Triplets For The Texan. Janice Maynard

“Six months ago your virtue might have been in danger. But now I have three babies to consider. Their welfare has to come before anything else in my life.”

      “Even romance?”

      “Especially romance.”

      “Then I guess we’ve cleared the air.”

      “I guess we have.”

      “I should go,” he said. But he didn’t move.

      Simone stood up, swaying a bit before she steadied herself with a hand on the back of the chair. “Yes, you should.”

      Squaring his shoulders, he nodded. The urge to kiss her was overpowering.

      She kept a hand on the chair, either because she felt faint or because she intended to use it as a shield. Either way, it didn’t matter. He wanted to taste her more than he wanted his next breath.

      He put his hands on her shoulders, noting the tension there. She wasn’t wearing shoes, so the difference in their heights was magnified. Winnowing his fingers through her hair, he sighed. “I should have come home a year ago. Then maybe I could have talked you out of this single-mom idea.”

      “Not your business, Doc.”

      It was as easy as falling into a dream. He had loved Bethany, deeply and truly. And grieved her passing. But this thing with Simone was something else. Did he dare explore the possibilities?

      Slowly, he moved his lips over hers, waiting for the protest that never came. She tasted of coffee and wonderful familiarity. But not comfort. Never comfort. There was too much heat. Too much yearning. When she went up on her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around his neck, he groaned. Five years. Almost six. Gone in a flash.

      He ran his hands over her back and landed on her bottom. She was thinner, but every bit as soft and appealing as she had ever been. Before he left for Sudan, when they were alone together, Simone had been unguarded...innocent. A far cry from the woman who tilted her chin and dared the world to disrespect her.

      Every beat of his heart was magnified. He kissed the sensitive spot behind her ear...nipped her earlobe with his teeth. Simone did nothing to stop him. In fact, she didn’t even try to hide the fact that she wanted him. Temptation sank its teeth into his gut and didn’t let go. He was hard as a pike. The sofa was close by. Damn. How could he still want her so badly? No. This had to stop. Now.

      Dragging in great gulps of air, he broke free of the embrace, stumbled backward and wiped a hand over his mouth. “Does it make you happy to know I still want you?” he snarled. He felt like a fool.

      Simone’s expression was gaunt and defeated. “Not happy at all, Hutch. But message received. You have nothing to fear from me. I’d appreciate it if you would let yourself out.”

      * * *

      She waited until she heard the front door slam before bursting into tears. Sliding down the wall and curling up in a knot of misery on the hallway floor, she cried ugly, wretched sobs that left her throat raw and her chest hollow.

      She knew her hormones were all over the map, but it was more than that. Hutch might as well still be in Africa. The gulf between them was so deep and so wide, it was doubtful they could ever even manage to be friends. Yet the same incendiary attraction that had drawn them to each other in the beginning still existed.

      The sensation of being wrapped in his strong arms...of feeling his steady heartbeat beneath her cheek...of knowing he wanted her as much as she wanted him brought back such crazy joy. Never in her life had she felt as happy or free as she had when she and Hutch were a couple.

      What he said was true. If he had come home six months ago, she would never have embarked on this path of insanity. She’d been angry at her dead grandfather and determined to prove she was worthy of carrying on the family name. It had never been about the money, but more about legitimacy, a sense of belonging.

      Now it was too late for second thoughts. The babies were a reality.

      Stumbling to her bathroom, she washed her face and sprawled on the bed. She was hungry again, but it was a weird hunger. Beneath the pangs of an empty stomach rolled a sensation of nausea in the offing.

      Finally, at midnight, she dragged herself out of bed and went to the kitchen in search of a snack. Milk seemed like a bad idea. Ditto for cheese or yogurt. Craving something salty, she found half a bag of stale, plain potato chips. She gobbled two handfuls and washed them down with ginger ale.

      Her hunger appeased, she went back to bed only to jump up twenty minutes later and rush for the bathroom. She threw up violently, so hard that her ribs ached. Even rinsing out her mouth made her stomach heave.

      Groaning, she found a damp cloth and pressed it to her forehead. The notion that she might have to endure weeks of this misery pointed out once again how foolish she had been. I’m sorry, she said silently to the three lives she carried.

      No matter what sacrifices it demanded, she would make sure this was a healthy pregnancy.

      The following morning was no better. Dry cereal and water came right back up as soon as they went down. Her hands began to cramp, signaling possible dehydration. Doggedly, she sipped from a water bottle and forced herself to put on the same dress pants from the day before but with a different top. She couldn’t simply stay home because she felt bad. She had a business to run...a business that would soon support three tiny infants.

      Driving was doable, but only because she never pushed the speedometer over thirty miles an hour. When she reached her office, the receptionist, Candace, gave her a wide-eyed stare. Simone didn’t engage. She made a beeline for her private suite, closed the door and put her head on the desk. The sharp corner of a business card poked her stomach through her pocket.

      She pulled the rectangle out and laid it on the desk. Hutch. Dr. Hutch. Saint Hutch. It would be a cold day in hell before she called him for anything.

      With nothing more than dogged determination and the inherent stubbornness that got her into trouble more often than not, she made it through an entire workday. The campaign for Luna Fine Furnishings, a subsidiary of Cecelia’s company, To the Moon, was coming along nicely. Phase one had already been rolled out. In two weeks, an intensive social media blitz would back up the initial print ads and billboards.

      The noon lunch hour came and went. Simone didn’t even attempt to eat. At five o’clock, she closed her laptop, packed up her things and took a deep breath before heading out to her car. Once there, she had to spend another chunk of time convincing herself she could make the drive home. She was shaky, light-headed and so very sick.

      She must have dozed when she got home, because suddenly it was seven o’clock. Naomi would bring her food if she called, but then Simone would have to explain what was going on. Even if it was time to share her secret with her friends, she’d rather do it with both women present.

      Carryout pizza sounded revolting. Canvassing the pantry in her kitchen was an exercise in futility. She knew how to cook but seldom spared the time. Most days she had lunch with clients and grabbed a salad for dinner.

      In the end, the only available choice was peanut butter. That was protein—right? Even her crackers were stale. But smeared with peanut butter, they were edible. At first, Simone thought she had landed on a miracle. The peanut butter was comfort food, its smell and taste appealing.

      Sadly, no matter the enjoyment going down, everything she consumed came back up in a matter of minutes.

      The night passed slowly. She alternated between lying on top of the covers covered in a cold sweat and hunching over the toilet. No matter how slowly she sipped water, it wouldn’t stay down. Nor would anything else.

      Once she almost fell, so dizzy the room spun around her. Finally, at 4:00 a.m., she collapsed into an exhausted slumber.

      When her alarm went off, she muttered an incredulous protest. How did working mothers do this?

      Dragging herself into the shower, she held on to the towel bar as she washed her hair. Blow-drying it took