The Pregnancy Negotiation. Kristi Gold

waste.

      “Where are you going, Whit?”

      He glanced at Mallory, who was still seated on the couch, choking the pillow even tighter. “I’m going for a run. And while I’m gone, do me a favor. Return to your mother ship and send the real Mallory back home.”

      She rolled her eyes and plopped the pillow into her lap. “This is so typical.”

      He stood and frowned again. “Typical? Nothing about this whole conversation is typical, at least not in this dimension.”

      She tossed the pillow aside, came to her feet and shortened the distance between them with two strides. “Not the baby thing. The way you’re always running away. That’s typical.”

      Typical Mallory. She was nothing if not a straight shooter, even if she wasn’t always right. “I’m about to run, but not away.” Okay, so this time she was right.

      She propped both hands on her hips. “Yes, you are. Just like you’ve been running away from starting your own business because you can’t stand up to your father. Do you ever do anything you want to do without his permission? Maybe that’s the reason you won’t even consider this. You know he wouldn’t approve.”

      Damn her insight. And damn him for being more open with her than he had with any woman in his past. “I’m designing top-rate buildings, and I’m getting richer by the minute. Nothing wrong with that.”

      “But you’re not happy about it because you want to build houses. You said so yourself.”

      Right again. “And you think having a baby with a man like me would make you happy? A man with a commitment allergy? You said that yourself.”

      She looked as frustrated as Whit felt. “I’m not asking you to marry me, for heaven’s sake. I just want to have a baby. Then you can go your way, and I’ll go mine. No complications.”

      “No strings attached, huh? I’m supposed to just walk away from my child and let you play single mom.” That he couldn’t do, even though his own mother had walked away.

      “No, that’s not what I want. You should be involved. And considering what I see day in and day out, bitter custody battles and divorces and kids used as pawns, I know we can bypass all of that because we’re good friends. Neither one of us would let our child suffer through that BS.”

      Man, she had totally lost it. And Whit was about to lose it, too. Big-time. “Forget it. It ain’t gonna happen.”

      She gave him a pleading look. “Just think about it, Whit. You could be my only hope.”

      Before Whit did something he might regret, like actually agree to this unbelievable scheme, he tore out the front door and slammed it behind him. He opted to ignore the elevator and sprinted down nine flights of stairs and rushed out of the exit leading to the street. He continued down the sidewalk at a fast clip, dodging the crush of Sunday strollers pushing baby carriages. Once he reached the nearby park, he navigated past the patrons enjoying Mayfest activities and made his way to his favorite jogging path along the bayou. He went into a dead run, all the while thinking his roommate had taken leave of her senses—and imagining what it would be like to have a baby with Mallory. Correction. What it would be like to make a baby with Mallory.

      Whit pulled up dead in his tracks and swiped a hand over his forehead, the afternoon sun bearing down on his already overheated body. He wasn’t ready to father a child. In fact, he’d always been extremely careful in his relationships—and there had been more than a few—to avoid that very thing. Even if he were ready, he sure as hell wouldn’t walk away from his own kid, despite that Mallory would make a great mother. Regardless of the fact that his father had told him more times than he could count that he wasn’t responsible in his personal life. Like Whitfield the third had room to talk, with three marriages under his belt.

      But wouldn’t his dad have to eat his words if Whit did agree to Mallory’s plan? Wouldn’t that just be a damn sight to see when Whit dropped that bomb?

      He shook his head to clear away that concept, but he couldn’t quite shake the fantasy of making love with his roommate. No can do. If he laid one hand on Mallory, her brother would torture him first and ask questions later.

      He needed to run a couple of miles. Maybe then he would be too damn tired to act on impulse before weighing the consequences. Maybe when he returned, Mallory would tell him it had all been a bad joke. And maybe when he walked into work tomorrow morning, he would discover his father was retiring, giving Whit the freedom he craved.

      Not very likely any of those things would happen, so he turned around and headed back home to talk it over with his roommate like an adult. But he still couldn’t escape the images of making love with her, or ignore the desperation he’d seen in her eyes and heard in her voice during her final comment before his speedy exit.

      You could be my only hope.

      He had to know why. And he had to know now. As soon as he ran just a little more.

      She shouldn’t have blurted it out that way. But to Mallory it had seemed the only way to handle it. Upfront and straightforward.

      When she wanted something badly enough, she pulled out all the stops to get it—namely, achieving the position of associate in her prestigious law firm, which she’d managed much quicker than most. After living with five older brothers, she’d learned to fight for what she wanted.

      Now she wanted Whit Manning, the perfect father candidate—six feet three inches of a prime tribute to testosterone. He had a great body, a good sense of humor, dark chocolate eyes like her mom’s and an inherent compassion that he often tried to hide with machismo. Most important, he had a brain and extreme talent as an architect.

      He was also a player, known for his talents with the ladies, or so her brother Logan had told her time and again, dating back to the days when Whit was a fixture in their home during high school. But when she’d decided to relocate closer to her office to avoid the forty-minute commute, Logan had trusted Whit enough to suggest Mallory move in with Whit until she found her own place. Of course, that had been four months ago, and she was still living with him in the expensive downtown Houston loft he’d received from his dad as a graduation gift upon obtaining his master’s degree. An exclusive two-story corner apartment—over two-thousand square feet of prime upscale property situated in a restored building with a rooftop pool and an unparalleled view of the city from myriad windows spanning the length of the living room walls.

      The arrangement had worked out amazingly well, better than Mallory had expected. Whit hadn’t pressured her to find her own apartment, and she had stopped searching about three weeks ago when she couldn’t locate anything convenient to work. At least anything she could afford—yet. Eventually she would need to find someplace else, maybe a nice little house in the ‘burbs. Something suitable for a child. And she would have that child—if Whit Manning cooperated. If Whit Manning ever came home again.

      Mallory had almost given up on that happening when the door opened and Whit walked in, looking way too sexy for a man who needed a shower in the worst way. His dark hair clung to his nape, and sweat had left a fine sheen across his forehead. His dampened white T-shirt shirt molded to his broad chest, leaving no room for doubt that the man worked out often. Mallory’s neglected hormones received a vigorous workout when Whit crossed the room and dropped down in the chair opposite the sofa where she sat, cotton balls stuffed between her half-painted toenails, and her brain stuffed with some fairly wicked thoughts.

      Stopping midpedicure, Mallory tightened the top on the polish and set the bottle on a tissue on the chrome end table. “Well?”

      He raked a long glance down her body and centered his gaze on her toes. “Hot pink looks good on you. Makes your feet look sexy.”

      Mallory wanted to laugh over that one considering her feet were much too big—size ten. “I’m not asking advice about nail polish. I want to know if you’ve thought any more about my proposal.”

      He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his thighs