The Bachelor's Baby Surprise

by Teri Wilson

  He reached for her wrist, turned her hand over and set the envelope gently in her palm. “Open it.”

  She took a deep breath and slid a finger beneath the envelope’s flap, breaking the seal. A slow smile came to her lips as she unfolded the contents, and then all at once, her face broke into a beatific grin. “This is a deed. You bought a vineyard?”

  “Love, it’s not just a vineyard. It’s your vineyard. It’s the exact parcel of land where Chateau Holly was located. I got the information from your bottle’s label and tracked down the owner.” Purchasing the land had been the easy part. If they were going to turn it into a working vineyard, they had a lot of work to do. If Evangeline just wanted to hold on to it and let it stay as it was, that was fine, too. He just wanted to give her back a piece of her childhood. The piece she loved most.

  “I can’t believe you did this.” She couldn’t stop staring at the deed.

  When she finally looked up, he was no longer standing beside her. He’d dropped down to one knee. The paper in Evangeline’s hand fluttered to the floor, alongside the confetti that had been tossed around while the champagne was being poured—tiny gold stars.

  And there, with stars scattered at her feet and their baby growing inside her, Ryan Wilde asked Evangeline Holly to be his wife.

  Her answer was an unequivocal yes.

  Epilogue

  One year later

  Evangeline sat near the head of a rustic farm table that had been placed between two rows of grapevines located in the most scenic portion of the vineyard. The farm table had been her husband’s idea, and it had been a good one. It was made of repurposed wood, perfect for a harvest party. Even more perfect for celebrating a place where they’d made something beautiful out of the discarded remains of the past.

  The table was set for ten. All the family was present—Tessa and Julian, Allegra and Zander, Chloe, Emily, Grandpa Bob. Even Olive and Bee were there, snoozing in a dog bed that Julian had made out of a sawed-off wine barrel stuffed with a generous amount of cushions. And of course Ryan was there, too. He stood beside Evangeline, holding their daughter in the crook of his arm and raising a glass in a toast.

  “Eve and I want to thank you all for coming out here today to celebrate the first vintage from Wilde Hearts Winery.” He grinned down at her.

  In the beginning, once plans for the wedding had been made and after Evangeline’s morning sickness had passed, they’d been stumped as to what to name the vineyard. Ryan insisted he’d be fine with calling it Chateau Holly. But Evangeline wasn’t. The winery represented a new beginning, so it needed a new name.

  Choosing a name for their daughter had been far easier. Holly Wilde was the obvious choice, and they both loved it. Boom. Done.

  Naming the vineyard was a far more difficult task, until their wedding night when Ryan finished unbuttoning Evangeline from her wedding dress and groaned as it fell to the floor in a puff of white tulle.

  Be still my Wilde heart.

  The second he’d uttered those words, she knew they’d found a name.

  No one knew the story of how they’d come up with it. It was their little secret.

  “We couldn’t have pulled off the challenging feat of getting this vineyard off the ground without each and every one of you,” Ryan continued.

  “I’ll drink to that,” Zander said wryly.

  Allegra gave him a playful swat. “Let the man finish his toast. I’m ready to sample this wine.”

  It was their first bottle from their very first barrel—a cabernet franc, just like the vintage Evangeline had poured for Carlo Bocci a year ago. Ryan kept suggesting they create a pinot grigio instead. He was joking, obviously.

  Evangeline hoped he was, anyway.

  “I also want to congratulate my beautiful wife for recently passing her Certified Sommelier exam.” Ryan lifted his glass a little higher and shot her a wink.

  “Hear, hear!” Grandpa Bob said. He’d been spending weekends at the vineyard, away from his assisted living facility, and seemed to be getting some of his old spunk back.

  “This doesn’t mean you’re going to give us a long description of what this wine is supposed to taste like before we’re allowed to take a sip, does it?” Julian stared into his glass.

  “No.” Evangeline shook her head. “It means Zander is going to let me keep working at Bennington 8.”

  “Nonsense. The three Michelin stars negated that whole condition. Surely I told you that.” He frowned.

  “You didn’t, actually. But I would have gone through the certification anyway, if it makes you feel any better.”

  “It does.” Zander arched a brow and cut his gaze toward Ryan. “Although what would really make me feel better is if your husband would finish his lengthy toast and let us drink.”

  Holly let out a happy squeal.

  Evangeline stood to hand her little girl her favorite stuffed toy and wrap her arms around Ryan’s waist. “I hate to tell you this, but it sounds like even your daughter wants you to wrap this up.”

  “Her wish is my command.” Ryan brushed a tender kiss to the top of Holly’s head. “Cheers, everyone! To the harvest!”

  “To the harvest,” they all echoed.

  Glasses clinked all around, and a breeze blew through the valley, rustling the grapevines. The air grew heavy with the lush perfume of good wine, good grapes and good people. Family.

  Drunk on happiness, Evangeline rose to her tiptoes and pressed her lips to Ryan’s ear, to the sensitive, secret spot she knew so well.

  “And to you, my handsome husband,” she whispered. “Be still my Wilde heart.”

  * * * * *

  Be on the lookout for the next book in the

  Wilde Hearts miniseries,

  available December 2018!

  And in the meantime,

  find the other Wildes’ stories:

  The Ballerina’s Secret

  (Tessa’s story)

  and

  How to Romance a Runaway Bride

  (Zander’s story)

  Available now from Harlequin Special Edition.

  Keep reading for an excerpt from Her Lost and Found Baby by Tara Taylor Quinn.

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  Her Lost and Found Baby

  by Tara Taylor Quinn

  Chapter One

  Hot stuff.

  Johnny Brubaker squeeze
d his eyes shut and didn’t open them again until he knew all he’d see were the cardboard bowls side-by-side on the food truck’s long prep area in front of him.

  He looked at the tickets hanging from the thin rack mounted above the board. He scooped rice, black beans and green beans, then added onion, lettuce and a healthy squirt of his signature barbecue-ranch dressing. He capped the first bowl, put the ticket on top of it and moved to the second. This one needed steak. The next was pork. He finished with all three in under a minute, keeping his line of vision completely under control.

  Until a customer at the window of his food truck, Angel’s Food Bowls, asked a question of the woman taking orders.

  “Johnny?” Tabitha Jones, the pediatric nurse who helped him on her days off, called out, naturally drawing his gaze.

  And there was that sweet butt again. How had it gotten so cute overnight? Six months they’d been doing this, on and off, almost nine months of being neighbors and becoming friends, and now he was noticing her in that way?

  “Yeah?” He turned back to his bowls, aware of the male face peering at him through the window but not caring all that much. They’d been parked on a public thoroughfare by San Diego’s Mission Beach for more than three hours, and he’d had people peering at him through that window ever since.

  “The health inspector would like to know if he can board the truck.” Tabitha’s voice held a hint of...a less than upbeat tone.

  Damn. “Of course he can board,” Johnny said, glancing at the truck’s order window with a mostly sincere smile on his face. He wanted a surprise inspection about as much as the next guy—never—but as an attorney, he knew that the more proven compliance records he amassed, the less vulnerable he’d be to a lawsuit.

  The world was full of crazies and he’d discovered that jealousy ran rampant in the food-truck business.

  Besides, they had a long line, and a more than thirty-second wait per customer could cause folks to wander away. He’d rather have the inspector in the truck if it meant he could possibly keep business going.

  Taking a second to reach into the bin above the driver’s-side visor, he pulled out the portfolio of plastic page protectors, all filled with the various permits and licenses he’d had to acquire, and set it on the driver’s seat of the truck. Then, stopping at the small sink designated only for handwashing, he squirted liquid soap on both hands. He lathered up to his elbows, in between his fingers and on the top of his hands, rinsed, dried himself on a disposable towel and, donning a new pair of plastic gloves, returned to work.

  Pretending he hadn’t passed by Tabitha’s backside twice in the process.

  What was with him?

  Having his mind wander while engaged in a successful project—that he understood. Seemed to be his life story. But to look at Tabitha and see... To look at her that way, it just wasn’t right.

  And it wasn’t like him, either.

  They were partners in grief. Helping each other out with “life quest” projects, as she called them. Things they had to do so they could get on with the rest of their lives.

  They were each other’s shoulder to cry on, propping each other up when necessary.

  But they were not sexual beings. They’d both sworn off it until their quests were done. Their friendship was a safe zone. Tabitha’s drive to find her missing two-year-old son took up whatever emotional and physical energy she had left after the duties of her days. And Johnny...he was honoring his dead wife. You didn’t do that by sleeping with another woman.

  He didn’t kid himself into thinking he’d never be open to a relationship again. He was only thirty—and alive. Alex Brubaker, Johnny’s father, expected a grand-heir to the family dynasty; Johnny wanted to raise one. But the food truck had been Angel’s passion.

  It was his way of making sense of the fact that she’d died so young—senselessly murdered in a robbery over a year ago. If the guy, who’d taken a plea deal to avoid life without parole, had just asked for her purse, for her ATM card, she’d have handed them over. Money hadn’t been that important to her.

  Angel hadn’t wanted the food truck as a means of earning cash for herself. She’d planned to donate all the proceeds to charity. Just as Johnny was doing. She’d loved to cook for people. Had loved the idea of traveling around from place to place and being just another person on the beach, working hard like everyone else.

  As the daughter of a wealthy oilman and a graduate of one of the country’s most elite culinary institutes, she’d been able to open her own five-star restaurant where she cooked elegant dinners for some of the country’s most powerful people. And she’d been in the limelight, on the food channels, being written up in gourmet magazines.

  But her real dream had been the food truck. She’d died before it could happen. So, to honor Angel, Johnny was taking a year out of his life to do it for her.

  Getting involved with another woman didn’t belong anywhere in that plan.

  “Everything looks good.”

  Johnny nodded, barely glancing up from his bowls as the skinny fortysomething inspector spoke from the back of the truck. He was pleased to have the inspector leave positive paperwork for the portfolio. And to see the line still snaking out from the truck. This was the first of four days he and Tabitha would spend here, an hour and a half south of their Mission Viejo homes, and they’d have to make enough this first day—Sunday—to compensate for the smaller crowds and shorter hours on the weekdays.

  The truck, his mission, was important, but they’d parked it in San Diego specifically so Tabitha could check out yet another daycare. She was certain this time.

  He was, too. Certain that she was setting herself up for one more disappointment. Her goal—finding her son—mattered more than any food truck. He wanted it for her way more than he wanted his own success. He was just finding it harder, after months on the road with her, to keep his hope up on her behalf. But he’d do his part. Help her by playing the “dad” in a couple checking out daycares for their daughter. Just as Tabitha was helping him with the truck. It was the deal they’d made.

  That thought came with an involuntary glance in her direction. She was leaning over the counter to hand his most recent creation—a bowl with only rice, onions, meat and dressing—out the window, putting her butt right before his eyes...again. Her jeans had jewels on the pockets. He’d never noticed jewels on her pockets before. Must be new. And that had to be the reason he was suddenly liking a part of Tabitha he had no business noticing.

  Yep, had to be the jewels.

  Weak, at best, but the explanation was all he had, so he was going with it.

  * * *

  The Bouncing Ball Daycare was located on the ground floor of one of San Diego’s nicer professional buildings. There was nothing opulent or ostentatious about the place, but judging by the placards on the walls and the cars in the lot on a Monday morning, the various small businesses and law firms that occupied the space were successful. One company, Braden Property Management, took up the entire top floor, according to a sign out front.

  Tabitha homed in on the immaculate green grass and colorful flower beds that greeted them as they approached. Went inside.

  “Didn’t you say the daycare owner’s name is Mallory Harris?” Johnny asked.

  Fighting the tremors that assailed her any time she thought she might be close to Jackson, Tabitha stood in front of the directory in the building’s lobby and tried to focus on Johnny’s words.

  Something about the daycare owner. Her name. Mallory Harris.

  “Yes,” she said, equally grateful for and bothered by his innocuous interruption. Suspecting he’d done it on purpose, to distract her from the emotions assailing her, she was mostly grateful.

  That day almost nine months before, when Johnny Brubaker had moved into the tiny house next to hers a mile from the beach in Mission Viejo, had been the second-best day of her life. Followi
ng Jackson’s birth, which had been the best.

  The absolute worst had been the day Jackson’s biological father had failed to return him to her...

  Johnny had purchased the little house as step one in his attempt to bring his murdered wife’s dream to life. Angel had wanted to leave their elite, moneyed, always-in-the-spotlight life behind and live like a “normal” person.

  Looking up into Johnny’s clear blue eyes calmed Tabitha unlike anything else. His easy acceptance of...everything somehow made life seem more manageable. “You ready?” she asked.

  “Whenever you are.” His voice held the usual note of confidence, leaving her with the feeling that he’d stand there in front of the directory all day if she needed him to, no questions asked.

  But she knew he’d need a break. Johnny wasn’t good about missing his meals—not that you’d ever be able to tell he had a voracious appetite by looking at him. All six feet of the man were rock solid.

  He waited for her to lead the way. She’d chosen her outfit carefully—a flowing summer skirt, brightly colored with small flowers, a ribbed T-shirt to match and sandals. She’d chosen his, too, because he’d asked—casual dark shorts and a light green button-up shirt—also with sandals. Johnny’s real life, the one he’d be going back to when his sabbatical was over, required suits and ties.

  But for running a food truck...not such a good idea. Early on in their friendship, he’d asked her to go with him to buy a more casual wardrobe.

  She’d laughed out loud that day for the first time since Jackson had been stolen away from her.

  “I think this is it.” Johnny spoke just behind her.

  While the daycare took up a lot of the first floor, the door leading into it was one panel with a small window at the top. Nothing there to invite strangers into the midst of the children. And no windows through which she could look from the outside. She knew the place had windows, plenty of them. She’d pored over the establishment’s website. First, so she’d seem like a parent who really was interested in a place for her child. And second, so she’d be fully prepared for whatever she’d have to come up with to gain access to one particular child. Hers.