Not Quite Married. Christine Rimmer

Astrid and me. We’re cordial. And we’re civil with each other and when she wants help with one of her causes, I do what I can.”

      She knew it was petty of her, but she couldn’t resist remarking, “And if I believe that, maybe you’ve got a bridge you want to sell me?”

      He regarded her, those laser-blue eyes boring twin holes right through her. “You think I’m lying to you? You think I would come here and ask you to marry me if I was already married?”

      Okay, maybe he had a teeny-weeny point there. She tried to dial it back a notch. “You didn’t exactly ask me, Dalton. You told me.” It came out sounding plaintive and she couldn’t decide which was worse: being a raving bitch or coming off as pitiful.

      He demanded, “Do you think I’m lying to you?”

      “I...” She gave up all pretense of angry defiance, dropping her arms away from her body, letting out a low, sad sigh. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything—not about you. Not really. On the island, you were...like someone else entirely, completely different from how you are now. It’s very disorienting.”

      He looked almost stricken. For about half a second. But then his jaw hardened again and his eyes narrowed. “I think you should call Astrid and ask her if there’s anything going on between her and me.”

      Her mouth dropped open. “Excuse me. Did you just say I should call your ex-wife?”

      “That is exactly what I said.”

      “Not. Going. To. Happen.”

      “Why not? Afraid to find out I’m not a lying, cheating would-be bigamist, after all?”

      “Of course not.”

      “Then you will call Astrid.”

      “Hello. Are you there, Dalton?”

      “That’s a ridiculous question.”

      “Just trying to be absolutely sure you can hear me.”

      “Of course I can hear you.”

      “Good. The last thing I’m up for is a little chat with your wife.”

      “Ex-wife,” he curtly clarified. And then he lifted a hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. Was he getting a headache? She certainly was. “All right,” he said. “This has not gone well. I need to regroup and come up with another plan to get through to you.”

      “Get through to me about what? Because, honestly, Dalton. Two strangers getting married is not any kind of viable solution to anything.”

      “We’ve lost months because you read something on the internet and jumped to conclusions.”

      “Don’t forget that you put a detective on me.”

      “...And learned that you were getting married.”

      “But I didn’t get married.”

      “Which I didn’t find out until Tuesday when you finally came and talked to me. The heart of the matter is you should have come to me earlier.”

      She clucked her tongue. “Fascinating analysis of the situation. Also totally unfair. Why would I want to come to you? You made it way clear on the island that you were done with me.”

      “I wasn’t done with you.”

      “It certainly sounded like it to me.”

      He pinched the bridge of his nose again. “It was different on the island. I was different.”

      “I’ll say.”

      “I didn’t want to ruin something beautiful and I was afraid that if we continued when we returned home, it would all go to hell.”

      “So you’re saying that on the island you were pretending to be someone you’re not.”

      “No, I’m...” He stopped himself, glanced away, and then said, way too quietly, “By God. You are the most infuriating woman.”

      She started to feel a little bit bad about then. In his own overbearing way, he really was trying. And she wasn’t helping. Because he had hurt her and she just couldn’t trust him. And his proposal of marriage had actually tempted her—at the same time as it had made her want to beat him about the head and shoulders with a large, blunt object. As she tried to think of something to say that might get them on a better footing with each other, he pulled a phone from his pocket and poked at it repeatedly. Her cell, on the coffee table, pinged.

      He put his phone away. “I’ve texted you her number.”

      “Her, who?”

      “Astrid. You have her number now. You can call her and she’ll be happy to tell you that she and I have no plans to remarry, that we are amicably and permanently divorced, that we are not dating or in any way romantically or sexually involved with each other.”

      Now Clara was the one pinching the bridge of her nose. “I don’t need your ex-wife’s number.”

      “I mean it. Call her. And once you’ve talked to her, call me. Because you and I are not done yet. Not by a long shot. Good night, Clara.”

      And with that, he turned on his heel, crossed the great room, went through the kitchen and disappeared from sight. A moment later, she heard the front door open and close.

      That motivated her.

      Even hugely pregnant, Clara could move fast when she wanted to. She zipped through the kitchen and straight to the window in the dining room that looked out on her porch and front yard. She got there just in time to see him duck into the backseat of a limo.

      A moment later, the limo slid away from the curb and drove off down the street.

      “Astrid.” She scowled. “No way am I calling Astrid.”

      * * *

      And she didn’t call Astrid.

      But in the days that followed, she did think about Dalton a lot. She felt guilty, actually, for the way she’d behaved that night—so bitchy and angry, ready for a fight.

      The hard truth was she still had that thing for him—for both of him, actually. The wonderful man she’d known on the island. And the sexy stuffed shirt who’d shown up at her door out of nowhere with a ring in his pocket and the arrogant assumption that she would pack up her life and move to Denver because he told her to.

      She needed to buck up and deal, to reach out to him again, and do a better job of it this time. In the end, he was her baby’s father and she had a duty to do what she could to encourage some kind of a coparenting relationship with him.

      However, she didn’t deal. She put it off, just as she’d put off telling him about the baby in the first place. Every day that passed, she had less respect for herself and her own behavior.

      That Sunday night, Ryan dropped by with a pizza from Romano’s, that great Italian place across the street from the bar he owned and ran. She got him a beer and they shared the pie and he told her about the new woman in his life, a gorgeous redhead with a great sense of humor. Clara said she couldn’t wait to meet her.

      Ryan, who was tall and broad-shouldered with beautiful forest-green eyes and thick brown hair, gave her his killer smile. “Yeah, we’ll have to set something up...”

      She knew by the way his voice trailed off that the redhead wouldn’t be around for long, which made her a little bit sad. Rye loved women. But he never stayed in a romantic relationship for very long.

      After they ate the pizza, he hung around for a couple of hours. They made small talk and played Super Mario Kart 8 and she kept thinking that now was a good time to tell him she’d finally contacted the father of her baby, a good time to explain that she’d gotten pregnant during her Caribbean getaway last summer, that the baby’s father was a banker who lived in Denver and had proposed