Baby, I’m Yours
Catherine Mann

To Melissa Jeglinski—a gifted editor, a wonderful person and a treasured friend. Thank you for everything!

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

About the Author

Coming Next Month

Prologue

“Ah, hell, it broke.”

The second the stunned words fell out of Vic Jansen’s mouth he wanted to recall them for something more composed. But what was the mannerly way to tell the naked woman straddling his lap that their birth control had suffered a catastrophic failure?

This wasn’t supposed to happen to two over-thirty adults.

“What do you mean, it broke?” Claire’s horrified whisper steamed over his chest as they sat tangled together. The steamy gust stirred a fire down south when he should have been long past recovery after their weekend of marathon sex.

Lifting her off and to the side, Vic squinted in the darkness to see his friend of six months and lover of three days. Years of veterinary practice had prepped him for hostile horses and spitting-mad cats, but at the moment he felt damned unprepared to cope with Claire McDermott and a possible pregnancy.

Coping with memories of the daughter he’d lost proved even tougher. He shoved aside images of pigtails, Barbie dolls—funeral wreaths.

“Exactly what I said.” He swiped a wrist across his forehead, flinging aside sweat in spite of the forty-degree weather of a southern January evening. “The condom tore.”

“There’s absolutely no way it should have broken.” Panic pitching her voice higher, breathier, Claire snatched her dress from beside her feet and clutched it to her bare breasts he wanted to unveil and kiss all over again. “I know they only have a ninety-six percent reliability factor, but that four percent encompasses idiots who don’t know how to use the things.”

“Well, lady, tonight we two idiots just blew those stats right out of the water—as it were.” Vic gripped the steel rim of the bass boat, the plastic fishing chair chilling his skin. “Be still, will ya? You’re going to tip us over.”

Claire puffed a breath of air upward, blowing away a lank lock dangling in her face, puffed again, then finally combed shaking fingers through her tousled caramel-colored hair. He couldn’t let himself think about threading his hands through her silky strands as he held her curvy body against his or he would lose his focus.

She untangled a gelatinous lure and flicked it onto the tackle box. “Are you sure you didn’t catch the condom on a hook or something?”

“Jeez, Claire.” Vic clasped her shoulders, her soft scented skin sending a fresh jolt of heat through him. “Don’t you think I would know if I had a hook in it?”

“Good point.” She dodged the cooler, leaning over the seat, which displayed a flash of tempting flesh before she straightened, her lacy bra and panties in hand. “That’s the last time you get to supply birth control.”

“I feel compelled to point out that it’s one I snagged from your bedside table—” he tugged on his jeans “—since we’d used up mine.”

The slap and crash of waves against the shore filled the silence while Claire shimmied into her underwear. Vic grimaced at her extended quiet. Theirs had been an unlikely friendship of opposites—classic Claire with all her pretty lace, and he with his flannel, rough-around-the-edges ways. But a friendship he’d come to value in the past six months since he’d sold his vet practice in North Dakota and relocated to Charleston, South Carolina, away from all reminders of his daughter and ex-wife.

Yet, in spite of his vow for a rootless existence living on a sailboat, more and more often he’d found himself walking across the marina dock to Beachcombers restaurant for Claire’s home-cooked meal, a glass of sweet tea—and her smile.

Claire suddenly seemed overly interested in how her dress buttoned up the front. “Those condoms in my bedside table were old. I, uh, haven’t been with anyone for a long time.”

“Really?”

She swayed toward him. “Really.”

Damn, she never failed to capsize his control with her unexpected moments of vulnerability peeking through her unflappable shield. Vic pulled her against his chest. She resisted half-heartedly, then relented.

He smoothed his hands over her back, down her spine while resisting the tempting curve of her bottom. “I don’t have any diseases you need to worry about, if that makes you feel better.”

“A little.” Her full lips curved into a hesitant smile against his skin. “Me neither, by the way, no surprise given my non-existent sex life…up to now.”

She eased free, the boat lurching in response. Once steadied, Claire slipped her feet into her pumps.

“What are the odds, given the timing of your cycle?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Are you sure? Never mind.” Stupid question.

The risk of having another kid scared the pants right back off him, but Claire deserved some kind of reassurance. “Let’s take this a day at a time. There’s no need to get in a frenzy about something that may not even happen. We’ll discuss it when and if we need to, but I’ll be there for you.”

Claire stared back at him in the dark, waiting…for what? Finally, she shook her head. “Like you said, we’ll discuss it later.”

She snatched up her sweater and leaped from the boat onto the asphalt.

Sliding open the garage door, she revealed the marina parking lot and her restaurant/home up the hill overlooking docked crafts bobbing in the harbor.

They’d been on their way to his forty-two-foot sailboat when they’d been delayed by a spontaneous make-out session against a string of garages for marina residents. And hey, since he owned the truck and bass boat inside, why wait?

Zipping his pants, he tracked her sweet butt hauling up the planked walkway toward the two-story restaurant she co-owned with her sisters. A few leftover Christmas lights illuminated her double-time progress away from him. He considered simply letting her go and giving them both some space. But even as frustrated as he was over her deep freeze, he owed Claire for challenging him back to life after years of numbed emotions.

That meant he couldn’t let her walk away scared.

Snagging his shirt, he vaulted over the side of the boat. He stuffed his arms through the flannel softness that now carried Claire’s lilac scent, along with a few ripped buttonholes from her frantic hands.

“Hold on.” He dashed after her, the tails of his open shirt flapping behind him.

The need for a better end to their weekend raked aside everything else, including shoes. He thudded barefoot past the marina office onto her property, across the patchy sandy lawn.

Toes darn-near frostbitten, Vic made it to her front porch a hairbreadth behind her. He braced a hand just beside her and rested his cheek against the back of her head, nuzzling against her tangled hair. She tensed, but she didn’t move, gasping in the humid night.

His brain scrambled for the right words, a way to shift them back to what they’d shared before he’d ruined it by taking her to bed—or to his boat. “I know you needed me to say something, and I fell short of the mark.”

The tense brace of her shoulders sent alarms through him. Claire was beyond upset. She was in a blind panic. What fears of her own was she carrying around that she hadn’t shared with him any more than he’d told her about his?

And what a time to realize they hadn’t been friends in any meaningful manner after all. Just meal-sharing acquaintances who’d gotten naked together. “God almighty, lady, you’re the most exasperating and incredible woman I’ve ever met. But I’m not very good at the pretty words.”

Slowly, she turned, tilting her chin defensively. She reached, her hand hovering between them almost touching his bare chest, but settling on the open shirt instead. “I need to be alone right now. But I promise I’ll let you know if I’m…”

She didn’t need to finish. Her shuttered expression said it all. They couldn’t go back to what little they’d had. Disappointment chugged through him, more than he would have expected three short days ago.

His hands slid from her face. “Okay, I’ll be waiting to hear from you then. You know where to find me.”

He stepped back from the porch, Claire, her smile. Déjà vu swept over him as she sprinted up the steps and into her antebellum restaurant/home. How many times would he watch people he cared about fade from his life?

Damned if numb wasn’t better after all.

One

Charleston, S.C.: Three-and-a-half months later

“Claire, if you handle a man with as much finesse as you’re using on that swizzle stick, it’s no wonder you sleep alone.”

Tucked in a corner of her bustling restaurant kitchen, Claire surrendered the pitcher of mint juleps to her sister before she sloshed ice onto the counter. “Swizzle stick? Either you’re more innocent than you let on or you’ve just insulted some poor guy in a big—or would that be little?—way.”

“Guilty as charged,” Starr answered ambiguously as she assumed control of the fragrant mixed drink, sprinkling fresh mint leaves on top before passing it over to a waitress.

Claire picked through her herb garden in the open window while stifling the urge to blurt how she’d handled one man a little too well three-and-a-half months ago. Now, she had a permanent reminder of that weekend-long sensual feast last January.

Her hands shook as she snagged the empty bowl for parsley sprigs. “I’m too busy for a love life.”

Today in particular, she had enough on her plate feeding the Beachcombers Bar and Grill Saturday lunch crowd while prepping for the packed week of catering events. Even with the help of her two foster sisters, co-owners in the business, soon she would be busier still with a baby on her hip. Not that she intended to let that information leak to the kitchen full of staff clanging pots and filling orders.

She had to tell the baby’s daddy first.

And she would—after this week passed and she could compose herself with a long bubble bath. She’d only been delaying telling Vic out of practicality. Right? Ever reasonable, she always made the practical decision.

Except for once, and that whopper had landed her in the same shoes as her pregnant unwed mama. However, unlike her mama, Claire was blessed with resources and choices. No one would force her to hand over her child.

Starr rolled silverware inside napkins with lightning speed, pouring more of that frenetic energy into swaying along with beach music thrumming through the sound system. “Who said anything about love? I’m only talking about you getting out more, dating. Pencil in some fun time on that perfectly ordered daily agenda of yours.”

Even Starr’s dark hair snapped with energy, curls straining to pop free from the constraining long braid while Claire felt more like one of the wrung-out rags in the industrial sink.

“I am enjoying life since I love my work.” Huffing a lank wisp off her forehead, she scooched closer to the counter to make way for a waiter balancing a cornbread-stuffed catfish special.

Vic’s favorite.

Her hand drifted downward. She stopped shy of her stomach, shooting a quick glance at her younger foster sister. Starr’s eagle eye missed nothing, a skill gained from her time on the streets before she landed in the same foster home as Claire and their other foster sister, Ashley.

Claire eyed the swinging door with longing. If only she could dash out of the humid kitchen, away from too-discerning questions. But she couldn’t risk leaving for at least an hour since Vic Jansen had parked his fine butt in her dining room for lunch.

“Work,” Starr snorted. “Work won’t sizzle you with a look or have you ready to climb out of your skin after a kiss.”

Do not think of Vic. Vic’s kiss. Vic’s hard-muscled body under her hands, his tall strength covering her with such seductive gentleness and utter confidence in every deep stroke.

Uh-oh. Hormone alert.

Claire clipped a fistful of chives, ran them under the faucet and fanned them along the butcher block. “Cooking is relaxing.” Order in the middle of chaos. “I had a blast decorating that baby shower cake last night, listening to the spring rain patter.”

Until she’d fallen asleep in her frosting. Claire whacked the chives.

Work might not launch her hormones into overdrive, but it also didn’t confuse her like the man eating in the next room. She needed reliability in her life, especially now. Even with its shoestring budget, her business provided more stability than any man with broad shoulders that screamed to her fingers explore me…

A crash echoed from the narrow hall.

Claire winced at the clatter of shattering china. Superstitious Starr snatched a saltshaker from the counter and pitched a pinch over her shoulder.

Another reason to keep quiet about the baby. Claire refused to let anyone label this pregnancy the latest in a gosh-awful string of bad luck alongside a leaky roof. A broken water pipe. A rotten board giving way on a porch she could have sworn was in pristine condition. All expensive repairs she could ill-afford if she wanted to keep the business.

Jeez, some days she almost wondered if somebody was out to ruin her—or her house.

Not a chance would she let that happen. This historic old wreck was the only real home she’d ever had. Her biological mother had skipped from apartment to apartment, shelters sometimes too, depending on her finances. Tina McDermott had tried her best to provide for her daughter, but as a seventeen-year-old single mother booted out by her parents before graduation…well, options sucked.

The Department of Social Services had removed Claire at age eight, after discovering Tina was leaving her child alone to work the midnight shift at a truck stop. The Department of Social Services had placed Claire in the care of a kooky, wonderful old woman with a dilapidated antebellum mansion, no money, and a half dozen foster daughters. Many more came and went, placed with permanent families. All but Starr, Ashley and her. When “Aunt” Libby died just over a year ago, she’d left the house to the three of them. Starting a restaurant together was a near-impossible dream, but one they held tenaciously.

Starr passed a basketful of rolled napkins to a busboy before turning back to Claire. “Maybe I’m being a little pushy today because I’m worried about you pulling off all these parties. No offense, but you look like hell.”

“Not a problem. You’re talking to me. Remember?” She picked up her knife and resumed chopping. “The Queen of Anal Retentive. Who wouldn’t look like hell during a busy lunch hour?”

She couldn’t control the exhaustion of her pregnancy, but she prided herself on her organizational skills, a matter of survival when she’d been living with Tina.

Claire chopped faster. Multiple orders echoed up to the high ceiling, along with the familiar clamor of clanging dishes, shouted calls for another pitcher of sweet tea.

Vic drank her sweet tea by the gallons.

Argh! Claire stared down at the pulverized chives. Couldn’t she go at least ten minutes without thinking about the guy? Kind of tough to manage with an ever-present reminder of him in her belly frothing up morning sickness.

Morning sickness quickly segued into afternoon sickness, thanks to a lack of sleep and the clam chowder steaming aromas and heat from a ten-gallon stainless steel pot. No wonder she looked like hell. She felt like hell.

Crash.

Starr grabbed the saltshaker.

Claire made a beeline for the door before the new waiter destroyed every dish in the place. She would just stay well clear of Vic. He had no reason to seek her out since a month after their encounter in his fishing boat, she’d told him she wasn’t pregnant. Which she’d genuinely believed after a spotting episode.

A trip to the doctor for her stomach flu shocked the dickens out of her, then scared her silly because did spotting mean her baby was in danger? And suddenly the baby wasn’t an accident or burden, but rather a little person she wanted so very much.

Sprinting for the hall, Claire hollered back over her shoulder, “Call Ashley and tell her we need help after she’s done with classes, please.”

Their reclusive younger sister preferred to hover in the background, but she wouldn’t stay secluded in her dorm while their business went under.

Claire dodged a busboy with a tub of dirty plates on her way through the kitchen into the hall. A quick mental floor-plan check assured her Vic would be safely out of sight since he always chose the same corner table, number eight.

She screeched to a halt inches away from a mountain of broken china mixed with fried okra and baked chicken.

An overwhelmed waiter with a smooshed corn muffin in hand stared up at her. “Table eight needs to place an order.”

And the bad luck just kept coming.

Where was a shaker full of salt when a down-on-her-luck girl needed it?

“Pass the salt, will ya?” Vic asked his brother-in-law, wondering how many more times he would have to come here before Claire finally talked to him. Face to face, and not in some terse little voice mail message…

No need to worry. You’re off the hook. I’m not pregnant.

Great news. Back to his rootless existence living on his sailboat, as different from his old North Dakota prairie world as possible. Totally free. Except he had these two regrets.

And one of them was walking across the packed dining room of the best-loved new restaurant in Charleston. Right toward his table.

Claire. Her name whispered in his mind like the spring breeze drifting through the open windows, rustling the fishing nets tacked to whitewashed walls. She looked so pretty and fresh in her loose jean dress cinched tight by an apron. Ceiling fans clicked overhead, lifting a strand of her caramel hair free from her gold hair clamp.

She’d been the only thing keeping him going through that other regret. Until he’d messed it up by sleeping with her, then letting his commitment-phobe mindset show.

Claire glided to a stop, her dress swishing a gentle caress against his leg that sparked a not-so-gentle jolt of desire straight to his groin conveniently camouflaged by a tablecloth.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen, welcome to Beachcombers,” she drawled, molasses-sweet tones sliding over his hungry senses. “What can I get for you this afternoon?”

How about a plate of forgiveness?

Except from her closed expression he could see it wasn’t on her menu. Her chocolate-colored gaze met his dead-on and damned if he didn’t want to add a few more regrets to his list.

She pulled a pad and pencil from her apron pocket. “The specials are cornbread-stuffed catfish and chicken-fried steak, followed with a slice of chocolate pecan pie. Could I start you out with an order of the house special barbecue wings?”

If only they could back up to where they’d been before. He missed those uncomplicated hours of staying after closing, drinking her iced tea and talking to fill the lonely evenings before he returned to his sailboat.

Hang tough and place the order, champ. “The catfish sounds fine, Claire. Thanks.”

Nodding, she turned to his brother-in-law, Bo Rokowsky, baching it with him this afternoon. Vic thanked heaven every day his sister, Paige, had found a great guy like Bo after her crummy first marriage, but he also marveled at her ability to put her neck on the block a second time around.

Vic watched the way Claire’s full lips moved as she listed other house specialties. He wondered why he kept torturing himself by coming here trying to talk to her. He would have more luck getting a response from the stuffed fish over the doors.

Women like Claire McDermott who carried the scent of fresh-baked rolls and happily ever after didn’t need a guy like him in her life or in her towering four-poster bed. He’d tried the gold band and white picket fence gig. He’d even thought he and Sonya had built a rock-solid marriage, only to have the whole thing crumble when they’d needed each other most.

Which brought him to his first and greatest regret—looking away for five freaking seconds to rebait his hook while Emma was wading. There had been a couple of other dads and kids—and one small sinkhole in the shallow riverbank.

Nope, he was through with home and hearth, nearing forty and set in his bachelor life. Work at the vet clinic offered a welcome distraction, and time with his niece took care of any paternal leanings that somehow managed to survive inside his battered heart.

Waiting while Bo read over the menu, again, Vic reeled his gaze away from Claire and fixed it on safer subjects. The gauzy curtains gusting in a briny breeze and the sound of sail lines snapping and pinging against masts.

None of which helped since he couldn’t ignore the heat of Claire standing twelve inches away.

A cellphone chirped, tugging his gaze back to the room. At least a dozen people reached into pockets or grabbed for purses, but Bo whipped the winning phone from his jean pocket. He glanced at the faceplate and pushed back his wooden chair.

“It’s Paige. I need to take this outside where I can hear better.” Bo slapped Vic on the shoulder as he passed. “Go ahead and order for me?”

“Sure,” Vic agreed, not that it mattered since the former “player” was already heading outside for the wraparound porch, so sappy gone on Paige and family life it made Vic remember lost dreams.

Silence swelled, exaggerated all the more by the increasing clamor of boat traffic outside. Clanking utensils inside. Tables full of other people apparently having no trouble at all finding things to say to each other.

Claire doodled on the corner of her pad for three clicks of the ceiling fans before flipping the pad closed. The familiar Claire returned with her smile. “Do you think this could be any more awkward?”

Vic welcomed the laugh. Perhaps he’d been worrying for nothing. Time might have fixed things for him. “Maybe if all our families joined us.”

Having her nutty—overprotective—sisters around would definitely make any situation more uncomfortable.

Claire jabbed a thumb over her shoulder toward the hall. “Starr is in the kitchen and Bo will be here again in a minute. Does that count?”

“Well, there you have it, then.” He leaned his chair back, arms crossed. “We’ve faced the worst.”

“It can only get better, right?”

Man, he hoped so.

He eased his chair down onto all fours. “How have you been?”

“Fine. Busy.” She toyed with the waistband of her creamy apron, Beachcombers scrolled on the breast pocket, underlined with a stitched string of tiny shells and footprints he itched to trace.

The waistband accentuated the gentle fullness of her breasts in the Beachcombers jean-and-white theme wear. Fuller than he remembered. And at his eye level.

His mouth dried right up.

Vic took a long swallow of his iced tea before setting the glass back on the table. He had to clear the air or dock his sailboat elsewhere. The boat had seemed like such a great idea when he’d sold off his vet practice and old family home full of memories back in North Dakota. He’d followed his sister and her kid to Charleston when she’d married a local flyboy.

Securing a job at a local veterinary clinic had been easy enough with his Cornell credentials. The boat was all about being a bachelor in this harbor town and able to pull up anchor and sail off for a weekend when memories got to be too much for him. A much better option than drinking away the memories, which he’d started doing too often in his North Dakota home that echoed with childish giggles and tiny footsteps.

Except three-and-a-half months ago, instead of drinking, he’d screwed up and lost himself in Claire on a day when the memories dogged him. The day Emma would have been nine years old.

He’d stayed late at the restaurant to talk with Claire. Too late, and by bottom of the third glass of tea, he’d been cupping her sweet bottom in his hands as they plastered themselves to each other in an out-of-control kiss.

He owed Claire an apology. If she wouldn’t let him deliver it in private, he would settle for their semiprivate table. “Claire? Why don’t you sit until Bo gets back? You look exhausted.”

And she did, so much so he questioned the wisdom of hashing this out now.

“Exhausted? Seems the Jansen charm’s in limited supply today,” she drawled.

Still, she sat. Apparently exhaustion won over pride.

“Even dog-tired you still put other women in the dark.”

“Ah, the charm’s back.” Claire shuffled mixed-up sugar and artificial sweetener packets in the tiny basket, resuming order. Pink on one side. White on the other.

He remembered well what those competent hands could do to his self-control. “Not charm. Truth.”

One elegant finger nudged the lantern centerpiece an inch to the left. “Things are hectic. I’m shorthanded here and the wedding’s coming up.”

“Wedding?” Jealousy bit. Hard.

“I meant, the rehearsal dinner that I’m catering next Friday and three baby showers before then.”

“Oh, right.” He knew that, and he’d forgotten just by looking at her hands.

“These catering gigs are important for the business.” She folded her hands on the table, a small burn staining the tip of one finger.

A protective urge left him itching to do something, to help her. Not that independent Claire would let him do jack. She had her foster sisters to lean on anytime, and undoubtedly a guy someday, too. She should spend her time with a man who could give her a wedding of her own to plan.

Which wasn’t him.

Vic shut down senseless regrets, unrolled his silverware from the napkin and plastered on his best life-suits-me-fine smile. “I’m sure everything will go smoothly with you organizing it.” He dropped his napkin across one thigh. “Just bring Bo the chicken-fried steak.”

She scraped her chair back, obviously ready to run. “Sure, I’ll send that right out with Starr.”

A clearing throat sounded from behind Vic. He couldn’t decide whether or not to be grateful for his brother-in-law’s return.

Bo tucked the cell phone in his jeans pocket, eyeing the two of them with suspicion—and dangerous speculation. “No chicken-fried steak for me. I’m cutting back on cholesterol. Could you hang around for a minute more while I look over the menu again?”

Staring up at the indecisive customer she currently longed to strangle, Claire stifled a frustrated scream. The bad luck just kept rolling in at a time when she needed to bolt for the kitchen, far away from the temptation to tell Vic everything now.

Or worse yet, crawl into his lap and all over him. Now wouldn’t that go over well with the Saturday lunchtime clientele?

Claire launched to her feet. Too fast. She grabbed the chairback for support as her stomach rose to her throat without warning. If Vic’s brother-in-law didn’t make up his mind soon so she could leave, she was going to toss what little she’d eaten all over Vic’s work boots. Big work boots.

No little swizzle stick.

“Gentlemen, how about I give you a while longer to look over the menu? I’ll send someone out to take your order in a few minutes.”

Please, please, please, Starr, arrive soon.

“No need,” Bo insisted. “It’ll just take a second, darlin’, and I may have some questions.” He studied the menu.

For the third time.

Was this guy torturing her on purpose?

Claire flipped open her pad again and doodled tiny baby bottles along the edges to keep from looking at Vic. She dreaded her upcoming conversation with him, but she couldn’t hide the pregnancy much longer. Already, her apron pulled tighter around her waist, and she’d seen his eyes linger on her swollen breasts.

Overly sensitive breasts that currently tingled for the touch of his talented tongue.

How would the footloose bachelor react to the news that he would soon be a daddy? Especially when she could tell he wasn’t over his divorce.

The green-eyed monster nipped her, then turned a sad shade of blue as she thought about the little girl he’d lost and how this would make him think of her all the more.

Claire’s aching maternal heart clenched in sympathy. She didn’t know the details beyond gossip since Vic never talked about his past, a telling silence. The rumor mill held that his daughter drowned and his marriage dissolved as a result.

The green-blue monster turned fiery red to confront the woman who’d walked out on Vic.

Jeez, it wasn’t like they were even dating. Just friends who’d fallen victim to a nocturnal chat and loneliness for one impulsive weekend. Okay, a three-day weekend where they didn’t sleep much. Then the whole condom accident cut everything short because for some reason she’d kept the old box around from her brief engagement four years prior.

At thirty, she should be wiser now about her relationship track record. But Vic had a dangerous effect on her self-control.

Bo slapped the menu shut, jerking Claire back to the present. She poised her pencil, ready to write and run.

“Could you list some of the other house specials?”

She inhaled three slow breaths and willed her stomach not to swell in the eons it seemed it would take this military aviator to make up his mind. “Baby back ribs. Baby artichoke salad. Baked chicken served with baby potatoes and glazed baby carrots.”

Baby? Even the menu was out to get her today. She moved on to safer foods.

“Or pulled-chicken pecan salad on a crisp bed,” she pushed aside thoughts of beds with Vic sprawled across crisp white sheets, “a bed of iceberg lettuce.”

Ice. Yes, cool, chilling thoughts.

“Hmm.” Bo tapped his menu against his chin. “What else?”

Patience, she reminded herself. A mother needed to have patience. “One of our house specialties is country ham.” Would their baby have Vic’s blond hair and his blue eyes? “With blue-eye, uh, I mean redeye gravy.”

“I’ll take the chicken-fried steak after all.”

Chicken certainly seemed appropriate for the day since she felt like a great big coward. “Ooh-kay. One chicken-fried steak and a cornbread catfish coming right up.”

Plucking a folded napkin from her pocket, Claire dabbed the sweat from her brow and willed away the dizziness. Surely it had more to do with her lack of lunch than with the rugged hunk sucking all the oxygen from the room. She pocketed her notepad in her apron and spun away on her heels.

Too fast.

The room tipped.

Thrusting out a hand, Claire stared helplessly at the floor growing closer and could only think how apparently her bad luck wasn’t over for the day.

Two

With lightning reflexes gained from years of dodging potentially lethal horse kicks, Vic shot out of his chair. He scooped Claire up before she hit the hardwood floor.

He bent on one knee, Claire cradled to his chest where his heart pumped. Too fast. Warm and soft, she sagged against him, with dark circles under her eyes. Her head lolled on his shoulder.

“Claire? Talk to me.” What if she was actually sick? He pressed two fingers to her throat and found a steady pulse.

Thank God.

She sighed and snuggled closer, her eyes closed while chairs scraped back throughout the dining room. Footsteps vibrated the floor. Overhead lights dimmed as curious patrons circled, not that he could see anything other than Claire’s pale face at the moment.

Why couldn’t there have been a doctor in today’s diners? His medical training wasn’t worth jack at the moment.

The mass parted as a wiry woman pushed through with a nervous energy that rivaled a hummingbird on Mountain Dew. Claire’s sister Starr fluttered to a stop.

“Move on over, people, and let her breathe.” Not a soul dared disobey the scrappy five feet of frenetic will and wildly escaping hair. “What happened?”

“I have no idea. She just keeled over.” And shaved at least two years off his life. His heart hadn’t slammed this hard against his ribs when he’d jumped a fence to avoid getting gored by an angry, recently castrated bull. “She doesn’t seem to be hurt. I caught her before she hit the floor.”

Starr nodded, rising. “Good. Good. Now put all those hard-working muscles to good use and let’s move her someplace quiet while we decide whether to call EMS.”

Vic gathered Claire more securely in his arms and stood, unable to resist savoring the soft swell of her breasts against his chest, the flowery scent of her hair. And had he mentioned the swell of her breasts against his chest? Of course, Claire would likely clock him with a frying pan when she woke up.

If she woke up.

Concern cranked into high gear. He knew all too well how fragile life could be. In some distant part of his brain, Vic heard Bo speaking to him, but couldn’t concentrate on anything more than Claire in his arms.

He charged around tables after Starr into the hall where waiting patrons gaped. Starr unhooked the golden rope across the stairway that kept guests from going up to the private apartment and waved him past.

Turning sideways, he sprinted up the hardwood steps to the landing and up again. Whitewashed walls gave way to faded wallpaper with cabbage roses. Claire had talked about her plans for stripping the paper in her never-ending task of renovating the house. She worked too hard. Who looked out for her?

He shut down the thought, along with others stinging him with how much this place resembled the family house he’d sold in North Dakota. Not that they actually looked alike, this one full of old southern class and his eked in prairie starkness.

But the air of home, he recognized well.

At the top of the stairs, Vic reached to open the hall door leading to the living quarters, never loosening his hold on Claire. Scents of home-cooked meals gave way to the fragrance of a hundred percent her.

Flowers, the purple kind. Lilacs maybe? The perfume she carried on her body. On her crisp fresh sheets. A scent she’d imprinted on his memory.

Vic turned to Starr a couple of steps behind him. “Where should we go?”

“She’ll be more comfortable on her bed.”

Pivoting on his heel, he charged through the sitting area, down the hall, to the first room on the left.

And froze.

He shouldn’t know which door led to her bedroom. Heat crawled up the back of his neck. Aw, for Pete’s sake, thirty-nine was too old to blush.

He offered a belated questioning look to Starr. “Uh, is this it?”

Starr cocked her head to the side. The heat along his neck flamed a little hotter. Busted.

Since Starr lived in the carriage house out back and their other sister, Ashley, lived on campus at the College of Charleston neither of them had known about his weekend up here. Unless Claire had told them.

Starr’s eyes narrowed before concern returned to wipe away her unspoken question. She nodded, pushing the door wide. “In here.”

Memories nailed Vic. Dead on. Flattening all his defenses as surely as if he’d been the one to pitch onto the floor instead of Claire. Her mammoth four-poster bed loomed in front of him with all those gauzy things draped around the square bracket along the top. The open window rustled the filmy draping like some kind of bridal bower over her bed.

He’d spent the best seventy-two hours of his life with her there—and against that faded cabbage rose wallpaper, and on the stairs.

In his bass boat.

Behind him, Starr cleared her throat. He needed to get his head on straight and think about Claire. Carefully, he lowered her to the fluffy comforter.

Talk about reliving memories.

You’re in big trouble, champ.

Vic looked over his shoulder. “Could you get a glass of water for when she wakes up?”

Furrows wrinkled Starr’s forehead. “Good idea, and a cool cloth, too. Maybe a thermometer? I’ll be right back.”

Claire burrowed her face into the pillow as Starr’s footsteps faded down the hall. Relief kicked through him so strong he almost staggered back a step.

“Vic?” she mumbled in a sleepy voice too like the one that haunted his dreams.

“Yeah, Claire. It’s me.” He cleared his throat along with any thoughts of Claire’s waking-up voice. “You really gave us a scare down there, lady. Are you okay?”

He hoped so, because he needed to make tracks out of her place and away from her appeal before he landed next to her.

“Mmm.” She shifted onto her side toward him. “Now I am.”

Claire flung an arm over Vic’s shoulder and toppled him forward onto her bed.

Claire snuggled into her dream, fighting consciousness just a little longer. Tingles teased along her skin as she inhaled…man. Strong, warm man in her bed, heavy muscled arms and legs tangled with hers.

And not just any man.

The one she’d been dreaming of having right here beside her since the first day he’d sauntered up her walkway, taut butt, broad shoulders, so much man even her towering entry hall could barely contain him.

Vic’s pine-soap scent and steady heartbeat soothed her senses, mellowing and exciting her at the same time. She’d needed the support of his chest so much on that night. The first anniversary of Aunt Libby’s death had hit her hard, especially so close after the holidays. And she’d already been stressed out by the monied bigwigs drooling over her prime piece of waterfront property, pressuring her day in and day out to sell.

Vic’s steady friendship had meant a lot to her. How could she not turn to him? Comfort that night had shifted quickly to something more.

She nuzzled his neck. “Mmm. You smell so good.”

And she was so sleepy.

Vic coughed.

“Really good.” Her languid arms flopped around his shoulders to toy with his collar. “You feel good, too. Have I ever told you how hot your butt looks in jeans? And that faded patch in front makes me want to flatten my h—”

“Uh, Claire…”

“Yeah, Vic?” She slid a button free through warm cotton covering even warmer man.

“We need to stop.”

“Don’t wanna.”

His wry chuckle kissed her ears as seductively as his mouth had done a few months ago. “Well, me neither, but we have to.”

She didn’t want to think about her groaning bank account and repairs piling up faster than she could count them, not when a much-needed nap and a warm chest waited in this bed. She fought consciousness. For just a few seconds longer she wanted to abandon Claire-logic to the boundless possibilities of dreamland. “Why should we stop?”

“Because Starr is in the next room filling a glass of water for you. She’ll be walking through that door any second now.”

An icy shower of realization splashed her wide awake. This wasn’t a few months ago. This was now, with Vic on her purple comforter and totally unaware of a third little person with them.

Her eyes focused simultaneously with her thoughts.

Claire shoved Vic’s chest. She bolted upright just as he rolled off the mattress, work boots thumping on the braided rug as he launched to his feet.

She hitched the hem of her dress down past her knees. “What are you doing here? What am I doing here? How did we—? What were we—?”

“Stop.” He kept his voice low, glancing over his shoulder at the door before continuing, “You passed out downstairs.”

Memories flooded back of pitching toward the floor. Claire pressed a hand to her stomach to reassure herself life was still growing, safe, already fully seated within her heart.

Nothing seemed wrong. She just felt queasy, ops normal these days. “I passed out?”

Nodding, Vic rebuttoned his shirt. “I carried you up here afterward. Are you okay?”

No! She wanted to shout. I’m not okay at all. This baby left her excited and scared at once. No matter how many times she told herself she wasn’t a single seventeen-year-old like her mother, she still couldn’t stem fears of letting down her child.

And in the middle of all those fears rumbled a confused mishmash of emotions for the baby’s father tipping her world until she couldn’t see straight. Or maybe that was because all she could see was a broad set of shoulders and a gorgeous head of thick, sun-kissed hair that begged her fingers to smooth it.

Staring into eyes so blue they turned almost as purple as the lilacs on her windowsill, she wanted to tell him about their child now. She wanted him to be happy about the baby. She needed him to reassure her they would sort out reasonable plans for sharing custody.

And if by some fluke the once-bitten-twice-shy bachelor actually offered to marry her?

Not a chance. She’d been an obligation to so many people over the years. She wouldn’t put that grief on her baby.

But Aunt Libby’s old voice whispered in her mind that a mama would do anything for her child. Or was that her own mother’s voice she could barely remember anymore? A woman who’d even been willing to climb into a trucker’s cab on occasion to earn extra dollars for rent.

Claire swallowed down sympathetic tears that pooled closer to the surface these days. She’d stumbled on that tidbit of info about her mom when searching through Aunt Libby’s paperwork, which included a copy of Claire’s case file. All of which flooded her eyes with more tears for both mother figures in her life who had sacrificed so much for her.

Vic’s arm slid around her shoulders. “Claire, baby, are you all right?”

Omigod, she couldn’t think now, and she definitely couldn’t talk rationally. She blinked fast. Better to speak with Vic when her emotions were steadier…and when her sister wasn’t one room away.

Claire swung her legs over the side of the bed and willed the wisteria-vine pattern climbing her faded wallpaper to quit wiggling. “I’m fine. Thank you for carrying me up here so I wasn’t sprawled out there for all the customers to gawk at.”

“No problem. I just want to make sure you’re okay.” He pressed a hand to her forehead. “My specialty may be four-legged patients, but you don’t feel feverish.”

Uh-oh. He wanted a reason. She gripped his wrist and tried not to notice the steady pulse under her touch, the masculine bristle of hair sprinkled along his skin. His eyes met hers, held, the pulse throbbing under her fingers sped. Hers answered with a resounding ka-thump.

She dropped his hand. “Thanks for the medical assistance, Doctor Jansen, but this two-legged patient is only hungry. I skipped breakfast this morning.” And lunch. “With the extra catering jobs, I’m putting in additional hours. It must have caught up with me.”

He jammed his clenched fists in his faded jean pockets. “You should take better care of yourself.”

She knew that. Already she felt like a rotten mother, but she had such a tough time asking for help. She would—in another week. “I’ll be fine once I eat something.”

And kept it down.

“Even a farm vet like me can see you need a nap.”

“Tomorrow.” She slid off the edge of the bed to her feet. “I have too much to—”

The room tipped. Her stomach roiled. Before she could blink, Vic braced her shoulders and sat her on the bed. He gripped the back of her neck and eased her forward. She dropped her head between her knees. Her notepad thudded to the floor. She would retrieve it after she found air.

“Deep breaths. Slowly. It’s okay,” Vic’s voice soothed in time with his steady strokes along the back of her head and neck. Then along her shoulders. One hand on each side, he patted and braced her in case she fell forward again. “Keep breathing.”

She drew in air tinged with the scent of his soap and her magnolia trees outside. Long after her stomach settled, she stared at Vic’s work boots and feared what she would find if she looked up. Would he suspect? Hopefully he didn’t know anything about pregnant women.

What a stupid thought. Of course he did. His ex-wife had been pregnant once.

Slowly, Claire straightened, but she found nothing more than concern on his face. The wisteria plants on her wallpaper stayed blessedly still, although her face in the armoire mirror matched the leaves on the vines.

Vic kept both hands on her shoulders. She couldn’t seem to scavenge the words to tell him she no longer needed his support.

For just one weak moment, she let herself forget her fears about being a good mother, about holding strong against all the people clamoring to take her house away. Forget that even if she could stay in his arms, Vic had been burned in the past, too. Forget everything but the wonderful deep blue of his eyes as he searched her face.

Staccato footsteps sounded from the hall.

Vic dropped his hands in a flash and stepped back. He scooped her notepad off the floor and plopped it on her bedside table by a colored-glass bowl of rocks.

Inching off the bed, Claire grabbed the bedpost for support. She knew full well her shaky knees had more to do with Vic than his baby.

Starr blasted through the door, water glass, cloth, and thermometer in hand. “Oh good, you’re awake.” Her spiky heels clicked across the waxed wood floors. “Sorry it took me so long, but I couldn’t find the thermometer. And oh, uh, your medicine cabinet’s not quite as organized anymore.” She gasped for breath, setting everything on the bedside table. “You scared the spit out of me.”

“Sorry about that.” She reached for the glass and dutifully swallowed down two sips before setting it by her notepad and decorative rocks.

“And well you should be.” Her foster sister shoved her down onto the bed with a strength that would have surprised most people.

But not Claire. She knew her fireball sister better than that. Nobody tangled with Starr. Well, not anyone with sense. A cold cloth slapped across her forehead.

Vic leaned against the wall next to her armoire. “She hasn’t eaten today. Something about being too busy.”

Claire shot him a you traitor look, before smiling at her sister. “No need to take my temperature. I just need to grab a quick bite and I’ll be fine.”

Her nausea usually didn’t last past the afternoon. She’d tried to arrange her schedule for later shifts so she had mornings to lie in, but preparations for the baby shower tonight had skewed her schedule.

“Yeah, right.” Leaning, Starr creaked open the trunk at the foot of the bed and whipped out an extra pillow. She thunked it at the end of the mattress. “You’re going to put your feet up and sleep. I’ll bring you a sandwich in a minute.”

“But the—”

“Baby shower. I own a third of this place, you know. I can hostess an event on my own just like you do.”

But the cooking wasn’t Starr’s area of expertise. She managed the bar as well as handling the artsy side of decor and the gift shop, while accounting major Ashley had taken over the books.

Still, they did all help out with waitressing in a pinch.

Starr bustled to the window and closed the blinds. She left a few inches free at the bottom for the wind to slant through since the AC barely worked. “Ashley will be here in a few minutes. She and I can pull the rest together before tonight, and still watch over the restaurant.”

“But you don’t know what I’ve—”

“Good Lord, girl.” Starr swished to the door and flicked on the ceiling fan. “You’ve been making detailed lists for as long as I can remember. I’m sure you’ve got one around here somewhere. Just give it to me and I’ll take things from there.”

Claire patted her right apron pocket. Empty. But she always kept it there. Of course, she’d been distracted lately. She fished inside her left. Empty as well. Oh yeah, it had fallen out. “I know the last-minute list is here some—”

Vic slid the pad off her bedside table. “Is this it?”

He paused mid-reach, frowning. His eyes locked on the top sheet of paper. Claire followed his gaze…right…down…to his lunch selection bordered with baby bottles. Then he looked up. At her.

At her stomach.

His rugged face blanched as white as her bleached lace curtains gusting in the window. He knew. She didn’t even have to wonder. Her throat closed.

His paleness quickly shifted to something darker. Thank heavens her sister stood behind him. Anger stamped itself across his normally easygoing face and in his beautiful eyes. Who knew blue could turn to black?

She understood he had every right to be angry with her for not telling him sooner, but that didn’t stop the swell of disappointment. Silently, Vic dropped the pad on the bed and scratched a hand along his chest, right over his heart.

Claire yanked the little notebook up and ripped the top page off before passing the rest to Starr. “Here, this has a list of the last-minute errands.”

At least Starr seemed oblivious as she babbled nonstop. “Where did you put the guest list? I’ve already made the centerpieces and party favors. Does Ashley have the games, or did she already drop them off?”

Claire answered automatically, unable to drag her eyes from Vic’s face as it blanked of all expression. “On the computer. In the Shower section, folder marked Rena Price. And yes, Ashley has the games.”

Starr flipped through the notes. “What about the menu listed on your notepad? Where do I find everything?”

The notepaper crumpled in her fist. “Check the freezer, second from the top shelf, for the things I baked ahead and froze. The rest is in the pantry.”

“Labeled, I assume.”

“Of course.” Claire forced herself to swallow past the wad of regret in her throat. “I’m sorry,” she said, more to Vic than her sister.

Starr tossed a lightweight quilt over Claire’s legs. “Don’t apologize, hon. You pull more than your share living here while I hide out in the carriage house. I’ll be back in a second with a sandwich.”

Her foster sister stepped away to hook arms with Vic and began inching him out of her room with a knowing look that didn’t bode well for secrecy. “Thanks again for the muscle help.”

“Anytime.” Vic nodded. “Good-bye, Claire.”

His mouth might have said good-bye, but his determined eyes said clearly they’d be talking soon.

She hadn’t seen the last of him, Vic vowed.

Frustration fueled his feet as he charged down the front steps of the restaurant, across her yard toward the marina. He strode past the Beachcombers’ white wooden sign, seashells piled around the base in place of landscaping rocks. His gaze locked on home, his Catalina sailboat. His head still buzzed with numbing realization like the bees zipping through the blooming azalea bushes.

Claire was pregnant.

Vic slapped a mosquito snacking on his neck, the sting nowhere near as sharp as the one inside him. She’d lied. Lied in that message, and again every day after with her continued silence.

He’d been an idiot, especially today, in missing the signs. He’d attributed the fainting spell to exhaustion. When her face flooded with that telling shade of green, a flipping bullhorn had sounded in his head. But he’d ignored it even though he’d seen that nauseated hue on Sonya’s face a time or two—or five.

Then he’d seen the baby bottle border on Claire’s pad, followed by her guilty blush, and he couldn’t ignore the obvious any longer.

She was pregnant. He was going to be a father again, and the kid was his. He’d watched Claire’s house from the deck of his boat often enough to know she wasn’t dating anyone else.

Still, she’d known about the pregnancy for months and hadn’t said a word to him.

Vic thudded down the dock, water below him slapping the posts and the hulls of everything from ski boats to yachts. He closed in on his forty-two-footer, the Dakota-Rat. He’d wanted to name her Emma, but that seemed morbid at a time he’d vowed to get his act together.

Or so he’d thought.

He leaped from the dock to the bow. He should head inside and…what?

His feet stalled. Maybe he deserved her silence after the pathetic assurance he’d scrounged up during their broken-condom incident. Of course none of that mattered now if there was a child to consider.

A child.

Vic stopped by the wheel and grabbed the rail for support. His hand slid up to scratch his chest over his thudding pulse. He knew he wouldn’t be able to keep himself from loving this kid. But man, he was scared. Flat-out terrified of placing his heart in chubby little hands again.

Apparently, the choice had been taken away from him.

Resting his elbows on the warm metal railing, he gazed across the water at Claire’s white clapboard house. The wraparound porch with hanging ferns swaying in the wind offered a welcoming vision he knew wasn’t meant for him.

He would leave her alone for her much-needed nap and the shower party thing. But before morning, he and Claire would have one very straightforward discussion. He’d had enough of Claire shuffling him aside.

Even though the thought of marriage knocked his sea legs out from under him, no way would he walk away from his child.

Three

“That makes at least seven children for Rena Price!”

Starr’s announcement about broken ribbon superstitions jangled in Claire’s ears, the restless nap having done little to settle her nerves. She normally enjoyed baby showers and all their sentimentality, but not tonight.

Although Claire had to admit, her sisters had pulled everything together well while she slept.

They’d closed off the smallest of the three dining areas, leaving the two other rooms and the back bar open for business. Chairs for the thirty-four guests perched in a semicircle by a banquet table of presents, the buffet lining the back wall. Rena reigned from a mauve wingback chair, the expectant mom absurdly regal in her floppy bonnet concocted with gift ribbons and bows. The woman’s third trimester pregnant belly had Claire itching to scratch her own expanding waistline.

Instead she checked out the decorations for the tenth time to make sure every floating candle stayed lit in the crystal bowls. Magnolia and gardenia blooms accented clusters of white, pink and blue balloons. A centerpiece basket overflowed with party favors—horseshoes decorated with raffia and ribbon to hang over doors for good luck.

Superstitious Starr’s idea, of course.

The inexpensive decorations scrounged from their yard and estate sales weren’t too shabby. Hopefully word would spread, leading to more bookings for showers and rehearsal dinners—even banquets.

Claire swept a stray hair back behind her ear. If only the mess she’d made of her situation with Vic could be as easily handled.

Not for the first time tonight, her gaze gravitated to the open French doors toward his boat docked in the harbor. Dusk left a hazy glow over the water. Lights lined the marina, Vic’s boat glowing inside as well since he lived there.

His hard-muscled body made a towering shadowy outline on the deck, no doubt watching for her guests to leave so he could corner her. He lounged against the rail illuminated by a halogen lamp, slowly drinking from the glass in his hand.

Even from a distance, she knew without question the glass contained her tea. He always purchased a gallon to take with him. He never drank alcohol. Never. She’d asked him why once and he’d said something offhand about always being on call for his four-legged patients. She’d wanted to urge him to share, but he’d nuzzled her neck and…

Well, she’d forgotten about questions as well as stocking up on more condoms. Ones with a current expiration date.

“Okay!” Starr waggled a tiny wicker basket in the air. “Now that we’re done with the presents, it’s time for one more game. My favorite. Baby-Making Mad Libs.”

Claire winced. Could this evening be any more torturous? She glanced out the window at Vic—waiting.

The answer remained to be seen.

Starr rained slips of paper into the basket. “I’ve written down everything Rena said when she opened her gifts. We’re each going to read one of the comments out loud to learn what Rena said the night she and her husband made this fourth baby.”

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