Rebecca
All of his words linger and run in a continuous loop in the back of my mind. But it’s that last line that I focus on.
So please, have a baby with me.
Not at all how I expected the day to turn out.
“Okay, let’s say that I say ‘yes’ to your business proposal.” I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “I can’t exactly tell myfamily. I haven’t even told them that I’m divorced yet. We would have to keep this all a secret.”
“That’s okay with me. Only people who need to know are you, me, and my publisher. That’s it. Everyone else can be on a need-to-know basis.”
I can’t believe how crazy and ridiculous this all is. I went from accepting that I would never get my happy ending and have kids to being one word away from getting it all.
Sure, I never envisioned being a single mother—I’m sure not many women do—but it doesn’t mean I wouldn’t gladly do it.
I bet I’d be pretty damn great at it, in fact. It still feels like there’s a black hole in my heart leftover from my marriage, and it’s hard to imagine that ever healing. But when I think about having kids, I know for freaking certain that I have all the love in the world to give—and then some.
And even on a practical level, being a single mom wouldn’t be all bad. Especially since I don’t exactly have a typical job that requires me to go to the office and be away from home for forty-plus hours a week. I would have all the opportunities to be there for the baby.
For my child.
I would be there every step of the way to guide and encourage them as they grow. There’s nothing I would have to miss out on.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
It might be the best thing I could do with my life, and I’m sure it would be more rewarding than I could even begin to imagine now.
But then, would it be fair for the baby? I know I have more than enough love in me to make up for two parents, but what do I say or do when they get older and ask about their father?
Do I tell them the truth and say that it was just a business arrangement and that their father didn’t actually want them? Or do I play with the truth and twist it about into some kind of romantic fairy tale?
What really bothers me is the thought that I might be considering this not because I really want a baby—even though I absolutely do—but because of my recent divorce from Dickhead.
That black hole in my heart might be clouding my judgment and pushing me to jump on whatever opportunities I find to get what he refused to give me.
Speaking of the divorce, like I said, I still haven’t even told my family about it. I can just imagine being at the next family gathering and saying, “Hey, everyone, I just divorced my abusive asshole of a husband, and I’m also having a baby with Irishman who spends more time in a pub than the bartender. Pass the rolls and butter, please.”
No, I don’t see that going over too well.
My poor mother would probably have a fucking stroke, and Grandma would make everyone uncomfortable when she asks—and she would ask—if the baby daddy was hung or not.
In those exact words.
“Fuck, I need a drink.”
I brush past Killian and walk right up to the counter. I grab the glass of whiskey that he had poured for himself, and I drink it in one go.
The chestnut-colored alcohol burns on the way down my throat—just as I need it to—and I can’t help but let out a small cough after I swallow it.
I’ve never had Locke’s Whiskey before, but it’s actually really good. Better than Bushmills, though not as good as Jameson.
This is something I need to pick up more of the next time I’m in town.
Pouring another glass of whiskey, this one filled nearly to the top, I take another deep breath. My mind is racing with the pros and cons of the idea taking turns trying to persuade me.
This entire idea of his is batshit crazy.
Yeah, I know that I shouldn’t even be thinking about actually accepting his offer. There should be no weighing of pros and cons. The whole thing’s absurd.
Here’s what I should be doing: I should be telling him no, flat out, before throwing this drink in his face and telling him to get the fuck out of my quaint little cottage.
It should be insulting to me. He wants to knock me up just so he can get his book deadline extended and get his cock wet at the same time with none of the responsibility that comes afterwards.
And maybe I’m a little insulted by all this. I’m not some fucking baby-making scapegoat to be used because he can’t handle some fucking writer’s block.
But baby fever is a powerful force not to be underestimated. It’s like this giant rush of phenomenal fucking cosmic power right to the ovaries.
Instead of doing all those things I should be doing right now, I make the mistake of looking up at him from the whiskey in my hands.
Damn it, I really shouldn’t have done that.
He’s looking at me from across the room with those goddamn blue eyes of his that I’ve been a sucker for since day one.
It’s like he can undress me, fuck me, and see into my very soul all at the same time. It’s a weird blend of arousing and annoying.
And then there’s the accent.
The man was born hot enough as it is. But God, in her infinite fucking wisdom, had to go and give him an accent on top of it.
And that isn’t even the worst part of it all.
Oh, no. Not even close. Because, and I know from experience, he’s amazing in bed.
And—writer’s block notwithstanding—he’s incredibly talented and creative. Even when he’s an asshole, he’s still so fucking charming.
It makes you want to hit him with an SUV—which I’ve already done—and then take him to bed afterward. And I’ve done that part, too.
Albeit in reverse order, but still. Did it.
Knocking back the whiskey in my hands, I try to get a read on him.
It’s hard—I haven’t seen him in years. And even then, we never really took the time to get to know each other on a personal level.
Not that it would matter right now anyway.
All I can really focus on are those piercing blue eyes of his, looking straight at me. And it makes it hard for my brain to operate—outside of telling me to kiss him.
I turn away and put the glass on the counter.
“Let’s say, down the road you decide that, for whatever reason, you want to be a part of this baby’s life. And I tell you to get lost and never show your face?”
With that, I turn my head and look at him from over my shoulder.
“Then I would respect your wishes,” he tells me with a shrug. “I know this isn’t the most conventional business arrangement. I get how crazy it is. But isn’t life meant to be a little crazy?”
Crazy is one thing. This is outright fucking insane.
But he does have a point.
And I, admittedly, have always played things safe. Maybe crazy is exactly what I need in my life right now. Maybe I’ve earned the right to have a crazy moment or two after having to deal with that fucking Dickhead I was married to.
Turning to face him, I do my best to not get lost in his eyes.
“This…this is big, Killian. This isn’t exactly something that I can just answer on a whim.”
I don’t even realize that I’m walking across my cottage towards him.
“I get that, lass. I completely understand.”
My eyes catch his looking down at my tits. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a tad bit relieved that they weren’t looking back into my own eyes. Because then, they might as well be looking into my soul.
But all this talk about baby-making now has me thinking about the actual act. I can see that he’s already been thinking of it, too.
Before I know it, we’re back to where we started. His arms have mine in their grasp, and the palm of my hands are pressed gently against his firm chest.
“I’m going to have to sleep on it.” My voice comes out so husky it surprises me.
“Of course.”
“Good.”
The word is barely out of my mouth before our lips meet like tidal waves colliding against a rocky shore in the middle of a torrential storm.
God in heaven, I forgot how good his lips feel.