Expecting a Bolton Baby

“None taken.” His grin seemed heartfelt. “It doesn’t mesh with my image, does it?”

“Not really.”

“Promise me you won’t tell my brothers, okay? They don’t place a lot of value on cooking.”

Ah, yes. The brothers. His show, The Bolton Biker Boys, was about the whole family. The press release she’d found said so. She didn’t watch telly much and hadn’t looked him up on YouTube—couldn’t bear to watch her father’s shows and know that he’d spent more time on them than he had with her. “Then how did you pick it up?”

“I spent more time with Mom,” he replied, checking on a pan. He flipped something—peppers?—before continuing. “Billy’s eight years older than me, Ben’s five. They were always off doing their own thing while I was still in grade school. Mom would pick me up from school, then we’d head home and get dinner ready together.”

Part of her chest started to hurt. The whole thing—a sweet mum to cook and talk with, to spend time with—that’s what she didn’t have. What she’d always wanted. “Do you still cook with her?”

His back still to her, he froze. “She died. When I was eighteen.”

“I was eight. When my mum passed.”

The words escaped her lips before she quite knew she was saying them. She didn’t tell people about Claire. She’d long ago learned that talking about her mother was something not to be tolerated, as if speaking of her would sully her. Her father claimed it hurt too much. Maybe seeing Stella had made him hurt too much, too. Maybe that was why she rarely saw him at all. That had hurt almost as much as her mum’s death—being ignored by her father, foisted off to boarding schools and Mickey.

She’d already pushed aside the hurt again—it was easy when one had as much practice as she had—but the next thing she knew, Bobby had set his bowl down, come around the island and wrapped her in a strong hug. The contact was so unexpected—so much—that Stella felt rooted to the spot. People didn’t usually touch her. Even Mickey just offered her his arm. Her father hadn’t touched her in years. Decades. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been touched like this.

No, she took that back. She could remember. Bobby was the last person who’d put his arms around her. The last person to hold her. As if she meant something to him.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into her hair, his hands pressed firmly against her back. “That must have been really hard on you.”

Her throat closed up, pushing Stella toward tears. Where the bloody hell was all this emotion coming from?

Ah, yes. Hormones. She was pregnant, after all.

“Thank you,” she managed to say without bawling.

After a small squeeze, Bobby leaned back. “You okay?”

“Fine, yes.”

She managed to push the sorrow back down. What she needed to do here was focus not on the unchangeable past, but the very changeable future. She was pregnant. She’d do anything to make sure her child didn’t suffer the same joyless fate she had.

Bobby let go of her and turned back to the stove. Heavens, the food smelled delicious. Part of her wanted to just enjoy this moment. He was making her dinner. He’d comforted her when she’d gotten upset. Wouldn’t it be lovely if this were something she could look forward to on a regular basis? Wouldn’t having someone to rely on—someone besides Mickey, that was—be just...wonderful?

It was a shame it wasn’t going to happen, Stella thought as Bobby flipped slices of bacon. He was being delightful now because it was a wise business maneuver. In no way, shape or form was this an indicator of things to come, no matter how nice it was. She hadn’t come for a husband. She’d come because it was the proper thing to do, to warn him. To give him a chance.

That’s all she wanted for their baby. A chance.

Quickly, Bobby had plated up slices of omelet and bacon and added buttery toast browned in the oven. “I don’t have any tea,” he said apologetically as the coffeepot brewed.

“No worries. This smells amazing.”

He carried the plates over to the table, setting them down next to each other. The table was empty, save for the picture frame she’d noticed when she’d first entered the flat, but he’d set the plates right next to each other, anyway. Close enough to touch, really. The proximity felt cozy.

Then she saw the picture in the frame.

Three

As Bobby set down the plates, the coffeemaker beeped. He hoped the coffee would be okay. His sister-in-law, Josey, hadn’t been able to touch the stuff when she’d been pregnant. The smell had bothered her.

It wasn’t until he was carrying the cups to the table that he realized what Stella was doing.

Holding the photo. Studying the photo.

“This is...us,” she said in a voice so soft it was almost a whisper.

Immediately, Bobby knew why Stella was here. It wasn’t just that she was pregnant, although that was a huge part of it. That one word was why she was here. To see if there were an us.

Damn.

If this were a normal negotiation, Bobby would do whatever it took to give Stella what she wanted. But...us?

She hadn’t wanted an us. She’d made that blisteringly clear with her “don’t call me, I won’t call you” attitude. And once he knew who she was, he couldn’t really blame her. If David Caine were his father, he’d do everything in his power to avoid irritating the man. Bobby had abided by her wishes. He’d not taken her out to lunch the next day, not tracked her down in the past two months.

He should have. If he’d had any idea she was pregnant, he would have. He fought the urge to drop everything and pull her into his arms. Again. The pull to protect her was overwhelming. But then, the pull to track her down had been, too.

This—the pregnancy, his need for her—was a problem.

He did not have time to drop everything and start playing house with anyone, let alone Stella Caine. Maybe in a few years, sure. The resort would be turning a profit, he’d have his penthouse apartment...then he might like to have someone in his bed who set his blood racing and made him laugh. But now?

So he did the next best thing. He told her only part of the truth.

“I get snapshots of all the celebrities I meet. I have a whole wall of them at the shop.” All true. Nothing wrong with anything he’d just said. “It’s good for our brand image—creates desirability.” When she didn’t say anything, he felt compelled to keep talking. “It’s a good shot.”

It was. Bobby had his arm around Stella’s waist, but she had her back turned to the camera, revealing that swath of creamy skin left bare by the backless dress. She looked at the camera over her shoulder, a wicked pixie grin on her face. Her eyes bright, her hands rested on Bobby’s chest.

What the camera didn’t show was that, seconds before the paparazzi had snapped the photo, Bobby had been kissing her in that delicate spot right beneath her ear. The photo also didn’t show them bailing on the club entirely about twenty minutes later. But he remembered those things every time he looked at the photo.

Stella touched the glass with the tip of her finger. “Why is it here, then?”

“Excuse me?”

Stella leveled those beautiful eyes at him. “It’s been eight weeks. You haven’t hung it yet.”

“I really haven’t gotten into the shop much.”

It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth, either. Because the truth was, every time he looked at Stella’s bright eyes, he remembered the feeling of her lithe body in his arms, the way she’d lowered herself onto him with a ferocity that had blown his mind, the way she’d curled into his chest after the first time, her wicked grin all the more wicked with sated knowledge.

It should have been just sex. Great sex, but just sex. However, in the course of one evening, he’d found himself matching wits with a cultured, refined woman who subtly pushed his boundaries while she made him laugh. He’d been with a lot of women, but none had made him feel like Stella had. It was something he couldn’t quite explain, not even to himself. When he was with another woman—any other woman, now that he thought about it—they were there to have a good time, but also...because he could offer them something—a little PR, another good tweet. But Stella hadn’t been interested in mutual promotion and satisfaction. She’d been interested in him.

If he’d hung the photo on the wall in the shop, mixed in with all the other photos of famous people—some of whom he’d also slept with—then that would have meant that she was just like all the rest of them.

And she wasn’t.

“Dinner’s getting cold,” was all he could say.