To Keep Her Baby. Melissa Senate

at him to see if he was kidding. Which he was. He kept his poker face, and she waved her hand in the air. “Oh God, if that’s my biggest crime, I’m doing all right.”

      Larilla smiled. “Well, James, thank you very much. I have what I need. And, Ginger, I’ll see you at 9:00 a.m. sharp for our first session.”

      Ginger suddenly put her hands on her stomach, and her eyes widened.

      Why was she doing that? He stepped a bit closer. “Are you all right? Dinner didn’t agree with you?”

      “Are you kidding?” she said on a breath. “Filet mignon with roast potatoes always agrees with me. Like I ever have that.”

      “Then what’s wrong?” he asked.

      Ginger bit her lip and looked from him to Larilla and back to him. “I just felt that weird tightening sensation in my belly again. According to Dr. Google, it’s normal when you’re pregnant.”

      “Pregnant?” He stared from Ginger to Larilla.

      “Ginger is in the family way,” Larilla said. “She’s due in December.”

      “If I counted right,” Ginger added. “I’ve never been great at math.”

      “What did the doctor tell you?” he asked.

      “What doctor? I just found out I was pregnant two days ago.”

      “I’ll ask around for recommendations for an ob-gyn,” Larilla said. “You’ll need a checkup and prenatal vitamins.”

      Now it was becoming even clearer why Larilla would call him to help assess. Not only was Ginger the furthest thing from his type, not that he had one, but she was pregnant.

      He was leaving town to get away from “fatherhood.” The last thing he’d ever walk toward was more of that responsibility.

      In fact, he felt a little better that now he could help out Larilla with this pupil. Buffalo would fly before James Gallagher fell for Ginger O’Leary.

       Chapter Two

      You’ve got to be kidding me, Ginger thought, eyeing the packet of homework that Madame Davenport had assigned the three new students as they were dismissed from the group class the next afternoon. Ginger had barely managed to graduate from high school—though she did always get As in history—because she hated homework. Homework had reminded her of school, which had reminded her of how she was treated there. Let’s just say her name and nasty sayings were always written on the bathroom walls, even when half of it wasn’t true. Boys had claimed she’d done all kinds of sex acts, and girls had scrawled that she had every disease there was. For the record, the only disease Ginger had ever had was the mumps in third grade.

      The morning class at Madame Davenport’s School of Etiquette had been on “comportment,” which Ginger had learned was a big word for behavior. How to act. How to be. The three new students had to stand up and share why they were taking the course, and Ginger had been honest again. Her fellow students had immediately warmed to her, which was rare in her world. One, a petite redhead named Karly, told her she should have thrown the scone at her baby daddy’s nose and broken it. The other, Sandrine, a dental hygienist with great teeth, was madly in love with her boss, who had a specific type—Ginger had learned what a debutante was—and Sandrine wanted to become it.

      “Comportment means that one doesn’t throw baked goods at others,” Ginger had said with her nose in the air.

      They’d all burst out laughing, except Madame Davenport, who’d said, “One most certainly does not.” But Madame had a twinkle in her eye, as always.

      Crazy. Sometimes women took to Ginger and sometimes they didn’t. She was glad her teacher and classmates seemed to like her because she liked them. Being liked was nice.

      For homework, she had to write a one-page essay on the five no-no’s of first meetings and why “one did not discuss these five topics”: money, sex, politics, religion and appearance. Per Madame, one could pay a compliment but not be critical of how someone was dressed or their shape.

      Madame Davenport wanted the students to look the part of the people they wanted to become, so a shopping trip was on the schedule. Madame had already taken Karly, whose goal for the course was to get promoted to assistant editor of the Wedlock Creek Gazette, where she was the assistant to two editors. You have to dress for the job you want, not the job you have, Karly had said she’d read in Glamour magazine, and Madame Davenport agreed. Karly had returned from their trip to a boutique wearing a pantsuit that managed to be professional looking but not stuffy.

      Now it was Ginger’s turn. She wanted to look like a mother, but did she even know what mothers looked like? None of her friends back in Jackson had kids. And her hours had always meant she slept during the day and worked till the wee hours, so she wasn’t exactly running into the stroller set. Madame Davenport had told her not to worry; they would look at magazines and the clothes in the boutique and try on different looks until Ginger liked what she saw.

      Madame Davenport made it all sound so easy, which was why Ginger already adored her.

      She made sure she was three minutes early for the 1:00 p.m. shopping trip, but when she came downstairs from her room—which was awesome, by the way—Madame was nowhere to be seen. One o’clock came and went. No Madame Davenport. And according to their private lesson this morning, being on time was paramount—a new word for Ginger.

      Then suddenly the front door opened and there he was.

      Serious hawtness in the flesh. James Gallagher. Whoo, someone bring me a fan. He wasn’t in a suit today, probably because it was Sunday. He wore a long-sleeved button-down shirt and dark jeans, and she could barely drag her gaze off his biceps. My oh my, was he built. Look up, Ging, she told herself, treated to those blue eyes and sooty dark lashes, strong brows to match his straight nose. And those lips. Ooh, those lips.

      One doesn’t comment on appearance except to pay a compliment... “Looking fine, Gallagher,” she said, practically licking her lips.

      He chuckled, surprise in his expression. Come on, the man was super hot. Surely he knew. Hot men always did. Then again, he was sort of “buttoned-up,” and those types tended not to know they were total Hemsworths.

      “Did Larilla get in touch with you?” he asked. “She texted me that she wasn’t feeling well and asked if I’d accompany you on the shopping trip. Normally one of my sisters would, but they’re out of town until tonight visiting my brother at the ranch he works on.”

      “You’re up on the ‘mom’ look?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

      “I used to help out Larilla a lot,” he said. “I know all the ‘looks’—the mom, VP, meeting the wealthy parents, be taken more seriously and every other look the students are trying to achieve.”

      She shrugged. “Huh. Well, in that case, hot stuff, let’s go.” He turned to open the door, letting her walk through first, naturally. “Am I supposed to take your arm? They do that in movies.”

      “Moms don’t have to take arms. They have their hands full, literally and figuratively.”

      She tilted her head. “Say what?”

      “No need to take my arm. We’re not headed into the opera or a ball.”

      “Oh.” But what if I want to? she almost said.

      They headed down the sidewalk, passing big, beautiful houses like the etiquette school. Ginger could see Main Street up ahead. The Wedlock Creek Library was visible from where they were, and she could smell yummy bakery scents coming from the café she’d stopped in yesterday. She’d walked around for about an hour after being accepted into the school. She’d have explored more, but she got quickly tired of the gapes from strangers. They’re