Playboys' Christmas Surprises: A Christmas Baby Surprise

When she’d caught up to her mother-in-law, Courtney glanced over her shoulder on her way down the steps. “I’ve never seen you draw before. You know, you get the same look on your face as Porter does when he is working on a building design.”

“I do?”

She nodded, clasping the polished steel railing. “Porter’s always been a hands-on guy. Started back in middle school. He was always building things. Once, he built a table for me for Christmas. He was sixteen then. Said he’d loved the sweat equity of the project. The ability to create something from nothing. I guess that’s a bit like art, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it’s actually a similar process. Built not bought. I think that’s why this house feels foreign to me. It’s cookie cutter decor in a lot of ways other than some of the artwork. I’ll take some imperfections in my decorations if it’s coming from scratch.”

“You sound like him. When he built that table, I think that’s when he decided he didn’t need me anymore.” Courtney gave a slight laugh. But the sound was tinged with sadness.

They turned the corner into the kitchen and sat on the bar stools facing a view of the water, where a holiday boat parade was organizing. Festively decorated boats of all sizes congregated. A blow-up Santa in a bathing suit sat on the deck of one, but most of the vessels were outfitted more simply with green garland boughs.

“I’m sure he still needed you then. You helped shape him into the person he is today.” A person she was still trying to understand. To relearn.

Her mother-in-law’s eyebrows arched as she popped two slices of bread in the toaster. “Sometimes I wonder. He’s built every house he’s lived in as an adult. Sometimes I’m surprised he didn’t build the yacht, too.”

Alaina said, “Whoa, wait. We own one of those yachts?”

“You do. Usually my son has me stay out there rather than in the house, which, quite frankly, is an amazing spin on a mother-in-law suite. But still. We’ve always had troubles, my son and I.”

Her mother-in-law straightened the rings on her fingers before she continued. “You know, I was madly in love with Porter’s father. I was young—and the whole world seemed open to me when we were together. But he had other dreams. Other desires. He left shortly after Porter was born.”

“I’m sure that was difficult. Raising Porter alone and working so much.”

“Would you like the truth, Alaina? I was—and still am—brilliant in the courtroom. I can dissect a case like nobody’s business. But motherhood? That never came to me. Not like it does to you.”

Alaina nodded sympathetically, but didn’t say anything. She knew Courtney had her quirks, but she never doubted that the woman loved her son. Family was just complicated. Alaina felt as if she knew that better than anyone. Funny what a few weeks in a coma had done for her perspective.

Porter was a man whom she was only just beginning to understand. But the tension between her husband and mother-in-law was starting to make sense to her. Courtney was all about buying premade items. It’s why she’d insisted on the night nurse tending to Thomas.

But Porter—Porter was a man intent on creation. On actively building. He’d built a construction empire the same way he’d built that table. To prove he could take scraps and turn them into something usable. He’d built his life from the ground up, even though he could have easily used his mother’s fortune. He hadn’t backed down from the work it required.

And what about her? Alaina had spent the past two weeks in the haze of amnesia. Afraid of what she’d find if she pressed too hard. But Porter was aware of their history. Aware of their struggles. And he was still dedicated to their family. Maybe she needed to become aware, too.

And that meant digging around in the dirt a bit. And possibly talking to Sage.

As Alaina poured two cups of coffee in holiday mugs painted with angels, she made up her mind. Today was a day for exploring. And she would start with all the pieces of her past—even the uncomfortable ones. The time had come to reconstruct her life.

Starting with finding out more about how and why they’d purchased that yacht when she could have sworn such flashy purchases weren’t her style.

Eight (#ua6f07b32-bd1d-5b7d-b03a-32b3c2e9b10a)

Porter was still stunned over Alaina suggesting they go out to the yacht. He couldn’t recall her ever suggesting that. In fact, the eighty-foot Sunseeker had been a contentious issue between them since he’d bought it two years ago. But he wasn’t turning his back on the chance to get closer to her.

In the past, she’d always hated the vessel. Said it was too showy. Too flashy. It screamed their wealth, and that bothered her down to the core.

But Porter had never felt that way about the purchase. To him, it represented freedom. A chance to leave the world behind. To be completely untethered from the responsibilities of work and reliant on himself. And yes, he’d hoped it would offer them more time to relax together, bring them closer as their marriage began to fray.

The Florida winter sun warmed him. The captain had dropped anchor and gone into town about a half hour ago. The luxury craft happily rocked with the waves and the current, other boats far enough away to give him and Alaina a sense of privacy he welcomed. Water lapped against the sides and a healthy breeze coated the deck. They’d intended to take Thomas with them, but his mother had offered to watch him. She had even insisted. Though they did hire a backup sitter for all the tasks Courtney was not enthusiastic about performing.

He’d come out of the cabin with two bottles of water. One for him and one for Alaina.

Every day he was feeling closer to her, closer than he could remember feeling before. They were building something, a new connection. And since last night he felt a change between them. Something that had been missing for a long time before the accident.

He took a moment to appreciate her. Just the way she was in this moment. She’d dressed in layered tank tops and leggings, flip-flops half on, half off. She was sprawled on the white cushioned deck chair. Hunched over a pad, sketching furiously. The wind teased her blond hair. She was beautiful.

“May I see your drawings?”

She sketched with charcoal, not looking up. “Are you sure you want to look? There are ones of you in here.”

“Did you draw me as a gargoyle? Or a cyclops?” he asked, lounging back in a deck chair and propping his foot on the bolted down table between the seating.

She glanced up. “Why would I do that?”

“Since we talked about our past arguments.”

Fish plopped in the brief silence before she answered, “You’ve been nothing but understanding and patient with me, with this whole situation. No matter what else happens, I won’t forget that.”

“Whatever else happens?” Trepidation kinked the muscles in his neck.

“If you get tired of having an amnesiac wife.”

“I could never get tired of you.”

Her cheeks flushed pink as she glanced at him through her eyelashes. His mind swirled, thinking of last night. Of her body pressed against his and the scent of her coconut shampoo. And how he’d wanted so much more than to just sleep next to her.

How he still wanted that.

She seemed to read his thoughts, her blush fading. Awareness flitted across her face. An expression that almost looked like longing.

The sound of another fish jumping out of the water brought them back to reality. He shook his head.

She passed over the pad of drawings. “Here. Feel free to look.”

She tucked her hair behind her ear and chewed her nail as he flipped through the book.

There were pages upon pages of sketches. Some scenes of the beach house. Some of boats in the harbor. Thomas in a Santa hat.

All so damn good, the details grabbing his heart. “You’ve been busy.”

“I feel like there are thoughts needing to pour out. I don’t have to think or talk, just... Oh, I don’t know how to describe it other than to say it’s like meditation.”

He flipped to the next page. Half-finished drawings of him sleeping. She seemed to fixate on his face. Mostly his eyes. As if she was trying to figure out something about him. Her sketches were beautiful. Hyperrealistic. He’d forgotten how talented she was with charcoal and pencils.

The last sketch in the book sucked the air from his chest. It was a montage of images. Items of their joint past. Did she remember?

It was a scene of a room. On the desk, there was a globe with a cracked stand. A Moroccan rug on the ground. All souvenirs—all representing moments in their life together. If she didn’t know what these were, what did the drawings mean? Why had she stumbled onto these particular items? He couldn’t decide whether to tell her or not. What would be helpful?

Truth. As much as he could give her.