Stella

I may have acted a tad impulsively. This is new territory for me. I’m a hardcore scheduler. I’ve never done anything impulsive in my life…well, until Dane happened to me.

This mistake becomes glaringly obvious when we board the small plane and I remember how much I hate to fly. Seeing as I’ve done it only one other time in my life, you really can’t blame me.

Foot tapping against the floorboard, fidgeting in my seat, I’m a live wire. Dane grabs my hand and frowns when he realizes how clammy it is.

In the last two months we’ve seamlessly slid into this quiet comfort level. Where it’s okay to touch each other. Or more precisely where it’s okay for him to touch me. I should be alarmed in the proprietary way he does it, openly and without hesitation, but I’m strangely not. I can’t muster a bit of alarm even if I tried.

“You scared?”

“No,” I answer dishonestly. Look, I’m an analytics girl, I love me some stats. And yes, cars are more dangerous. There are solid numbers to support that. Except it all flies out the window when you’re sitting in a phallus-shaped tin can propelled into the air at hyperspeed by two manmade engines––emphasis on manmade. Birds can drop this thing out of the sky like a stone, so stats be damned.

“Does it happen every time you fly, or just private?”

“This is the first time I’ve flown private and the second time in a plane altogether.” When I don’t get a reply to this, I glance at the big man sitting next to me. He’s genuinely surprised.

“Second time? Really?”

“Last year was the first time in my life I’ve ever taken a vacation,” I add with a shrug.

More silence––and confusion. “Why?”

“Work. I have a lot of responsibility at work and…” Again, I glance his way. His expression intense, his attention engrossed. He deserves the truth.

“And…I’ve always been concerned with making as much money as I possibly can. I don’t like spending it and I love making it, that’s why.” I said that quickly, way too quickly. As if I’m apologizing for something. Which I shouldn’t be.

I never understood why people see monetary pursuit as evil, something to frown upon, and yet desperately want all that money can buy.

I’d like to see one parent refuse money for their child’s education, or their healthcare, or dental care, or the car that keeps their child safe. The list is endless. Money is a means. And to me, it’s always been a means to feel safe.

“Besides, why go on vacation if you’re not going to enjoy it? Right? I would’ve only been worried about getting back.”

“But you took one last year?”

“Ira made me. He sent me and Delia to his beach house in St. Barth. I didn’t know what to do with myself and Delia wouldn’t let me near a computer or phone. It was boring. I came back two days early.”

He blinks, processing my story.

“Huh,” he finally says and turns to look out the window. It’s then I realize we’re already at cruising altitude and my hand is still safely tucked into his.

Three hours later and I’m in Oklahoma City dressed in a black cocktail dress and four-inch Manolo Blahniks––with no change of underwear.

At the airport I searched the gift shop for something more comfortable while Dane was getting the rental car, and came up with nothing suitable. I have no doubt we’ll be spending long hours in the hospital, but walking around in an XXL men’s t-shirt that says Spare a Horse, Ride a Cowboy would not have been an improvement.

As soon as we step inside the hospital, Dane sees me shivering from the subzero air-conditioning in the waiting room and takes off his suit jacket, draping it over my shoulders. Beautifully tailored to hug his big body, it hits me below the knees.

I still don’t know what possessed me to invite myself on this trip. Except, as he stood there in my doorway in a suit––and bless his heart he’d tried to tame his hair––looking so unlike himself, so concerned and a bit lost, my heart leapt in my chest. It did all the speaking for me. This is the father of your child and he needs your support, it said and since my heart rarely, if ever, speaks to me, I listened.

Also, and this must be said, when it speaks, my heart sounds a lot like Morgan Freeman. So, as you can imagine, it’s hard to ignore. Only after I boarded the small jet did I remember how much I hate flying.

I look up from the screen of my cell phone and watch Dane walk toward me, his long legs eating up the shiny linoleum flooring, his broad shoulders stiff and his mouth pressed tight in worry.

I send a silent prayer to St. Anthony that this father makes a speedy recovery. As close as they are, I can imagine how he’s feeling. The mere thought of losing my mother is enough to give me an anxiety attack.

He holds out an open hand, palm up. Without hesitation I reach for him and watch as my hand gets swallowed up as his long fingers, the cuticles neat and nails trimmed, gently close around mine. It’s warm and dry and reassuring. It feels good…it always does.

“How is he?”

His green-gold gaze moves away, followed by a tired exhale. “He’s sleeping. Come on. I’ll take you to the ranch. You need to eat and sleep too.”

Pulling me up, he throws a protective arm around my shoulders. Even in my four-inch heels, my head barely hits his armpits. He’s a solid wall of heat. It lulls me into leaning on him, letting him guide me down the hall as if we mean something to each other, something that isn’t stipulated in a legal document. Something real. Maybe it’s the hormones. Maybe.

“Wait. What about your father?”

“The doctor on duty said he’s stable, better than expected. I’m going to get you settled and come back early tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to settle me. I’m fine. We can stay.”

Without breaking stride as we walk out through the emergency room sliding doors, he looks down at me and says, “You’re pregnant.” Then he takes out his cell phone and makes a call.

He’s worried about the baby. Right. Of course.

The high I was riding only seconds ago takes a nosedive, my mood suddenly bleak. I’m such an idiot. This is a legal and moral agreement between two people who have a common goal, a single goal, to have a child no emotional strings attached. Still, my chest feels tight.

“G…yeah, I just saw him…they gave him something to sleep…he was gettin’ agitated, that’s why. Doctor said the aspirins saved his ass…he was in town…yeah, I know. Stubborn old goat drove himself here…I know. I don’t even want to think about it. Listen, Stella’s with me––”

Looking down at me once again, he smiles. Then he opens the passenger side door to the rental SUV. “She wanted to come.” His eyes hold mine as I slide into the seat. Before I realize what he’s up to, he cradles the phone between his massive shoulder and his ear, and reaches across me to fasten my seat belt. “Yeah, we have a lot to discuss once we get Dad home…okay, love you too. Bye.”

His elbow perched on the top of the open door, hip cocked, he watches me with a hesitant look. Something’s coming. I can’t imagine what, though.

He rubs his jaw, already smattered with dark golden scruff, and chews on his plump bottom lip. This can’t be good.

“Stel…there’s something you should know.”

Oh God, this sounds ominous. My body goes stiff while my short fingernails dig into the leather seat of the rental Expedition. His attention swings back to me, his tan brow bunching when he takes note of the frozen look of horror on my face.

“It’s not bad…it’s…shit, it’s not bad. Relax, sweetheart. Let’s get you home. We can talk about it after you eat.”

“You expect me not to freak out when you look like someone told you to bend over. And don’t call me sweetheart.”

A low bark of laughter surges out of him, a lazy smile swinging up one side of his mouth. His big body settles deeper into the seat as he drives out of the parking lot. Guiding the steering wheel with one hand, he pulls onto the main road.

The streets are deserted, a stark contrast to Manhattan where there’s activity at any given hour. The car stereo reads 1:30 a.m. in neon blue. I’m suddenly exhausted, as if the adrenaline that has been keeping me going wore off all at once. I watch Dane’s lips move, like he wants to speak but he can’t seem to find the right combination of words.

“Remember when I told you that I spoke to my family about you and the baby?”

Oh balls. “You didn’t, did you?” I say, pinning him with my most disapproving glare.

“I did.” He nods, side-eyeing me briefly to gauge my reaction.

I’m confused. That’s my reaction. I wait for him to elaborate and when the silence stretches on past my patience threshold, I cut to the chase. “Let’s hear it, Dane.”

“I didn’t explain our…little arrangement.”

“I’m getting gray hair here,” I say rubbing my temples where a throbbing ache has been growing larger with every word that comes out of his mouth. “What didn’t you explain? And it’s hardly little.”

“I told them we were dating and we got pregnant by accident.”

We. There’s that we again. But I don’t allow it to distract me from the issue at hand. He deftly avoids my glare by keeping his eyes on the road ahead.

“I told them you’re my girlfriend.” Again, he takes a super brief glance in my direction. So his sister and father believe I’m one more notch in the infamous, great (heavy sarcasm) Dane Wylder’s bedpost.

Excellent. Great. Terrific. “Dane––”

“They wouldn’t understand,” he says jumping in before I can have a well-deserved hissy fit. “My sister married her high school sweetheart, for shit’s sake. They still hold hands when we go out. She has delusions that I’m going to find the love of my life and ride off into the sunset.”

“Oh, you mean she doesn’t know about the thooouuusands of women you’ve slept with?” His face does a funny thing, a thing that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up and take notice. “What now? What’s that look for?”

“About that…” he says, his expression pained.

“Oh God, it’s more than a thousand, isn’t it? No. No, don’t tell me. Don’t say another word. I’m going to be sick.” I grip the overhead handle like I’m on an airplane about to crash and burn. “How am I going to explain this to my daughter if she ever finds out?”

The massive disappointment I’m feeling presses down on my chest. It hurts. I can’t help it. It does. I guess it was an unimportant footnote before. Now that I’m officially pregnant the wrongness of it has become startlingly clear however.

“Son––our son.” He sounds offended. The nerve.

“And what a great role model for our son you’ll make.”

His jaw looks ready to shatter, the vein between his brow pulsing. He throws me under the bus and gets mad because I point out the obvious? A fact that he was mighty proud of not so long ago.

“Look, it’s late. Now is not the time to discuss this. We need to focus on your father,” I add. He doesn’t respond.

Forty-five very silent and tense minutes later, Dane pulls the Expedition down a dirt driveway, nothing but a thick curtain of night interrupted by a few post lights ahead of us. We keep driving until a house slowly starts to take shape. As we draw closer I note that it’s beautiful. River rock and wood––fine craftsmanship evident in its bones.

Dane parks in front and an old German shepard gets up from its bed on the porch. Tail wagging, it starts to bark and whine.

“Quit it, Tinker Bell,” Dane shouts as he gets out. Walking around to my side, he opens my door and reaches for me.

“No, you don’t have to––I’ve got it.”

The rest of my protest is cut short by the fact that I’m being hauled out of my seat. My feet hit the gravel driveway and as I struggle to disengage myself from his firm grip, he lets go and I stumble into him, my face hitting his chest hard enough that I may have bruised a cheekbone. My four-inch heels have officially becoming a hazard.

Without any effort, he scoops me up in his arms. “I can walk,” I insist, louder this time.

He ignores me all the same.

A few long steps and we’re on the porch. The dog sniffs Dane, whining her greeting, wiggling her fat body. Tinker Bell could use a diet. Dane places me on my feet and she pokes me in the ass with her nose. I squeak in surprise.

In the meantime, Dane pulls the house keys out of his pants pocket and unlocks the front door. The dog, turning in excited circles around me, almost knocking me over. Before I can topple backward, Dane’s hand shoots out. Gripping my arm, he steadies me.

“Stella, meet Tinker. Tinker is the only bitch allowed in the house.”

For a moment I’m not sure I heard him correctly. I process, process some more. Maybe it’s the fatigue. He did not just call me a bitch.

Did he?

The asshole that just called me a bitch walks into the house without a backward glance. I follow and almost trip on the beautiful area rug in the entrance. Kicking off my shoes, I march after him, into an enormous great room with a top-of-the-line, open-air kitchen attached.

I’m still wearing his suit jacket, the arms hanging way past my knees. Not a good look but I’m tired and cold and way past giving a crap about appearances.

He opens the refrigerator and begins taking food out, placing it neatly on the granite countertop of the massive island. Grilled chicken breasts. A couple of tomatoes. An avocado. A loaf of bread.

“Did you just call me a bitch?”

“I called Tinker a bitch,” he answers flatly, face still hidden in the double-wide stainless steel refrigerator. “Which she is in the truest definition of the word.”

I glance at Tinker, who dutifully followed us in. Smiling, she wags her tail at me. “Well…don’t call Tinker a bitch. And definitely don’t ever call me that!”

He whips around to face me. Across the island, he shouts, “You don’t know Tinker well enough to make assumptions about her!”

I flinch, shocked as all get-out. One, he’s never raised his voice at me. And two, what the hell is he talking about? “What are you talking about? What assumptions?”

“Assumptions about––” I watch him struggle, his jaw working. I’m not sure whether he’s trying to speak, or trying to contain something. He turns his ire to the food on the counter, frowning at it. “Forget it.”

It must be his father. He’s worried, and blowing off steam. That has to be it.

“I haven’t a clue what’s gotten into you in the last hour, but I’m tired and we need to focus on why we’re here.”

His demeanor shifts, the anger retreating. “Yeah,” he says, raking his hand through his unruly hair. “You need to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You need to eat.”

“Dane––”

“Fine.” He grumbles something else I can’t make out. I think I heard “stubborn” but I can’t be sure. “Let me show you to your room.”

Down the hall, he leads me to a large bedroom with a king-sized bed. The décor is country, charming and cozy; the sleigh bed covered with a beautiful quilt and plenty of pillows.

Dane stands off to the side, leaning against the wall with his big hands shoved in the pockets of his dress pants, the swells of his chest muscles tight against his white dress shirt. He watches me with a puzzled expression, serious in a way he rarely is.

At rest his face is flawless. It impels one to stare. Most of the time I forget how beautiful he is. And he unequivocally is.

The sharp cheekbones, the firm jaw, the dip in his chin.

And that body…Dios mío. Massive without looking bulky. Powerful and proportionate. A perfect example of the golden ratio. DaVinci would drool at the sight of this man.

Our eyes meet and he looks away first, his expression uncomfortable, almost awkward. Which is strange because I’ve never seen him appear anything less than overly confident.

“Are you okay?”

A curt nod is all I get. And they say women are moody and irrational. He moves to the door to exit.

“There are towels and a new toothbrush under the sink. Tomorrow we’ll get you some clothes. I can give you a t-shirt to sleep in.”

“I have the one I bought at the gift shop.”

With his head down and shoulders slouched, he turns to leave. I’m really in no mood to play shrink right now. The smart thing to do would be to let him leave––and leave him be. That would be the smart thing to do.

“Dane––” Pausing, he looks over his shoulder. “I don’t want to fight with you. I know you’re worried about your father and I’m sorry.”

His warm hazel eyes hold mine, not a word in reply. He seems on edge, frustrated, as if he’s trying to tell me something I can’t seem to understand.

“Get some sleep.”

Without pausing, he closes the door behind him. I stare at the knotted pinewood, waiting for him to walk back in and explain, to give me some insight on what’s going on with him, but it ends in vain––the door stays firmly shut.

A short while later I shrug off the dress, pull out the oversized t-shirt and slip it on. Too tired to take a shower, I crawl into bed after washing my face and teeth. Tomorrow I’ll try to decipher what that look on his face meant. Tomorrow.