Baby, I'm Yours. Catherine Mann

pine-soap scent and steady heartbeat soothed her senses, mellowing and exciting her at the same time. She’d needed the support of his chest so much on that night. The first anniversary of Aunt Libby’s death had hit her hard, especially so close after the holidays. And she’d already been stressed out by the monied bigwigs drooling over her prime piece of waterfront property, pressuring her day in and day out to sell.

      Vic’s steady friendship had meant a lot to her. How could she not turn to him? Comfort that night had shifted quickly to something more.

      She nuzzled his neck. “Mmm. You smell so good.”

      And she was so sleepy.

      Vic coughed.

      “Really good.” Her languid arms flopped around his shoulders to toy with his collar. “You feel good, too. Have I ever told you how hot your butt looks in jeans? And that faded patch in front makes me want to flatten my h—”

      “Uh, Claire…”

      “Yeah, Vic?” She slid a button free through warm cotton covering even warmer man.

      “We need to stop.”

      “Don’t wanna.”

      His wry chuckle kissed her ears as seductively as his mouth had done a few months ago. “Well, me neither, but we have to.”

      She didn’t want to think about her groaning bank account and repairs piling up faster than she could count them, not when a much-needed nap and a warm chest waited in this bed. She fought consciousness. For just a few seconds longer she wanted to abandon Claire-logic to the boundless possibilities of dreamland. “Why should we stop?”

      “Because Starr is in the next room filling a glass of water for you. She’ll be walking through that door any second now.”

      An icy shower of realization splashed her wide awake. This wasn’t a few months ago. This was now, with Vic on her purple comforter and totally unaware of a third little person with them.

      Her eyes focused simultaneously with her thoughts.

      Claire shoved Vic’s chest. She bolted upright just as he rolled off the mattress, work boots thumping on the braided rug as he launched to his feet.

      She hitched the hem of her dress down past her knees. “What are you doing here? What am I doing here? How did we—? What were we—?”

      “Stop.” He kept his voice low, glancing over his shoulder at the door before continuing, “You passed out downstairs.”

      Memories flooded back of pitching toward the floor. Claire pressed a hand to her stomach to reassure herself life was still growing, safe, already fully seated within her heart.

      Nothing seemed wrong. She just felt queasy, ops normal these days. “I passed out?”

      Nodding, Vic rebuttoned his shirt. “I carried you up here afterward. Are you okay?”

      No! She wanted to shout. I’m not okay at all. This baby left her excited and scared at once. No matter how many times she told herself she wasn’t a single seventeen-year-old like her mother, she still couldn’t stem fears of letting down her child.

      And in the middle of all those fears rumbled a confused mishmash of emotions for the baby’s father tipping her world until she couldn’t see straight. Or maybe that was because all she could see was a broad set of shoulders and a gorgeous head of thick, sun-kissed hair that begged her fingers to smooth it.

      Staring into eyes so blue they turned almost as purple as the lilacs on her windowsill, she wanted to tell him about their child now. She wanted him to be happy about the baby. She needed him to reassure her they would sort out reasonable plans for sharing custody.

      And if by some fluke the once-bitten-twice-shy bachelor actually offered to marry her?

      Not a chance. She’d been an obligation to so many people over the years. She wouldn’t put that grief on her baby.

      But Aunt Libby’s old voice whispered in her mind that a mama would do anything for her child. Or was that her own mother’s voice she could barely remember anymore? A woman who’d even been willing to climb into a trucker’s cab on occasion to earn extra dollars for rent.

      Claire swallowed down sympathetic tears that pooled closer to the surface these days. She’d stumbled on that tidbit of info about her mom when searching through Aunt Libby’s paperwork, which included a copy of Claire’s case file. All of which flooded her eyes with more tears for both mother figures in her life who had sacrificed so much for her.

      Vic’s arm slid around her shoulders. “Claire, baby, are you all right?”

      Omigod, she couldn’t think now, and she definitely couldn’t talk rationally. She blinked fast. Better to speak with Vic when her emotions were steadier…and when her sister wasn’t one room away.

      Claire swung her legs over the side of the bed and willed the wisteria-vine pattern climbing her faded wallpaper to quit wiggling. “I’m fine. Thank you for carrying me up here so I wasn’t sprawled out there for all the customers to gawk at.”

      “No problem. I just want to make sure you’re okay.” He pressed a hand to her forehead. “My specialty may be four-legged patients, but you don’t feel feverish.”

      Uh-oh. He wanted a reason. She gripped his wrist and tried not to notice the steady pulse under her touch, the masculine bristle of hair sprinkled along his skin. His eyes met hers, held, the pulse throbbing under her fingers sped. Hers answered with a resounding ka-thump.

      She dropped his hand. “Thanks for the medical assistance, Doctor Jansen, but this two-legged patient is only hungry. I skipped breakfast this morning.” And lunch. “With the extra catering jobs, I’m putting in additional hours. It must have caught up with me.”

      He jammed his clenched fists in his faded jean pockets. “You should take better care of yourself.”

      She knew that. Already she felt like a rotten mother, but she had such a tough time asking for help. She would—in another week. “I’ll be fine once I eat something.”

      And kept it down.

      “Even a farm vet like me can see you need a nap.”

      “Tomorrow.” She slid off the edge of the bed to her feet. “I have too much to—”

      The room tipped. Her stomach roiled. Before she could blink, Vic braced her shoulders and sat her on the bed. He gripped the back of her neck and eased her forward. She dropped her head between her knees. Her notepad thudded to the floor. She would retrieve it after she found air.

      “Deep breaths. Slowly. It’s okay,” Vic’s voice soothed in time with his steady strokes along the back of her head and neck. Then along her shoulders. One hand on each side, he patted and braced her in case she fell forward again. “Keep breathing.”

      She drew in air tinged with the scent of his soap and her magnolia trees outside. Long after her stomach settled, she stared at Vic’s work boots and feared what she would find if she looked up. Would he suspect? Hopefully he didn’t know anything about pregnant women.

      What a stupid thought. Of course he did. His ex-wife had been pregnant once.

      Slowly, Claire straightened, but she found nothing more than concern on his face. The wisteria plants on her wallpaper stayed blessedly still, although her face in the armoire mirror matched the leaves on the vines.

      Vic kept both hands on her shoulders. She couldn’t seem to scavenge the words to tell him she no longer needed his support.

      For just one weak moment, she let herself forget her fears about being a good mother, about holding strong against all the people clamoring to take her house away. Forget that even if she could stay in his arms, Vic had been burned in the past, too. Forget everything but the wonderful deep blue of his eyes as he searched her face.

      Staccato footsteps sounded from the hall.