised his hand like a white flag. “I’m sorry. I lost it. Chalk it up to shock, okay? It was the broken condom, right?” Frustrated by their separate sleeping arrangements in her parents’ house during Thanksgiving—a Kincaid rule—he’d coaxed her into the barn after a midnight walk to make love. It had broken during the heated exchange.
“I was on antibiotics for my sinus infection, remember? It sometimes negates the effects of the Pill.” Which was why they’d used a condom.
“I thought you said we’d be okay, that it wasn’t the right time of the month.”
Her face scrunched up. “I was wrong, obviously. Here I was talking about my clock ticking…I don’t know if it’s nature’s greatest irony or a cautionary tale about being careful what you wish for.”
“Ah, Gracie.” He swallowed thickly as a wave of emotion rolled through him. “So, we’ll get married.”
“Like your parents did out of high school with you?” A flash came and went in her green eyes. “That’s not the way.”
So, his parents hadn’t been happy. In fact, the decision had basically ruined both of their lives. His dad’s college dreams had been put on hold indefinitely, and he’d ultimately fallen into gambling, women, and alcohol out of res
entment. He’d left the family when Jordan was eight. Jordan still had no idea what had become of him.
“We aren’t my parents,” he said. “Grace, we’re having a baby. Of course, we’ll get married. I thought this was what you wanted.” I still love you.
She held up a hand like a white flag. “Jordan, the reasons we broke up haven’t gone away—despite how much…we might wish otherwise. And now you’ve won the Super Bowl.”
The fact that she looked at his major life achievement as an impediment crushed him. He took a moment to shove back the pain while she drank her tea.
“It’s hard for me to believe you’re saying this. We both grew up in a community where people still got married if they got pregnant out of wedlock.” Again, like his parents.
She glared at him. “Seriously? Are you forgetting that Deadwood was founded on gambling, prostitution, and gold?”
He fought a curse word. “Fine, so Deadwood has a seedy past, but you’ve always played by the rules. So do I.”
She shook her head, and he could see her stubborn streak emerge a mile wide. “Not this time.”
“You’re really saying no?” He could admit it wasn’t the most romantic proposal in the world.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Jordan, you know I’m right.”
She put a small hand on his arm, and his muscles tightened at the contact. He wanted to cover her hand with his own and make everything between them right again. But he didn’t know how.
“Do you think I came to this decision easily? I have no desire to be a single mom. And my parents…” Her eyes blurred, and that pretty much devastated him.
“Gracie, have you told them?”
He could only imagine how they must have reacted. Pat and Grace’s brothers would want to beat the shit out of him for putting Grace in this position, even if she was a consenting adult. Hell, Meg would want to kick his butt. The Kincaid family protected their own.
“Yes.” She sniffed and shook her head like she was shaking off tears. “I told them that marrying you was…not a good idea. They agree with me.”