The Baby Clause: A Christmas Romance

by Tara Wylde

  A headache blossoms behind my brow. How could I have been so stupid and let myself get into this position?

  Granted, I’m not the only one to blame, but still…

  There are so many ways to break the news to him. I take a deep breath and go for the quickest. The only thing trying to soften the blow or talking around the issue accomplishes is making me even more nervous.

  I take a deep breath and straighten my shoulders. “I’m pregnant.”

  Paul’s eyes slowly widen as the words sink in. “You’re sure?”

  “Pretty damn positive,” I confirm. No pun intended.

  “What did the doctor say?”

  “I haven’t visited one, though I did call and make an appointment. The soonest they can get me in is in about nine days, but they’ll call if there’s a cancelation. I did take a pregnancy test. And then two more. All three reported the exact same thing. Like it or not, you knocked me up.”

  The corners of Paul’s mouth twitch.

  Suddenly he throws his head back and roars with laughter. The spell doesn’t break. His jaw grimaces as he tries – unsuccessfully – to hold back his mirth.

  What the …

  For a split second, I wonder if I fell down the same rabbit hole as Alice and landed in a bizarre topsy-turvy alternate universe. I expected Paul to yell at me, to fling accusations, to storm out of the Blind Pig and refuse to ever respond to any of my messages again. To strike me out of his life.

  Once or twice, when I let myself pretend that everything would turn out okay, I imagined he’d be pleased with the news.

  But not once have I pictured him laughing at me.

  Clutching his stomach, he starts to tip sideways before correcting himself.

  I scowl at him. “I don’t think this is a laughing matter.”

  Paul wipes his eyes. “It isn’t,” he agrees even as he continues to laugh away.

  Irritated, I kick out, my sneakered toe connecting firmly with his calf.

  Yelping, he pushes the chair back, moving himself out of range.

  “Sorry,” he gasps. “It’s just—” He struggles to compose himself. “I didn’t tell you why I was in Chicago back in October.”

  I cross my arms over my chest and glare at him. “You said business brought you here.”

  He nods. “I lied, sort of.”

  “Mmm hmm.”

  I wait for him to continue.

  “I was here to meet with the woman who’d agreed to serve as a surrogate for my baby.”

  15

  Lara

  “A surrogate mother?”

  I repeat the words slowly. Honestly, I think I’d be less surprised if he announced that he was a serial killer. My hand slides over my stomach, covering the spot where a tiny clump of cells currently resides. The same cells that are now my baby.

  “Seriously?”

  Paul nods.

  Okay. “So, there’s another woman out there. One who’s carrying your baby.” Jealousy spikes through me.

  “No. I had picked one out. I flew in to Chicago that week because we were going to meet for the first time and start the process, but she backed out at the last minute. That’s why I went out drinking that night when I came here. I was having a difficult time coping with having all of my plans shattered, knowing I needed to start all over again and find another woman to take her place.”

  I nod knowingly, even though precisely nothing about this conversation makes any kind of sense. “And have you?”

  The sparkle returns to Paul’s eyes.

  “No. When I got your text, I was reading through the latest list of possibilities that the fertility clinic had sent me. In the past eight weeks, I think I’ve read up on at least one hundred different women, and just couldn’t get excited about any of them. I was starting to think I’d lost interest in having a baby.”

  He digs into his pocket, pulls his cell phone out and starts tapping on the screen.

  I swallow. “And now…”

  Paul stops messing with the phone and goes very still. His head tips to the side as he appears to retreat within himself. “Now…” He says the word slowly. “I don’t know how I feel.”

  “Oh.” Something clenches around my heart, and I shrink back in my chair.

  He reaches out, taking my hand between his.

  “Please don’t read too much into what I said. There hasn’t been time to really process that you’re having a baby. My baby.”

  “You’re not going to ask me if it’s yours? Prove that I’m not lying?” I don’t know how much time I spent worrying about him doing just that, but now that he hasn’t it feels like I’m missing out on something.

  “Why the hell would I do that?” Paul roars, showing his temper for the first time.

  “Because I’m eight weeks along, and only just found out I’m pregnant. Most women know way before this. If I were a man and it took someone two times longer than I thought it should to reveal the truth, I’d probably be a bit suspicious.”

  “Yes.” Paul considers my words. “Why did it take so long?”

  “I was late, but that’s not entirely unusual, I’ve been working so many long hours since buying this place, it’s thrown my body off schedule so it took me a little while to even notice. Plus, I’ve been sick. I thought it was the flu, but no one else caught it.”

  “Reasonable,” Paul says.

  “On television, that’s never what men say. It’s all accusations and excuses until DNA tests confirm paternity.”

  Paul rolls his eyes. “Fiction and reality are sometimes worlds apart. If I was concerned about the parentage, I’d probably ask, but since I know you weren’t sleeping around when I met you, and we … I … slipped up a few times about using a condom that night, I have absolutely no reason to question whether or not the baby is mine.”

  “I’d tell you if there was any doubt.” The words seem like they need to be said, though I’m not sure why.

  Paul’s grip tightens on my hands, his touch easing some of the fatigue that’s been weighing me down for the past few weeks. “I believe you.”

  16

  Lara

  A sleek black car glides to a halt in front of the Blind Pig’s entrance and a tall, lean man wearing a subdued green and black uniform gets out from the driver’s side. He stands beside the rear passenger door, head tipped down, legs slightly splayed, and hands clasped behind his back.

  “What fresh hell is this?” I push back from the table, determined to give the driver a piece of my mind. I have enough problems to deal with. I don’t need anyone thinking that my bar makes the perfect pickup place whenever anyone needs a ride.

  Paul halts me with a hand on the arm. “It’s for me.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a private car. I just ordered it a few minutes ago.”

  That must have been what he was doing while he was playing with his phone.

  “But you just got here. We have a lot to talk about. And now, what? You’re planning on running off?”

  “No.” Paul’s hand slides down my arm, past my wrist, and catches hold of my hand. He threads his fingers through mine. I try not to think about how right it feels.

  “I’m not running off. The car is for you. I want to get you checked out by a doctor. Make sure you and your baby are okay. Now, where’s your coat?”

  The gesture was probably designed to make me feel charmed, and under most circumstances I probably would be, but instead of thinking he’s the sweetest guy in the world I’m feeling mutinous. “I don’t need one.”

  “Have you been outside? It’s December. In Chicago. It’s freezing out there.”

  I glare at him. “The only reason you think so is because you’re from freaking North Carolina. You don’t know anything about being cold. Today is quite balmy.”

  Paul looks like he wants to argue but seems to decide it’s a fight he doesn’t want to engage in. “Fine. The car should be warm enough.”

  Pleased to have won this round, I silently p
reen as he leads me to the door.

  The ice-cold wind slams into me the second I step out of the Blind Pig. Instantly I’m regretting my decision to forgo my jacket, but there’s no way I’m going to let Paul know I’ve changed my mind. Setting my jaw, I lock the door while Paul and the driver patiently wait.

  Sliding into the car is like slipping into a foreign world. I run my hands along butter-soft leather seats. The vents exhale hot air over me, chasing away the chill brought on by the wind. It smells like new car and … I sniff, dark chocolate. Tiny white twinkle lights are attached to the ceiling, the light bouncing off the leaves of the tiny sprigs of ivy that have been glued to the bottom of the privacy glass that separates the back seat from the front.

  It’s a far cry from the city buses I usually rely on whenever I need to run errands.

  Paul slides in beside me and closes the door. I turn to him.

  “Just how successful is your business?”

  He quirks a brow. “What do you mean?”

  “You chartered a last-minute flight here, you practically conjured this car out of thin air, you stayed at the Philistine Hotel which just so happens to be the swankiest place in town, and you didn’t flinch when I served you top-shelf whiskey the night I met you.”

  I tick each item off on my fingers. “And this car isn’t your ordinary town car; it’s the super fancy, super pricy, deluxe model. So just how rich are you?”

  Paul hesitates, taking just enough time before answering to make me tense. “I run a fairly successful software design company.”

  Talk about a non-answer. I shove aside my instinct to probe, and settle in to enjoy the ride as the car pulls away from the curb.

  The trip from the Blind Pig to the fertility clinic ends almost as quickly as it begins. Before I started getting sick all the time, I would have been able to walk there in less time than it took Paul to arrange for the car.

  I recognize the elegant, modern, uber-expensive building the second the car slides to a halt in front of it.

  “Loving Embrace Fertility. Really?”

  Paul shoots me a sideways look. “They have the best reputation in just about every single area of pregnancy, from fertilization to birth, of any other clinic in the country. Why would I choose to go somewhere else?”

  He’s not wrong.

  Loving Embrace Fertility is one of the best. Everyone who lives in Chicago is thrilled that it’s here, and as a business owner in the area, I know it is responsible for bringing all sorts of wealthy people to the neighborhood. Most go to the clinic for treatments or advice and eventually make their way to the Blind Pig.

  Like Paul did.

  “This is where you came for a surrogate?”

  Paul’s hand finds the small of my back and he guides me up the sidewalk. His touch singes my skin through my clothes, until it’s all I can think about.

  “I’ve been here before.” The words tumble from my mouth before I even realize I’m thinking them.

  “Really?” I don’t have to look at Paul to know he’s looking at me, his eyes bright with curiosity. “Why?”

  “It was an open house, about”—I pause a second to think about it—“it must have been six or seven months ago. I was renovating the Pig and had heard so much about this place, I wanted to check it out.”

  “And,” Paul prompts.

  “It was nice.”

  Really nice. Way too nice for jeans and a sweatshirt that dates back to my high school days. Paul should have told me he was bringing me to the crème-de-la-crème of fertility clinics. Had he, I would have changed into something more appropriate for the setting.

  “I thought so,” Paul agrees. “They have a reputation for being the best, and that’s exactly what I wanted for my child.”

  His words remind me why we’re here. The baby we’ve both just learned about. The funny thing is, when I saw the results of that first pregnancy test, I remembered the tour I’d taken of this very place and thought about how nice it would be to have them oversee mine and the child’s upcoming medical needs. Not only are they the best, they are also close enough to the Blind Pig to make keeping appointments easy. Unlike my doctor, who is halfway across Chicago – and a long ride on public transportation – away from me.

  But this is a private clinic, way beyond my financial means, or would be if Paul wasn’t the father, because apparently, even though he refuses to share any information, money isn’t an issue for him the way it is for us mere mortals.

  My stomach quivers. Bile rises in my throat. I skid to a stop and close my eyes, pouring all my concentration into convincing my unpredictable stomach to relax.

  “Lara?” Paul moves in closer, his arm sliding from the small of my back to wrap securely around my waist. “Are you okay?”

  “Upset stomach,” I explain between long, steady breaths. “I really don’t want to get sick here.”

  “Ahh.” He pulls the door open and ushers me in. “I’m sure they’re used to that kind of thing. Lots of pregnant women about.”

  “That doesn’t make the idea of puking on their floor any less embarrassing,” I hiss.

  Even if I hadn’t met enough Loving Embrace clients to know what type of people they cater to, the lobby would have told me. It’s all done up in muted shades of pink, blue, and gray. Expensive paintings—I’m guessing they’re not reprints—hang from the walls. Magazines like GQ, Forbes, and National Geographic are artfully arranged on low tables. None look like they’ve been actually read.

  On the east side of the room there’s a fish tank that’s so big it nearly obscures the wall behind it. A little boy, maybe three or four years old, stands before it, his eyes wide as he takes in the antics of a pair of clown fish that are chasing one another through a sunken castle. With the exception of the receptionist, there aren’t any adults in the room.

  I eyeball the child. “Do you think he’s some sort of marketing gimmick?” I whisper.

  “What are you talking about?” Paul guides me deeper into the room.

  “You know, use our services and get a child as cute as this one.”

  Chuckling, Paul helps me into a chair. I take a couple of deep breaths even though, for now at least, the ever-present nausea seems to have abated a bit.

  “You sit tight,” he says. “I’ll go talk to the receptionist and arrange to have the doctor check you out.”

  “Fine.” I let my head rest on the chair’s soft back and close my eyes. “Do whatever you want.”

  17

  Lara

  “Lara, the doctor is ready for us.” A sound that’s both irritating and endearing interrupts a rather lovely dream about chocolate cake.

  “Go away,” I grumble, unwilling to leave what’s turning into the best sleep I’ve had in weeks.

  “Not an option.” This time the voice is accompanied by a hand that gives me a gentle shake, leaving me no choice but to open my eyes.

  I glare up at Paul. “There’d better be a-”

  “There is.”

  He slips an arm under my back, levering me off the chair. “It’s called a waiting doctor who I’ve already convinced to reshuffle her appointments in order to see me. She won’t be happy if you sleep through this.”

  “I don’t need to see a doctor.”

  What I need right now is to fall back to sleep.

  I look longingly at the chair Paul has dragged me away from. Maybe, if I promise to be quiet, they’ll let me start sleeping here. Especially since it feels like I haven’t been able to really relax and sleep in my own bed since that night with Paul.

  “We need to make sure that both you and the baby are healthy.” He slants a look down at me. “If you’re too tired to walk, I’m happy to carry you.”

  I inhale sharply. “It’s a tempting offer … but I think I can manage it on my own.” And the feel of his body against mine will be too much to bear. Each time he brushes against me, a quick surge of liquid desire washes through me.

  Any doubts I might have had about the tr
uthfulness of Paul’s surrogacy story dissolve as he leads me down the long hallway. He moves like a man who’s been here before.

  He pushes open a door that’s located about halfway down the hall. I proceed him into the room.

  A middle-aged woman with a heavy face, a short, flattering haircut, and just a touch too much make-up looks up from the electronic tablet balanced on her lap. One look at her scrub shirt, decorated so it looks like a horrible Christmas sweater, and I know she and I are going to get along great.

  Her gaze falls on me and her eyes widen. “I didn’t realize Mr. Sullivan had brought a guest.”

  “Dr. Henson.” Paul rests a hand on my shoulder. “I want to introduce you to the mother of my child. Lara Reynolds.”

  The doctor starts shaking her head before he finishes the introduction.

  “Mr. Sullivan, I know you’ve had a difficult time choosing a new surrogate from the names we’ve been providing you after the last one backed out, but I urge you to keep trying. While I’m sure Ms. Reynolds is a perfectly wonderful woman, well… Surrogacy requires a lot from a woman and while many go into it with the best intentions, in the end they simply aren’t suited, psychologically, to cut all ties with the child they carried and delivered.”

  “Dr. Henson,” Paul repeats. “You don’t understand. Lara is the mother of my child. She’s already pregnant.”

  18

  Paul

  “How can one baby, one that’s not even close to being born yet, require so much paperwork?” Lara signs one form before passing it to me.

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” Dr. Henson murmurs from the other side of the room where she’s reviewing the results of Lara’s blood test. “In addition to the liability forms, the other papers are to get the ball rolling on your child’s birth certificate. Filling those out now means there’s one less thing to handle when it’s born.”