About That Night (24 page)

Oh, no. She’d been so wrapped up in her discussion with Molly, she’d forgotten about Andrew and Kennedy. Sure enough, when she stepped into the room, Luke was glaring out the window.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was hoping you wouldn’t see that.”

He turned to her, his mouth a thin line, but she noticed there was hurt in his eyes along with the anger.

“It’s not your fault.” He glanced out the window again, then moved toward her, his shoulders rigid, his gait stiff. “I guess I’m going to have to get used to seeing them together.”

“It still sucks, though.”

He scrubbed a hand through his short hair. “Yeah.”

Her heart aching for him, she started to reach out, to do what came naturally when she was with someone in pain. Offer comfort. Give a hug. Be there for him.

And damn Andrew for making her hesitate, for making her doubt herself. For making her wonder if Luke wanted her hug or if he’d rebuff her.

Only one way to find out.

Inhaling deeply, she closed the distance between them, saw his eyes widen slightly, but then she was there, her arms around his lean waist, the top of her head barely reaching his chin. He immediately wrapped his arms around her. Lowered his head, his breath ruffling her hair.

She pressed her cheek to his chest, his heart a steady beat in her ear. “I know it’s a cliché, but it really will get better with time.”

He squeezed her and she felt him nod. Then he...well...it sounded as if he sniffed her hair. But then he straightened, and she told herself she’d imagined it. “Thanks. I’m okay. But do you mind if we go out through the garage?”

She knew why he asked. The garage was on the other side of the house. Far from any view of Andrew and Kennedy. What she didn’t know was if Luke wanted to avoid them so he wouldn’t have to see them together.

Or so they wouldn’t see him with her.

No. She was giving him the benefit of the doubt, remember?

“Sure. Come on,” she said, doing what she’d do with any other friend and taking his hand. Tugging him along. “We’d better get going.”

He held on even after he could have let go. Yes, she thought as they went down the stairs. She was going to keep giving him the benefit of the doubt.

Until he gave her reason not to.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

C
.
J
. SHIFTED THE
bottle of champagne he was carrying to his left hand, which already held a dozen red roses. He knocked on Ivy’s door. Blew out a breath to calm his pulse. He was nervous. Like a teenager on his first date, waiting on the porch for the girl’s father to answer the door, carrying a shotgun.

He thought of the phone call he’d gotten yesterday. Holy hell, he could be one of those fathers in a few years.

He really, really hoped Ivy was right and the baby was a boy.

He knocked again. Her crappy car was in the parking lot, so he figured she was home—such as it was. The building itself wasn’t too bad, and it was in a nice part of town, residential, a few stores nearby. But it wasn’t exactly the place he’d imagined his child being raised.

He wouldn’t say anything about it to her, though. He wanted her to trust him. To think of him as a partner, not her enemy. He was making headway there, he thought. Extremely slow but steady progress. He’d had to go back to Houston for work the day after their dinner date, but he’d called her every night he’d been away to check in. To talk.

To hear the sound of her voice.

During their conversations, he hadn’t pushed. Had kept the topics neutral, the tone light, in an effort to get them back on even ground. He’d risked a setback with that good-night kiss when he’d walked her to her door last week, but he hadn’t been able to resist.

He wasn’t a man used to denying himself. When he wanted something, he went after it. And got it. Always. But pushing Ivy, going too fast only resulted in him running headfirst into those walls she had built around herself. Her sarcasm. Her cynicism.

He was floundering, he admitted, shifting in agitation. Struggling to find a balance between his physical attraction to her and his appreciation of her humor, intelligence and strength. Fighting to think rationally and control his feelings, only to have her muddle his thoughts, to reveal some new appealing aspect of herself.

He was about to knock again when she opened the door. She stunned him. Stole his breath, even with her hair pulled back, her face clean of makeup. Her snug peach tank top showcased her full breasts, the gray yoga pants molded the slight bump of her belly, which he found alternately alluring and terrifying as hell.

“You’re back,” she said, sounding less than thrilled.

“I’m back.” He cleared his throat. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” he said smoothly.

She eyed him warily. Would there ever be a time when she looked at him with trust? With affection? Or even with joy?

He could only hope.

“I was just finishing up my yoga routine.”

An image of her bending that amazing body of hers into certain...positions...slammed into him. He went instantly hard. Yeah. Just like a teenager.

“Is that safe for the baby?”

“I got the doctor’s approval. It’s good for the baby for me to exercise, and since yoga centers me, helps reduce my stress, the baby gets those benefits, too.” She frowned at the flowers and champagne in his hands. “Don’t tell me you just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

“Not exactly. Dr. Conrad called me yesterday. I got here as soon as I could.”

Ivy nodded, still blocking his entrance into her home. “Yes. She called me first, said she was going to let you know officially. That why you’re here? Because I’m in no mood right now to hash out a custody or support agreement.”

“I’m here to celebrate.”

She blinked several times. “Excuse me?”

He liked that he could fluster her. Not that it happened often, but when it did, it proved she wasn’t as immune to him as she’d like him to believe. As she probably preferred to believe herself.

“We’re having a baby, Ivy,” he said quietly. He held up the flowers and champagne. “That’s something worth celebrating.”

She studied him, her mouth pursed. He wished like hell he knew what she saw when she looked at him. What she thought.

“You’re right,” she finally said. “It is worth celebrating.” She made a slight bow, gestured grandly. “Please. Come on in.”

He stepped inside. A long, narrow living room opened into a small kitchen. An air conditioner in the window to his left hummed softly. A hallway to the right must lead to the bedroom and bathroom.

“I asked the doctor if it was okay for you to have champagne and she said a small glass wouldn’t hurt the baby,” he said. “But if you’d rather not take the chance, we can put it in the fridge. Open it after the baby is born.”

A small smile played on her lips. “I’m sure a sip or two won’t hurt the baby, as Dr. Conrad said. Besides, the baby’s not due until November. Who knows what could happen between now and then?”

He bristled but kept his voice calm. “What do you mean?”

“Just that a lot can change in five months.”

“You don’t trust me to be around at all when the baby’s born,” he murmured.

“I think you believe you will be. But good intentions have a way of falling by the wayside when real life intervenes. You have a job, a life in Houston. No one expects you to drop everything and run back to Shady Grove when I go into labor. No one expects you to change your life in any way once the baby is here.”

“No one?” he repeated softly. “Or you?”

Could she really have no expectations of him? Did she really think so little of him?

“Just because you have the proof you needed,” she said, crossing her arms, “doesn’t mean anything has to change. You can walk away now. I can raise this baby on my own.”

Don’t push. Do not push her.
But it was tough not to do just that, especially when he wanted to make her see that he wasn’t going anywhere. That he’d be there for her and their child—days, months and years from now. He wanted to demand she believe him.

Instead he had to earn that trust.

He edged closer until she had to tip her head back to maintain eye contact. “You’re right,” he said. “A lot can change in five months, and good intentions don’t mean anything without actions to back them up. I can’t force you to trust me just because I say you can. So I won’t try to convince you.”

Something like disappointment flashed across her face. “Can’t say I blame you for giving up, but I must admit I’m surprised you folded so easily.”

He grinned at how disgruntled she sounded. Try as she might to get him to believe she didn’t want him around, her tone said otherwise.

“I’m not giving up. But I won’t make promises, either.” Promises were useless. Given in the heat of the moment and too often broken. He brushed the back of his hand along her cheek, needing to touch her. “I’m going to prove myself to you. That enough fight for you?”

She swallowed and stepped back.

“I’ll put these in some water,” she said, taking the roses from him but avoiding his gaze.

She went into the kitchen, and he set the champagne on the coffee table. Rocked back on his heels as his smile slid away. She’d tried to take a few giant steps back from where they’d been last week by tossing out the reminder that she didn’t need him. That she didn’t necessarily want him in her or their child’s life.

But she hadn’t kicked him out. A small victory in and of itself.

He caught sight of a long-haired black cat draped across the back of the sofa, giving him a considering look. “A man has to celebrate even the tiniest wins. Especially where women are concerned.”

“Did you say something?” Ivy called.

“Just talking to your cat.”

She raised her eyebrows as she came back into the room, carrying two wineglasses. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for the type of man to chat up animals.”

“That’s because you don’t know me.” Hadn’t she said as much the last time they’d been face-to-face? He intended to change that. He opened the champagne almost as expertly as she had that night in his hotel room. “But you will.”

Their baby tied them together for the rest of their lives. There would be plenty of time for them to learn more about each other. He found himself looking forward to it.

“I like your apartment,” he continued as he poured champagne into the glasses she still held.

“Now, don’t ruin this special moment by telling lies, Clinton. My whole apartment could fit into that living room of yours back in Houston.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate what you’ve done with the space.”

It was warm and welcoming, done in soft greens and beige, the walls cream. He’d expected her home to be...darker. Decorated in glossy blacks and reds, with shiny fabrics and bold accents. Something that screamed seduction and power. Not a place that looked like a very comfortable home.

Guess he didn’t know her, either.

He raised his glass. Had to speak around the emotion tightening his throat. “To our child. May he or she be blessed with good health, my looks and your intelligence.”

Her lips twitched as if she was fighting a smile. “You sure you want your kid to be that much smarter than you? Think of the teen years.”

“I see your point. Better just toast to his or her health and leave the rest up to God.”

She raised her glass. “Sounds good to me. To our child.”

“To our child,” he repeated, “and to you. To my son or daughter’s beautiful mother.” He touched his glass to hers, his voice a husky whisper. “Thank you for carrying my child. For telling me I’m going to be a father. But most of all, thank you for giving me a second chance.”

She didn’t look as if she appreciated his compliment, as if she wanted his gratitude or his honesty. Skepticism twisted her mouth. She was still suspicious of him, of his motives. Frustration simmered in his veins. He wanted to call her out on her distrust, to insist she give him the chance he was fighting so damned hard for, but the confusion and fear in her eyes stopped him. Told him he wasn’t the only one trying to find their footing here.

Averting her gaze, she took a quick sip of champagne. Licking a drop off her lower lip, she hummed in appreciation, and he gulped his own drink to drown the groan that wanted to escape. “You rich and fabulous sure know how to pick a fancy wine.”

“We take a course on it in elementary school,” he told her straight-faced. “Wine selection is after How to Properly Order Caviar at a Five-Star Restaurant but before The Art of Looking Down on the Little People.”

She rolled her eyes, then laughed, a burst of sound that went through him. Warmed him. “Just when I think I have you pegged, you do or say something that takes me by surprise. Makes me rethink everything I thought I knew about you.”

Despite her laugh, he couldn’t tell if that was good or bad.

“Seems only fitting,” he said more gruffly than he’d intended, “seeing as how you’ve had me twisted up since the moment I first laid eyes on you.”

Her mouth worked for a moment before she pressed her lips together. Cleared her throat. “Well, anyway...thanks. For this—” she waved a hand at the wine, her words hesitant, her gaze averted “—the flowers and champagne and for...for wanting to celebrate the baby.”

“We’re having a child together, Ivy. It may not have been planned. It might not have happened the way we would have preferred, but I’m not going to blame the baby or resent him or her. I’m not going to pretend it’s a horrible thing when it’s not. It’s something worth celebrating.” He stepped closer, unable to resist the temptation of sliding his hand up her arm. Of rubbing a loose wave of her hair between his fingers. “Don’t you agree?”

“When you look at me like that,” she said, her tone knowing and just a bit breathless, “you’re not thinking about celebrating.”

“There are all sorts of celebrations,” he assured her as he set his glass on the table. He placed hers there, too, before wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her to him.

He expected her to stiffen and was gratified when she went soft, her hands on his chest. He lowered his head, but she was already there, on her toes, her hands sliding behind his neck. Their lips brushed. Parted. Then met again.