Playing by the Baby Rules

Marisa kicked off her sandals and sat down next to him, tossing her long, chestnut hair over her shoulder and tucking her knees under her chin. “Well, aren’t you going to say something?”

Lucy—sex. Right. He propped himself up on his elbows. “Um, I don’t know what to say.”

A deep crease set in the middle of Marisa’s brow—her disappointed face. Damn. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but, Lucy?

“Lucy is nice, and I know you two are good friends, but…” He shrugged. “She’s not really my type.”

“Lucy?” The crease in her brow deepened, and for a second she looked as confused as he was feeling, then she started to laugh. Her laugh was full and rich and musical—like a symphony. He loved making her laugh, seeing her happy. Though, it would have been nice to know why she was laughing.

“Feel like letting me in on the joke?”

“You think I want you to go out with Lucy?”

Now he was totally confused. “Don’t you?”

She laughed harder, her eyes overflowing with tears. “Don’t worry, Jake. Lucy doesn’t want to go out with you. She was speaking hypothetically.”

“Oh. Well, I’m flattered, I guess.” What he really wanted to know, but would never ask, was what did Marisa think? And why had they been talking about him in the first place? Would Marisa ever consider him…?

No. He dismissed the idea before it could evolve into something stronger, like hope. He’d learned not to hope for things that were never meant to be. Especially not that.

Everyone had a destiny, and for him, a family just wasn’t in the cards. He would hurt them, then he would have to spend the rest of his life regretting it. Maybe if things were different.

But things weren’t different. They never would be, and every now and then he had to remind himself of that.

Rolling onto his stomach, he opened the cooler and unpacked the sandwiches, potato chips and diet sodas he’d picked up at the deli on Fourth Street. “Chicken salad or tuna?”

“You know, you shouldn’t run around half-naked,” Marisa said, taking the chicken salad. “It’s embarrassing. You’re giving every female in the park a hot flash.”

He looked around, noticed several pairs of female eyes glued in his direction, then turned back to Marisa, who was picking onions off her sandwich and tossing them onto the grass. Not every female.

He reached over and tugged on the sleeve of her blouse, wondering how she didn’t melt in the blistering heat covered from head to toe in yards of fabric. For reasons he’d never understood, she hid her voluptuous curves behind loose draping clothes. “I’ll put some clothes on if you take some off.”

She gave him an eye roll. “You’re very funny.”

“I’m serious, Marisa. You have a nice figure. Why do you always keep it covered?”

“Trust me, if you looked like this, you’d keep it covered too.”

“You know, lots of men like voluptuous women.”

Do you like voluptuous women? The question balanced on the tip of her tongue, but she bit it back. One, because she knew he preferred his women tall, blond and waify—the antithesis to her own short, dark and curvy—and two, because it didn’t matter one way or the other. He was her best friend, her buddy. He didn’t find her attractive in that way.

“Maybe I just don’t like the kind of men who would like a woman like that,” she said. She knew exactly the kind of men who liked a woman like her—the kind who wanted only one thing from a voluptuous body. The kind of men her mother used to drag home from the bar. The kind of men who, when they tired of her mother, turned their attention to Marisa. A teenager. Though none had even tried anything physical, their leering eyes had been enough to make her feel violated and defiled. Dirty.

Maybe her mother could live that way, but Marisa knew she could never be that kind of woman—not for any reason.

Across the park, she heard the delighted squeals of children playing. She forced herself not to look, for fear that her heart would break. For her, there would be no meaningless sex with a stranger. She could never live with herself. She would have to accept that, until she could afford some artificial means of impregnation or foreign adoption, there would be no children in her life. And if she were never able to afford it, or it took too long, she would have to accept that motherhood for her wasn’t meant to be.

The possibility felt like a knife in her chest, and for a moment she thought for sure that her heart was breaking.

“Marisa? Hey, are you crying?”

Reaching up, she touched her cheek and was surprised to find that it was damp. What was wrong with her? Embarrassed, she sniffled and wiped her face with the back of her hand.

Jake sat up next to her. “God, I’m sorry. I was just kidding. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

“Jake, it wasn’t you. I’ve just got a lot on my mind today. You know, baby stuff.”

He smacked his forehead. “The fertility specialist. I completely forgot about your appointment. What did he say?”

“It’s not looking like it’s going to happen anytime soon. If ever.” Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks and she brushed them away, forcing a smile. “Just ignore me.”

Jake had learned from years of experience that solitude was the last thing Marisa wanted or needed at a time like this. She had the unhealthy habit of letting things eat away at her until a total emotional meltdown was inevitable. It looked like this would be one for the record books.

“Com’ere,” he said.

She looked up at him, her deep brown eyes full of pain. Her lower lip quivered as she bravely fought her tears. “I’m okay, really.”

“No, you’re not. I know how much having a baby means to you.” Shifting closer, he tugged her toward him. It was all the coercing she needed to dissolve into his arms. He held her, stroking her hair as a river of her tears, intermingled with his sweat, rolled down his bare chest to the waist of his pants. The sensation was almost…erotic.

Erotic? He instantly felt like a slime. She needed comfort—a shoulder to cry on. Impure thoughts involving Marisa had been excusable back in middle school when his hormones had been raging and her breasts had just begun developing. Since then, he’d managed to keep those urges in check. For the most part, at least. Every now and then he indulged in a little fantasy, like finding out what she was hiding under all of those clothes. She owned a lingerie shop. It just stood to reason that she wore sexy underthings. He could imagine her in lace—red lace. Or better yet, black.

A sudden and intense tug of arousal stole his breath. Now was definitely not the time to be thinking about black lace. Especially when it pertained to Marisa’s body. It was just that he’d never felt the caress of her hands on his bare back, or noticed how sweet her hair smelled, or how soft it felt against his cheek.

Maybe he’d just never felt the lush swell of her breasts—

Whoa, stop right there. He was not going to start thinking about her breasts. Though he had to admit that it was tough to ignore them when they pillowed so softly against him. And he realized suddenly, that his hands were straying lower, gently caressing her through her blouse, exploring places they shouldn’t be.

She chose that moment to pull back and dig a tissue out of her pocket. “I’m really sorry about this,” she said, wiping her nose. She gave him a shaky smile, tears still clinging to her long, dark lashes. “I guess I needed to vent.”

“Vent on me anytime,” he said. “That’s what I’m here for.”

“Oh, jeez, I got you all wet.” She pulled a fresh tissue out and wiped the moisture from his shoulder and chest. Sliding lower, closer to his waist, her fingers brushed against the taut skin of his stomach and a stab of desire pierced his gut. Instinctively he jerked.

She looked at him strangely, then, as if realizing what she’d done, her eyes widened and she yanked her hand back. “Sorry.”

There was a brief, awkward silence then her lower lip began to tremble and fresh tears rolled down her cheeks.

It broke his heart to see her so miserable. If anyone deserved unconditional happiness, it was Marisa.

Abandoning any inappropriate thoughts, he pulled her into his arms. “I’m so sorry, Marisa. Is there anything I can do to help?”

You could have sex with me. Marisa wondered what his reaction would be if she were to blurt it out. Would he be appalled? Intrigued? Would he fall back on the blanket laughing hysterically?

Probably the latter. There was no use speculating, because it would never happen. She would never work up the nerve to ask. She would never be able to handle the rejection when she heard that inevitable no.

“It comes down to me not having enough money saved,” she said, sniffling and resting her cheek against his damp shoulder. “I considered mortgaging the shop to make up the difference, but if I’m going to have a baby, I don’t want to jeopardize my financial security.”