Not Quite Married

“Not to me.” She wrapped her arms around her belly and her precious unborn child. “I don’t care what he does. He’s nothing to me.”

“Clara—”

“No. No, don’t do that, Rory. Don’t look at me like that, all tender and patient and sorry for me. I don’t need anyone feeling sorry for me. I’m fine.”

“I know you are. Darling, I love you and I can see how hard this has been—how hard this is for you, that’s all.”

Clara let out a moan. “Oh, Rory...”

“Come here. Come on.”

So Clara sagged against her cousin again. And Rory held her close and stroked her hair and whispered that it was going to be all right. Clara cried a little. And Rory dried her tears.

And Clara said, “I’ll probably never see the guy again, you know? And that’s okay. I can live with that. I don’t like it. It’s a long way from my fantasy of how things would go. It’s just...what it is. I’m having my baby and we’re going to be a family, the two of us. I have a whole lot to be thankful for in this life, people I can count on, people who have my back, a successful business and a beautiful home. I may not have a man to stand beside me. But I have everything else, and that’s plenty for me. I’ve done what I needed to do, told Dalton Ames about the baby. And now I’m going to buck the hell up and get on with my life.”

Rory left an hour later.

Clara went to bed and slept the whole night without waking up once. She felt...better. Calmer. More able to cope. She’d done what she needed to do; then she’d shared the whole long, sad story with someone she trusted, and she’d had a good cry over it.

Now, at last, she could move on.

Two days later, Dalton Ames knocked on her door.

Chapter Two (#ulink_0089c28c-51e7-59f0-8030-79933640c4ca)

It was a busy day at the café, with every table taken and customers lined up to get a seat.

The lunch rush went on and on. They turned the place over four times before things started easing off. Between eleven and three, Clara never sat down once. It was exhausting, especially in her pregnant state. Also, fabulous. More proof that the Library Café was a bona fide success.

After the rush, she had meetings with salespeople, scheduling and ordering to deal with, followed by a trip to the bank. It was almost six when she finally walked in her front door.

She headed straight for the shower, shedding clothes as she went. Twenty minutes later, barefoot in her softest, roomiest lounge pants and a giant pink shirt with Mama Needs Ice Cream printed across the front, she had a light dinner. Then she stretched out on the sofa to veg out with a little mindless television.

Her head had just hit the sofa pillow and she was pointing the remote at the flat-screen over the fireplace when the doorbell rang.

What now? She wasn’t expecting anyone, and her tired, pregnant body had zero desire to get up from the comfy sofa and walk all the way to front of the house.

However, she just happened to be one of those people who answered phones and doorbells automatically. It could be something important and you might as well deal with it now as later. So she put down the remote, dragged herself to her feet again, shuffled to the front door and pulled it wide.

And there he was. Dalton. As tall, dark and wonderful to look at as ever. In a suit even more beautiful and pricey-looking than the one he’d been wearing two days before.

Her hopeless heart gave a leap of ridiculous, giddy joy just at the sight of him. The rotten SOB.

He said, “Hello, Clara.” And those eyes, which were a deep crystal blue surely not found in nature, swept from the top of her head down over her giant pink shirt all the way to her bare feet—and back up again.

And she said, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“May I come in?” Stiff. Cool. So completely unlike the man she’d once been idiot enough to think she loved. “We need to talk.”

Oh, did they? She braced a shoulder against the doorframe and folded her arms on top of her baby bump. “About what, exactly?”

He looked vaguely pained. “Not on your doorstep. Please.” It came out more like a command than a request.

She stayed right where she was and just stared at him for a long, hostile moment. “I thought I gave you all my phone numbers.”

“You did.”

“Then why didn’t you call? A little fair warning isn’t that much to ask.”

“I apologize.”

“You don’t sound sorry in the least.”

The blue gaze swept over her again, rousing a thoroughly uncalled-for shiver of excitement. “Let me in, Clara.”

Oh, she was so tempted to shut the door in his face. Because she was tired and her feet hurt and there was a really good tearjerker on Lifetime.

She didn’t want to deal with this. Not now.

Not ever, really.

But she and the stranger on her front porch had made a baby together. And the baby trumped everything: including her burning desire never to have to see his face again.

With elaborate disinterest, she dropped her crossed arms and stepped away from the door. “By all means. Come on in.”

Giving her no opportunity to change her mind, he stepped right over the threshold and into her private space. She blinked and looked up at him and couldn’t believe this was happening.

“Nice house,” he said, his fine lips curling upward a fraction at the corners.

“Thanks. This way.” She took him through her formal dining room to the combination kitchen, breakfast nook and great room at the back. Stopping at the long kitchen island, she turned to him. “Do you want coffee or something?”

“No, thanks.”

“Well, all right, then. Have a seat.” She gestured at the sitting area across the room.

He went on past her, all the way to the wing chair next to the sofa, but he didn’t sit down. For a moment, she hovered there at the end of the island, reluctant to get closer to him.

Dread curled through her. He wore the strangest look on his face, and a great stillness seemed to surround him. The moment felt huge, suddenly.

What in the world did he plan to say to her? Something awful, probably, judging by the seriousness and intensity of his expression.

Reluctantly, she approached him. He simply waited, watching her come.

She stopped a couple of feet from him. “Aren’t you...going to sit down?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t sit. Instead he reached for her hand.

The move surprised her enough that she didn’t jerk away. His fingers closed over hers, warm. Firm. So well remembered. Tears scalded the back of her throat. She pressed her lips together and swallowed them down. “What?”