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  "You wouldn't be the dad." Fighting for breath, she peeked at him through her hands. "You'd be the donor. There's a difference. The baby would be mine. After conception, you'd have zero involvement. In fact, you would sign a document stating as much."

  On my own or bust!

  "I live in Strawberry Valley, and I have no desire to move," he said. "How am I supposed to treat our baby?"

  "My baby. And you'll treat her--"

  "Or him."

  "--like a fun uncle. Maybe. I haven't figured out all the details."

  He scrubbed a hand down his face, a habit of his. "Will you tell the child I'm his--"

  "Or her."

  "--father? Or rather, donor?"

  "Would you want me to tell the child about you? I mean, since you'll be my ex-husband, the rest of the town will put two and two together. Unless we both deny it. Which we could do. I could say I used a donor. Which would be true!"

  A pause. Then, "No. I wouldn't want the child to know." He massaged the back of his neck. "Why get pregnant now? Why not, say, in a few years?"

  Why else? "My oven is ready to bake a bun. My biological clock is racing. Ticktock. Ticktock."

  "You're only twenty-six."

  "Maybe I have the ovaries of a fifty-year-old. You don't know."

  Brock pinched the bridge of his nose before jumping to his feet. "I need a moment to think...and maybe a drink or twelve."

  The sudden movement had her reaching for the gun under the side table. Ugh! A habit of hers--reacting violently to the unexpected. She stopped, thankfully empty-handed, as Brock began to pace. If he noticed her reaction--who was she kidding? He noticed. He gave no reaction.

  Steady. "Look. I know I'm young, and I know, realistically, that my biological clock has a long ways to go. But I don't feel young. I feel as if I've lived a hundred lifetimes. I feel as if my wants and needs have always been on the back burner. I'm ready to live for the first time."

  "I understand."

  Did he really? "Give me something to consider while you're doing all your thinking," she said. "You mentioned you'd be faithful. Have you ever been in a monthlong committed relationship?"

  "No," he grated.

  "So your staying power hasn't been put to the test yet. Commitment may prove...hard for you. Like, really really hard. As long as we're trying to make a baby, we can go at it like rabbits, but you absolutely positively cannot be with another woman. I need you virile and as potent as possible." The absolute and only reason she insisted on this. Definitely not any other reason. Like, say, jealousy.

  He blinked at her, the corners of his mouth twitching, shocking her. He found this amusing rather than horrifying? "Did sweet little Scottie Scott just utter the words virile and potent while talking about my...what would you call it? Member? Boner? Love stick? I feel like I've entered some sort of bizarro world."

  Exactly! Any second she would wake up and discover this conversation was a wine-induced dream. How else could this perfect scenario be playing out right before her eyes?

  Just to be contrary, she said, "For your information, I'd call it a trouser snake, thank you very much."

  A laugh barked from him. "Admit it," he said when he calmed, sounding pleased. "You're jealous. You don't like the thought of me with anyone else."

  "Never!" Denied it to herself, so she'd dang sure deny it to him. "And I think you're forgetting I've seen your endless parade of randoms. So. To be clear. I would be sleeping with you, and only you, so it's only fair that you return the favor. Unless you're fine with my banging other men and being unsure about the father of my child?"

  "There will be no one else for you," he said with a scowl.

  Smug now--though she probably should have been upset about his vehemence--she said, "Second, I expect you to be amazing in bed. Like, beyond my wildest expectations. You'll need stamina to keep up with me." Maybe. Probably not. "You can't go wasting your energy on other women. And guess what? I want orgasms!"

  He made a strangled sound. His pupils expanded, overshadowing all that luscious green. "I will give you orgasms. I will give you more orgasms than you can count."

  "Third," she continued, as if she weren't fighting a wave of lust right that second, "I firmly believe in the Ten Commitments. A list of requirements Dorothea, Ryanne and I made up in high school."

  He crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm a little light-headed after all that orgasm talk, but I'm also listening. Do tell."

  "A boy shalt not lie to anyone, ever, not even to flatter, cheat with so much as a look, steal even when desperate, harm others in any way, or make excuses for bad behavior. He shalt compliment when merited, help when needed, treat others with kindness, always, consult his girl when making big decisions, and do his best, not just what's good enough."

  His gaze searched her face. "You are adorable. You amaze me, Lyndie Scott."

  The words surprised her, but she fluffed her hair. "You assume I don't amaze everyone?" Dang. Wine made her super confident in sporadic intervals. She was going to regret it tomorrow, wasn't she?

  Brock barked out another laugh, causing goose bumps to spread from thigh to knee...and everywhere in between.

  "When our relationship ends," she said, "you can go back to your man-whorish ways with my blessing." A pang cut through Lyndie's chest, and she swallowed a moan. Did the pang spring from jealousy, as he'd assumed? Or regret? No, no. Neither one. Probably came from indigestion. Because of the wine. "While we're together, we'll be having unprotected sex, so I'll need you healthy--and to remain healthy. Speaking of, you'll have to get tested. I will too."

  His amusement faded fast. "I won't want a lifelong commitment because of a child," he said, his tone soft.

  Oh, the gall of this man! "I'm not hoping to trap you, Brock. Believe it or not, being married to you isn't the bow on top of a gift but a burden to bear in order to get what I want."

  "Burden." He traced his tongue over his teeth, the very picture of masculine pique. "Stop, please. Your flattery is going straight to my head."

  What, had she hurt is feelings? No way, no how. But...

  Maybe? The thought disconcerted her, and her shoulders rolled in. "I'm sorry," she said, and sighed. "I never meant...it's just..." Another sigh. "Maybe this is a mistake."

  "Now wait just a second." He swooped in, kneeling in front of her, placing his big, strong hands on her knees. "Getting naked with you does not strike me as a mistake."

  The warmth of his skin burned through her pajama pants, caressing her skin, and she gasped. Tingles erupted and spread, different parts of her reacting in different ways. Between her legs, liquid heat pooled. Her lower belly quivered. Her breasts ached.

  With a frown, he moved his hands to the couch. Not much better. He'd caged her in. But she wasn't frightened. No, oh no. There was no room for fear. Awareness scorched her, his pumpkin spice scent enveloping her. He must have had a latte before coming over, and for a moment, one startling moment, she wanted to press her lips against his and taste it.

  "You're still a little leery of me," he said. "I don't like it, but I understand. Trust takes time, and I'll earn all yours, I swear it. I'm only sorry I didn't put in more of an effort before today."

  His earnest expression struck a chord inside her. "I know a lot about you, but I also don't know a lot about you. What if we aren't compatible romantically and we make each other miserable the entire time we're together?"

  "Making decisions based on what if will only get us in trouble. But I agree we need to know more about each other. So shoot. Ask me anything about my romantic past. I'll answer honestly."

  All righty then. "What was your longest relationship?"

  He flinched but said, "Two nights."

  Oh, la la. An entire day longer than she'd thought. "Are you afraid of commitment?"

  "Yes."

  His blunt, in-your-face honesty startled her. Pleased her too. "Why?"

  "Because I'm not built for long term. I'm too much of a mess. In my late teens and
early twenties, I was never in the same place for long, was always out on a mission. When I left the Army, I suffered--suffer--from PTSD." He offered the details hesitantly, as if he expected her to flee. "I rarely sleep. When I do, I have nightmares."

  He tapped his temples and added, "Loud noises can rouse terrible memories. I can't stand having anyone at my back. I can't walk into a room without clocking every exit." Smile wry, gaze remaining on her, he pointed to two windows and the entrance to the kitchen.

  For some reason, the more he spoke, the more relaxed she became. "What makes you so sure you can be faithful to a wife for a few days, much less a month or two?"

  His gaze lowered to her lips and smoldered, causing goose bumps to break out over her skin again. "I never go back on my word," he rasped.

  So he would stay with her even if he didn't want her? Not exactly a dream situation. "Have you ever hit a woman?"

  "Never. And I despise men who do." His gaze returned to hers. In his eyes, she saw fierce conviction and disgust. Not for her, but for the men who acted so dishonorably.

  The moisture in her mouth dried. I'm really going to do this, aren't I? "If I ask you not to drink alcohol in the house, even as I'm sucking down bottles of wine, will you agree?"

  "Yes."

  He hadn't vacillated, even for a second. That was a good sign, right? "Do you still want to marry me even though I want a baby?"

  "Yes," he replied, again without a single beat of hesitation.

  Wait. The question and answer left too many loopholes. "Will you try to impregnate me?"

  Now he vacillated. He closed his eyes, inhaled sharply, then exhaled heavily. Her heartbeat slowed at long last only to intensify, becoming a violent punch against her ribs.

  "If I say no," he finally said, "will you ask someone else?"

  "Maybe. Probably." Why not tell him the truth? "Before you arrived, I was considering artificial incineration."

  He arched a brow. "Artificial incineration?"

  "Oh my gosh. I did not just say that." She slapped her forehead. "I meant insemination. Insemination!"

  Another sharp inhalation. "Maybe we should pull the plug on this conversation and restart tomorrow when you haven't had anything to drink."

  He was absolutely right. She should take a few days, think this through from beginning to end. Weigh all the pros and cons and talk to her friends. Though she could guess what they would say.

  Dorothea: Wait for love, or you'll regret it.

  Ryanne: Get what you want and get out.

  What did Lyndie want?

  A baby, yes. Even Brock. No denying the guy revved her engine.

  The relationship wouldn't last forever, another plus. And she was older now, also a little wiser. She wouldn't make the same mistakes she'd made in her youth. She wouldn't lose herself in her relationship but would fight to retain her independence.

  Opportunities like this didn't happen twice. What if he changed his mind?

  "If we do this, you can't lie to me," she told him. "Ever."

  Hope bloomed in his eyes, pale green irises glimmering. "I never have, never will."

  "And you can't yell at me or threaten me."

  "Never have, never will," he repeated.

  True. "All right then. Only one last question left to answer. Are you or are you not willing to impregnate me? You have yet to respond directly."

  His head canted to the side, his study of her intensifying. More so than before. Finally he said, "Yes. Yes, I am."

  Well then. The moment of truth had come. Go for it or walk away?

  She gulped, drew in another deep breath. "Yes," she found herself saying. "Yes, I'll marry you."

  Chapter Five

  The next morning, Lyndie tried to convince herself that she'd agreed to marry Brock only because of the wine.

  Cabernet said I'd have no regrets, but cabernet could be a no-good liar, so...

  A dozen times she picked up her phone, intending to call or text him, only to stop.

  On one hand, marriage. On the other, baby. If she had a third hand, sex.

  More wine could balance things out. Breakfast wine--good idea. She walked to her wine closet--AKA her pantry. Only four bottles remained. Time to restock. For now she'd go with merlot, a more honest wine. Honesty mattered!

  Despite the early-morning hours, a single glass helped mellow her mood. Merlot + marriage = possible win. Merlot + marriage + possible pregnancy = total landslide.

  I can do this.

  Even better, she would do this.

  A little bit later, a text from Brock came in.

  How's my soon to be wifey-poo doing this morning?

  Her heart started to race, and not just with nervousness. She replied, She's almost calm. Are we really going to do this???

  A few seconds, and his response came in. In my fantasies, we already have. But we'll get to that later. How do you feel about a Sunday wedding...one week from today??? I warned you we'd do this quick.

  Okay, from wanting more to wanting to vomit. A cold sweat beaded her forehead. She had next Monday off, so technically, timing worked. She typed, I feel like time is gonna pass quicker than a hot knife through butter. If we get hitched on a Sunday, it'll have to be after church services. So why not go to the courthouse and get this whole thing over with?

  One minute passed. Then another. She waited with bated breath until her phone buzzed.

  Brock: I'll talk to the pastor at Strawberry Community Church. I'm certain he'll let us do the deed between services. And we're doing it this way because we're Hudsons, and Hudsons do things right. Sometimes. Fine--because I want to see you in a gown, walking down the aisle. Yes, that's right. You've given me a gown fetish. I hope you're happy.

  Lyndie smiled.

  Brock: You're still a go? Because if I need to give you a sample of my bedroom prowess to convince you, I will man up and do my duty.

  Now she fanned her overheated cheeks. So willing to sacrifice, she thought with a grin. Why not invite him over?

  Easy. Once he had her, he might do what he usually did and turn his attention elsewhere. Her smile faded. What if he decided to wed someone else? No, best Lyndie wait till after the wedding for any sexing. For the baby. Only the baby.

  She typed: Lord help us all, I'm still a go. But I'm going to regrettably pass on the sampling until after we've said our vows.

  So. There you have it. Onward and upward.

  Up next? Telling her friends.

  Except Brock had already told Jude and Daniel, and they'd already informed Dorothea and Ryanne. New texts began pouring in.

  Dorothea: YOU'RE GETTING MARRIED???? TO BROCK HUDSON, PLAYBOY EXTRAORDINAIRE???? (Asking for a friend.)

  Ryanne: Settle a bet for me. Jude says you agreed to marry Brock for a month or so, but I told him there was no way you'd EVER agree to marry a man, even for a day, and not tell me immediately. Winner gets bragging rights forever, so choose your next words wisely.

  Lyndie started a group text to both of her friends: Guys! Here's the LD. Brock came over last night and asked me to temporarily sign on to be Mrs. Hudson. For business reasons! I said yes. For a baby! Cabernet told me to keep the secret until I was positive I was going to go through with it, but clearly cabernet led me astray. I'm so sorry! I should have told you immediately. Forgive me? Say yes, and I'll do you both the incomparable honor of being my co-matrons of honor. FYI: I'd call you "maids of honor" but you're both married...and getting plowed on the reg. Lucky!

  Ryanne: Ha! You're forgiven. Since I'm getting plowed on the reg, I'm always in a supergood mood. Amazing how that works.

  Dorothea: I need a minute to deal with all the feels. Okay. Now I'm ready. CONGRATS!!!! I'm sad you guys aren't gonna stay married, but I'm over the moon about the baby!!

  Ryanne: BTW, I totally predicted this. I told Dorothea you guys would end up together, one way or another.

  Dorothea: She sure did. She also told me you'd bring Brock to his knees. I'm most looking forward to THAT.
<
br />   Bring a man like Brock to his knees? Her? The idea intrigued her in ways she never would have guessed, even made her shiver. But actually succeeding? Impossible.

  He had too much experience while she had too little. But very soon, Brock would be in her bed, inadvertently teaching her everything he knew about sex. After one night with him, she would probably become an expert.

  After her divorce, a single, independent Lyndie would have more confidence. She might decide to get a little some-some from another hottie.

  Talk about another perfect plan! So why did she suddenly have a knot in the pit of her stomach?

  *

  The next week passed in a whirlwind of activity, making Lyndie feel as if she was running all over hell's half acre. Rings had to be purchased, a prenup had to be drafted and signed, medical tests had to be done, a gown had to be bought, and a reception at the Strawberry Inn had to be planned. Appearances, appearances.

  To Lyndie's absolute amazement, Brock let it be known he expected to be part of every decision and help plan every detail and even wanted to go dress shopping. Maybe because of that gown fetish he'd claimed to develop. The thought made her smile.

  She suggested half-price boutiques, but her fiance--so weird using that particular F-word--whisked her to a fancy-schmancy place in the city.

  Along the way, she did her best to make polite conversation. "Will any of your other Army buddies be coming to the wedding?"

  "No," he said.

  "Bummer. Did you guys not keep in touch?" Or did he not want any of them to know about her?

  He adjusted the thermostat. "Before I forget, would you like to visit a spa the day before the wedding? I can arrange everything."

  "No, thank you." She wanted to be surrounded by her friends, no one else. "So, did you and your Army buddies not keep in touch?"

  As he pondered his answer, expertly weaving in and out of traffic, she looked him over. He wore a plain black T-shirt, the short sleeves hugging the perfect sculpt of his biceps--biceps that tensed every time she spoke. Interesting.

  "Some did. Some didn't," he finally said.

  She waited for him to say more. Silence reigned.

  Wait. Did he not want to talk about the people he'd met in the military?

  Made no sense, but okay. She tried another subject. "What was growing up in New York like? I've never been outside Strawberry Valley."

  "New York is crowded, and no one ever sleeps," he replied. That was it. He shifted uncomfortably, as if he was in the middle of an interrogation. "Let's talk about something else."