“Bobby?”
“Hmm?”
Stella swallowed, trying not to let her nerves get the best of her. “Why did you use a condom?” It’s not as if she would be risking getting even more pregnant.
Bobby’s chest rose and fell against hers. “When you went to the doctor, I’m assuming they ran all the tests on you—to rule out any illness or...diseases?”
“Yes. Because the sex was...” Random. Accidental. With a virtual stranger.
“I haven’t gotten a physical since last January and I want to keep you safe.” He kissed her forehead again, his lips lingering. “I haven’t been with anyone else since that night with you.”
Part of Stella absolutely melted at those words. She hadn’t asked because she hadn’t wanted to hear the answer. She’d forced herself to accept the fact that a man who went off with a woman at a bar would most likely do it more than once.
But he hadn’t.
It almost felt as if he’d been waiting for her to show up here.
She shook some sense back into her head. Of course he hadn’t been waiting on her. He was just making the most of an awkward situation.
“I need to make an appointment with my doctor, get tested again,” Bobby said, stroking her hair away from her forehead. “And...”
Stella held very still. “And?”
“And I think we should have a paternity test done.” He squeezed her tightly as he said it. “In a couple of months other people are going to notice you’re pregnant. Including your father. Including my father. When we have test results in hand, then...”
Not bloody likely that David Caine would notice she was rounding out. He’d have to see her to notice that. The bitterness of this thought made Stella’s heart hurt in ways that she didn’t like to think about.
“Then?”
He took a deep breath, as if he was bracing for a hit. “Then we’ll get married.”
She blinked. And then she blinked again. But the view of his fine chest didn’t change. So she dug her fingernails into her palm, hoping the pain would wake her up. After all, she’d had dreams of Bobby coming to her bedside. Clearly, this was just one of the more vivid ones.
Because it wasn’t possible that he’d just asked her to marry him.
Her nails cut deep, almost breaking skin. The pain was a quick, unwelcome dose of reality.
Oh, bloody hell.
That wasn’t why she’d come. She had no intention of trapping Bobby into a loveless marriage. But her heart had other ideas. Suddenly she saw the two of them living together, raising their baby—being a family. God, how she wanted that vision—the warmth, the closeness. The love. That, more than anything else in this life or the next, was what she needed—a family of her own. Somewhere she belonged, somewhere she was wanted. Somewhere that was hers.
Theirs.
Was that what he was talking about—a family, a real one? One where mothers and fathers loved not only each other but also their baby no matter what, through sickness and health, till death do them part?
Or was this about something else?
Breathe. Keep calm. Both things she’d perfected over the years in dealing with her father.
She’d spent almost twenty years waiting for her father to forgive her, for them to be a family again. She’d given up hope that having a family could ever come to pass. Unless... She would not subject her baby to the kind of life she’d lived, one filled with rejection and regret. But perhaps things would be different with Bobby. Perhaps she would be different.
If he said he loved her, she might say yes. If he talked of family, of more mornings like this—of growing old together—she might take the risk.
“Why?”
“Because you’re pregnant.”
The words cut to the quick.
She wanted to curl up and cry. She hated that feeling—of wanting something she would never get. Because that’s what this had come to. She wanted something she had no right to want and she had gotten knocked down immediately for allowing herself that little fantasy.
At least he’d made his position known straight away. At least he had the decency to be honest with her, to not string her along. She had to respect that.
She owed him the same.
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
She tried to push away from him—this entire conversation would be much easier if he weren’t still clutching her to his warm, firm chest.
“I believe the word sufficiently explains my position, don’t you?”
“We have to get married, Stella. This is nonnegotiable.”
“Is it, now?” This time, she did manage to push herself away. “And why is that?”
“This is just as much my problem as it is yours. I’m trying to do the responsible thing here. I want to make this right.” Every word was like a shard of glass cutting her skin. She’d briefly seen the possibility of a family. He only saw a problem. Then he went on, “Do you know what your father is going to do when he finds out? Do you have any idea?”
So that’s what this was. He wasn’t concerned about her. He wasn’t even that concerned about the baby. He was, however, quite worried about his business deals with David Caine. It always came back to that. Always.
She scooted away from him and climbed out of the bed on the far side.
“Quite a good one, thank you very much. I’ve known him a tad longer than you have.”
“No— Wait.” Bobby scrambled across the bed after her. “That didn’t come out right.”
“It’s fine. I understand completely. Neither of us asked for this and it’s certainly going to mess up a great many of our plans.” She ducked away from his outstretched hand, willing her voice not to crack. She would not cry. She was usually quite good at not crying. “I did not come here with the intention of marrying you.”
Her voice cracked. Stupid, ridiculous hormones.
She circled around the bed and made a dignified, slow dash for the bathroom.
She’d known from the first moment she’d held the positive pregnancy test that she was on her own. She’d also known that raising this child on her own was inviting the wrath of her father in a way that made the past two decades look like a walk in the park.
But for a moment—a weak, glorious moment—she’d hoped that her father would have no place in this. That she would finally taste the love, the acceptance she so desperately wanted.
And then the moment had ended.
* * *
Bobby sat in the middle of his bed, staring at the bathroom door. What the hell?
He was trying to do the right thing here. Of course they needed to get married. That baby was his as much as it was hers, after all. They were in this together. And, yeah, a unified front would make dealing with the fallout a hell of a lot easier. Didn’t she want him by her side when she told her father?
When he’d asked her to stay at his condo so they could work things out, he hadn’t realized that would include her locking herself in the bathroom after she refused his marriage proposal.
Now what?
This was his fault. He’d rushed it. He was exhausted and not thinking clearly.
He’d thought the good sex—better than he remembered it—would prove his point. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking of her for months—months where he hadn’t even looked at another woman. No other woman could even come close to her witty charm, her edgy vulnerability. Stella was someone real. Someone who made him feel more real.
And now that he’d had her in his bed? Now that she was carrying his baby?
How the hell was he supposed to let her go?
He stared at the closed bathroom door. Okay, so the morning had blown up in his face. This was just one of those misunderstandings—a quick-but-honest apology
, a well-thought-out explanation of his intent, and boom—problem solved. That’s how it worked. No situation was so hopeless that communication couldn’t make it better. He would know. Communication was what he did for a living.
Still...he needed to tread carefully here. Stella was unhappy with him. And the hell of it was, he wasn’t exactly sure why.
Unless...unless she didn’t actually want him the way he wanted her.
No. That wasn’t possible. Women had never been shy about telling him that he was good-looking or that they appreciated how he made them feel. He could certainly afford to take care of Stella and the baby. So that couldn’t be it.
Plus, she’d come all this way to see him. He had to mean something to her.
Okay, it was time to regroup. A tactical retreat was in order. He would give her a little space, apologize for his lousy sense of timing. And...
And then what?
Bobby shot out of bed and headed to the living room, the wheels turning in his mind. He still wanted a paternity test. Once he had results that proved him the father, then he could revisit the whole marriage thing.
He grabbed his laptop and typed How soon can you do a paternity test? into the search bar.
The first two suggestions would take several weeks, but the third option sounded like a winner. SNP Microarray—a simple blood test that could be done at nine weeks, which was one week from now.
He checked his doctor’s website, then called the number and made an appointment. The nurse said the earliest they could get the test done was in six days. The results would take another week. Maybe two.
Bobby took the appointment. What choice did he have? He could always send Stella home to New York for the test, but she’d said the flight was rough on her and he wanted to be with her. He wasn’t sure why he felt so strongly about that—it was just a basic blood draw. But he should be there for her—both for the blood draw and for the results. That was part of making it right.
Which meant he was going to ask Stella to stay with him for another week, possibly two. Possibly three. For a moment, he allowed himself to think about how awesome that could be—fabulous morning sex, lots of cooking, really getting to know her. Figuring out what they were going to do next—that was sort of an important thing. He didn’t want to send her back to New York without having a plan in place. Without a ring on her finger.
But—he’d rushed in like a fool. Would she tell him no again and have Mickey bundle her back East before the day was out? What if she cut him out completely? Could he bear to watch her walk away from him again—this time, with his child?
And that wasn’t his only worry. He had obligations—legally binding obligations that would bankrupt him and his family if he failed to meet them. Like the obligation he’d already had to call Ben about. No way in hell he wanted to keep making those phone calls.
He had a reality show to film and a resort to build and a hell of a lot riding on the success of both. Sure, his brothers had invested heavily and he didn’t want them to lose money over this, but it went beyond that. They’d already started the hiring process for the resort, although that would all be filmed for a later episode. It was no stretch to say that hundreds of people’s livelihoods relied on the continued success of the show and the resort.
Hell, just last night, he’d been sitting in his trailer at the construction site, wondering how he was going to meet his deadlines. And that had been before Stella walked back into his life.
His mind spun. He heard a faint chime from the bedroom, followed by the soft sound of her voice. Probably that leprechaun calling her—checking up on him. Would she tell him that Bobby had seduced her with the promise of breakfast? Would she tell him he’d asked to marry her—and she’d said no? Would Mickey show up and shoot him in the knee?
If he asked Stella to stay with him until they received the test results, what on earth would she do? He couldn’t let her anywhere near the construction site—too many cameras, too many eyewitnesses. Same thing with the Crazy Horse shop—if Cass, the receptionist, who took Bolton matters personally, got wind that Bobby had gotten a young lady pregnant, all hell would break loose. They hadn’t had a family brawl since Ben had broken Bobby’s jaw almost a year ago.
He rubbed his jaw where it had been wired shut. Yeah, the shop was out, at least until they had a plan.
If he was going to ask her to stay—especially after that disastrous marriage proposal—he needed to keep her happy. If he could figure out how she spent her days and offer her something close to that—she might agree to stay, to share the bed with him. She might even agree to reconsider his proposal.
He did what any self-respecting man grasping at straws would do—he looked her up on Google. He’d resisted the urge to do just that in the past two months. But now?
The first thing that came up was the link to her Twitter feed—but he noticed she hadn’t posted much of anything in the past few weeks. Then a link to a Tumblr that seemed to be her posting pictures of style elements she liked. Not much to go on. But the third link was to an article in a fashion magazine: Stella Shines: A Model Designs Her Own Line.
It looked as if it had been a five-page spread—mostly photos, but with some snippets of an interview.
Wow. Stella was stunning. He’d known she’d done some modeling, but this? This was serious—and clearly, she was good at it. Her lithe body draped itself across his computer screen, her eyes seeming to look right into his. The clothes—all hers. He studied them—quickly, because he didn’t know how much time he had before she emerged from the bedroom. Lots of black, but everything she wore was shot through with bright colors—even her hair had white-and-blue streaks in it. One dress was a flowy thing tied at the neck. The body of it was black, but it looked as if it had a kaleidoscope of color printed onto it.
“I started designing when I couldn’t find anything I liked, romantic but with a jagged edge,” the article quoted her as saying. “The things I found that claimed to be both weren’t. It’s as if grown women aren’t allowed to be two things, hard and soft, at the same time. I want to change that. The only solution was to design what I wanted.”
Bobby felt as if he should be taking notes. Buried in one of the comments was the information he needed. “I sew everything myself—but I don’t think of it as couture. It’s all bespoke. I’d love to open up a little boutique where women of all shapes and sizes can find a piece that suits them perfectly.”
The article made scant mention of David Caine—just that Stella had attended the royal wedding with her father, the media mogul, in a dress that she’d sewn herself.
The article included a photo of father and daughter. Stella’s dress was a deep navy with lace sleeves, a square neckline, a nipped-in waist and a flared skirt that came to just past her knees. Her hat was a thing that seemed to defy gravity with its long, sideways swoop that came to a point less than six inches from her father’s chest. Although they were arm in arm, neither Caine was smiling.
He was wondering if that lace actually comprised tiny skulls, when she spoke from behind him. “Ah. I see you’ve found that shot.”
Busted. He tried to chuckle and keep it light—as if she hadn’t just refused to marry him. “It’s the first time I’ve seen it. French toast?” Then he turned to look at her.
There was very little jagged about her this morning. She’d tamed her hair, but hadn’t given it the precise edge it’d had last night.
But the bigger surprise was what she was wearing. Instead of one of her creations, she had on black lace leggings and an oversize cream-colored sweater that came almost to her knees. Soft, he thought, unable to stop himself as he slid an arm around her waist.
She fit against him as if she belonged there. He’d liked the feeling of her there from the very beginning, when he’d pulled her into his arms on the pretense of protecting her from a staggering drunk at
the club. She’d felt so right then that he hadn’t let her go.
Here she was again—a second chance at holding her.
He didn’t know what she’d agree to. But while he had her here, he would savor her. So he leaned down and kissed the skin between the neckline of the sweater and her hair.
She made that purring noise again, but this time she pushed back.
“French toast would be lovely, thanks.”
Her eyes were bright, though. She liked the attention. And she hadn’t said no this time.
He took the hint. As he assembled the meal, she studied his computer. He wished he’d gotten it shut before she came out, but they were probably past the point of trying to hide things.
He cleared his throat. “I have an appointment with my doctor on Thursday. They can do a blood test—the paternity test—then. Just a simple blood draw.” He walked over and shifted to the tab that had the test information.
“I see.” She skimmed the page, tension holding her shoulders tight. She looked regal, despite the softness of her outfit. “Then what?”
“That’s up to you.” He’d showed his hand earlier. Now he had to play it cool. “I didn’t mean to overwhelm you earlier. That wasn’t my intent.”
Her attention was still focused on the computer screen, but she cocked her head to one side and said, “Oh?”
“I wasn’t thinking clearly—not enough sleep. I understand the situation isn’t simple and you need to do what you think is best.” He took a step closer to her and saw her back stiffen. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
She didn’t do anything—not a wry comment, not a cold glare, not a warm touch.
Oh, hell. He’d always been able to talk his way into and out of any and every situation imaginable. That’s what he did. That’s who he was.
But around Stella? Not so much.
“Which part are you apologizing for—the sex or the proposal?”
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