Expecting A Bolton Baby. Sarah M. Anderson

      Stella had felt warm and safe and loved. Very much loved.

      Then it had all gone away.

      She blinked away the memories of the cold years that had followed Claire’s death. Bobby was rummaging around in a rather large icebox. If he hadn’t been home for a week, what on earth did he have in there that would be edible? Just thinking about it made her delicate stomach turn.

      She backed out of the kitchen before any punishing scents could assault her nose. The morning sickness—a comical term if she’d ever heard one—had been manageable all day, unlike the day she’d flown out here. She’d spent all of Wednesday and most of Thursday in bed at the hotel, sipping ginger ale and nibbling dry toast.

      “Beg pardon, but where’s the loo?”

      His arms full, Bobby’s head popped up. “The what? Oh, yes. Sorry. Last door down the hall. Feel free to look around.”

      It’s not as if she would snoop, really. He had given her permission to at least open a door or two.

      So after she used the loo, she opened. One room had a pool table in it; another had a rather large telly and stadium seating. The third had a crisply made bed that was so large it had to be a California king.

      Did he have someone sleeping in it with him? Perhaps he was the sort of fellow who brought home a different girl every night. It was entirely possible, after all. All she really knew about him was that he was the sort of fellow who left a club and had sex in a car.

      When she walked back into the kitchen, the smell of food—eggs and cheese, bacon and veg—hit her. Suddenly, she was ravenous.

      Bobby stood at a small island, whisking something. He had a dish towel draped over one shoulder, a chopping board and a knife in front of him. She could see a stove with several pans heating behind him. He seemed completely at ease doing all of this—not fumbling about, as she might have expected.

      “Smells delicious.”

      His head popped up, a pleased smile on his face. “Veggie frittata and bacon.”

      “You...cook?” It wasn’t the most diplomatic statement, but perhaps they were past the point of diplomacy. “No offense.”

      “None taken.” His grin seemed heartfelt. “It doesn’t mesh with my image, does it?”

      “Not really.”

      “Promise me you won’t tell my brothers, okay? They don’t place a lot of value on cooking.”

      Ah, yes. The brothers. His show, The Bolton Biker Boys, was about the whole family. The press release she’d found said so. She didn’t watch telly much and hadn’t looked him up on YouTube—couldn’t bear to watch her father’s shows and know that he’d spent more time on them than he had with her. “Then how did you pick it up?”

      “I spent more time with Mom,” he replied, checking on a pan. He flipped something—peppers?—before continuing. “Billy’s eight years older than me, Ben’s five. They were always off doing their own thing while I was still in grade school. Mom would pick me up from school, then we’d head home and get dinner ready together.”

      Part of her chest started to hurt. The whole thing—a sweet mum to cook and talk with, to spend time with—that’s what she didn’t have. What she’d always wanted. “Do you still cook with her?”

      His back still to her, he froze. “She died. When I was eighteen.”

      “I was eight. When my mum passed.”

      The words escaped her lips before she quite knew she was saying them. She didn’t tell people about Claire. She’d long ago learned that talking about her mother was something not to be tolerated, as if speaking of her would sully her. Her father claimed it hurt too much. Maybe seeing Stella had made him hurt too much, too. Maybe that was why she rarely saw him at all. That had hurt almost as much as her mum’s death—being ignored by her father, foisted off to boarding schools and Mickey.

      She’d already pushed aside the hurt again—it was easy when one had as much practice as she had—but the next thing she knew, Bobby had set his bowl down, come around the island and wrapped her in a strong hug. The contact was so unexpected—so much—that Stella felt rooted to the spot. People didn’t usually touch her. Even Mickey just offered her his arm. Her father hadn’t touched her in years. Decades. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been touched like this.

      No, she took that back. She could remember. Bobby was the last person who’d put his arms around her. The last person to hold her. As if she meant something to him.

      “I’m sorry,” he murmured into her hair, his hands pressed firmly against her back. “That must have been really hard on you.”

      Her throat closed up, pushing Stella toward tears. Where the bloody hell was all this emotion coming from?

      Ah, yes. Hormones. She was pregnant, after all.

      “Thank you,” she managed to say without bawling.

      After a small squeeze, Bobby leaned back. “You okay?”

      “Fine, yes.”

      She managed to push the sorrow back down. What she needed to do here was focus not on the unchangeable past, but the very changeable future. She was pregnant. She’d do anything to make sure her child didn’t suffer the same joyless fate she had.

      Bobby let go of her and turned back to the stove. Heavens, the food smelled delicious. Part of her wanted to just enjoy this moment. He was making her dinner. He’d comforted her when she’d gotten upset. Wouldn’t it be lovely if this were something she could look forward to on a regular basis? Wouldn’t having someone to rely on—someone besides Mickey, that was—be just...wonderful?

      It was a shame it wasn’t going to happen, Stella thought as Bobby flipped slices of bacon. He was being delightful now because it was a wise business maneuver. In no way, shape or form was this an indicator of things to come, no matter how nice it was. She hadn’t come for a husband. She’d come because it was the proper thing to do, to warn him. To give him a chance.

      That’s all she wanted for their baby. A chance.

      Quickly, Bobby had plated up slices of omelet and bacon and added buttery toast browned in the oven. “I don’t have any tea,” he said apologetically as the coffeepot brewed.

      “No worries. This smells amazing.”

      He carried the plates over to the table, setting them down next to each other. The table was empty, save for the picture frame she’d noticed when she’d first entered the flat, but he’d set the plates right next to each other, anyway. Close enough to touch, really. The proximity felt cozy.

      Then she saw the picture in the frame.

      Three

      As Bobby set down the plates, the coffeemaker beeped. He hoped the coffee would be okay. His sister-in-law, Josey, hadn’t been able to touch the stuff when she’d been pregnant. The smell had bothered her.

      It wasn’t until he was carrying the cups to the table that he realized what Stella was doing.

      Holding the photo. Studying the photo.

      “This is...us,” she said in a voice so soft it was almost a whisper.

      Immediately, Bobby knew why Stella was here. It wasn’t just that she was pregnant, although that was a huge part of it. That one word was why she was here. To see if there were an us.

      Damn.

      If this were a normal negotiation, Bobby would do whatever it took to give Stella what she wanted. But...us?

      She hadn’t wanted an us. She’d made that blisteringly clear with her “don’t call me, I won’t call you” attitude. And once he knew who she was, he couldn’t really blame her. If David Caine were