You're My Baby. Laura Abbot

chuckled. “What’d you expect? This way, when I miss a shot, I’m not visible from the street.”

      “You? Miss a shot?” She poked him playfully. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

      He ushered her to a chaise longue near the grill and excused himself. When he returned, he carried a glass of lemonade for her and a beer for himself. “I guess you’re off alcohol now?”

      “Yes, thanks. That’s thoughtful of you.” She didn’t have the heart to tell him that citrus ate at her stomach lining.

      He busied himself at the grill, while she studied the yard. It could do with a feminine touch. No flowers had sprouted here in a long time and the patio furniture was rusty and mismatched. She studied the lawn, trying to visualize a sandbox or a swing set. It was odd that he hadn’t invited her inside. Maybe that would come later.

      When, at last, he finished swabbing the chicken pieces with a lemony sauce that smelled wonderful, he pulled up a chair at right angles to her and sat down.

      She smiled. “All set?”

      “For now. I hope you don’t mind not going out to a restaurant.” He folded his hands, nervously circling his thumbs.

      “We can talk better here.”

      “That’s what I figured.” He drew himself upright. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking—”

      “Me, too.”

      “I owe you an apology.”

      “What on earth for?”

      He placed his hands palms-down on his thighs. “For assuming you would welcome my crazy idea. You must think I’m about as self-centered as they come.”

      The lemonade soured in her throat. “Wait. What are you trying to say?”

      “This isn’t a business proposition. You need a real family. Not—what do they call it—a marriage of convenience.”

      Pam could literally feel the color draining from her face. “Are you reneging?”

      He leaned forward, his expression anguished. “I would never do that. It’s just that…I took advantage of your…position.”

      “And you don’t think my marrying you would take advantage of yours?”

      “Jeez, Pam, I never should have mentioned it. Logically, I suppose, it made sense, but marriage has to be about more than what’s good for Andy, what’s good for the baby. It would need to be about us. Otherwise, we could never pull it off.”

      “Are you afraid?”

      “Of course I am. Aren’t you?”

      “Is that why you’re calling this off?”

      His jaw dropped. “Are you saying what I think you are?”

      She closed her eyes briefly, then looked straight into his. “I’m saying yes, I’ll marry you.”

      “But—”

      She swung her legs to the ground to face him. “It can be about us. It can be about two friends who have mutual respect for each other. Love may be an overrated emotion. I can’t speak for you, but I’ve never had much luck with it. Surely we can reach an understanding, somehow compromise to make this work.” She hesitated. “Unless you’ve totally changed your mind.”

      “You’re certain about this?”

      “My baby needs a name. And I can’t think of a better one than yours. But I do think it would be prudent to put our understanding in writing. Just so we’re clear.”

      “You mean some kind of contract?”

      “Exactly.”

      He took hold of her hands, then rose to his feet, pulling her up, too. He took a deep breath, then said in a husky voice, “I’ll do my best to make this arrangement as comfortable for you as I can.”

      They stood motionless, their eyes locked. Pam’s face was flushed with an emotion she couldn’t name. It was beyond gratitude, beyond fear. Finally she broke the spell. “Looks like we have an agreement to formalize and a wedding to plan, Mr. Gilbert.”

      PAM AMAZED HIM. Calmly, confidently, she’d agreed to marry him. With a tectonic shift, his plan had lurched from the theoretical to the actual. Detecting the odor of seared meat, he edged toward the grill. “We’ll think better on full stomachs.” Grateful for the excuse to turn his back, he took the chicken pieces off the fire, all the time trying to master his confusing emotions—relief mixed with panic, excitement tempered by anxiety. And fear. Not of the day-to-day stuff—that he could handle. But fear that the unexpected elation welling within him would be short-lived. He’d promised not to hurt her. But, he suddenly realized, he’d given her the power to hurt him, if he let himself care—and it was going to be almost impossible not to.

      Over dinner they agreed to obtain the marriage license in another county the next morning and be quietly married on Saturday. Further, she consented to live in his home. Naturally they would maintain separate bank accounts and, for legal purposes, Pam would retain her maiden name. Besides, all the school rosters would already list her as Carver. That way, she said, it would be easier when…

      But he noticed she didn’t complete the sentence.

      Then, clearing his throat nervously, he said, “I guess I need to reassure you about something. This is a business deal. I wouldn’t expect we’d, uh, have—”

      “Sex.” She completed his thought. “Of course not. That never crossed my mind. We’re just friends, and friends we’ll remain.”

      With all the details committed to writing, they dug into the meal with gusto. Pam even apologized for her hearty appetite. “The little guy needs to grow,” Grant suggested.

      “Little guy?” She looked up with a smile that turned him to mush. “It could be a girl, you know.”

      “Do you have a preference?”

      “Healthy. That’s my preference.”

      He couldn’t get over it. Here they sat, talking babies, as if it was the most natural of conversation topics. He hadn’t discussed babies, not really, since Shelley was pregnant with Andy. And to tell the truth, for all his brave front, the thought of Pam’s pregnancy terrified him. What if something went wrong?

      “How about the house tour? We’ll have to figure out where to put your stuff and where you’ll…sleep.” Leading the way toward the house, he cursed under his breath. The word “sleep” echoed and reechoed with each step he took. And the visuals were equally disturbing.

      Pam stopped at the kitchen stoop. “That’s a problem, isn’t it?” She furrowed her brow. “Unless you plan to tell Andy about our little charade.”

      He groaned. “No, that can’t happen. Everybody, and I mean everybody, has to believe we’re for real, especially for you and the baby.”

      “Then we’ll simply have to work something out.”

      He held open the back door and she stepped into the small kitchen and stood, speechless, studying the aqua sink and countertop, the cocoa-brown appliances, the wallpaper sporting aqua and brown steaming coffee cups on a yellow background. With a sinking feeling, he saw it from her fresh viewpoint. “Uh, I haven’t gotten around to doing much with the kitchen.”

      She tried a smile. “Vintage 70s decor. All we need is the Brady Bunch.”

      “Maybe, um, we could redecorate.”

      “Don’t be silly, it’s only for a year.”

      “Oh, yeah.” Why hadn’t he realized how dated and ugly his kitchen was? He hastened to put distance between him and the Martha Stewart disaster. “Down this hallway on the left is the dining and living room combination.” He stopped and made a vague