My brain goes into deep freeze. Some kind of shock setting, where everything happens in super slow-mo.
She starts to step down from the Airstream, onto the fold-out metal stairs.
She looks out as she does. Sees me. Her mouth opens. Her eyes get big.
She says, “You?”
And then she sways. Her foot catches the edge of the step, and she flails, her eyes opening even wider in alarm—
I react without thinking, lunging for her. Catching her before she can topple, pulling her body against mine to brace it. My arms are full of her, this woman I’ve tried to forget. All the details come flooding back. How she smells: bold, bright, almost but not quite citrusy, like the crushed petals of something strong but not exactly floral.
Like marigolds, I think.
How she feels. Still so light in my arms, like she isn’t quite human. Some kind of fairy or nymph, I don’t know, something ethereal.
Her curves are full blown against me. Her breasts, which had been small enough to easily palm the night we fucked, the round of her belly—they’re pressed so close that my body gives up trying not to react to her. I’m hard, and in the chaos of her—so soft here and so taut there and still struggling to right herself—I’d have to guess that despite my best efforts, she can feel what she instantly, easily does to me.
Yikes, that’s a greeting.
I steady her and pull back, because even though we have a history, I don’t think shoving my erection against her on first re-meeting is the right way to make a second impression.
But the touch of her body and the scent of her skin lingers even when I put space between us. I back up several steps until I collide with Clark, who steadies me with a hand on my shoulder.
Marigold is staring at me like she’s seen a ghost. And now that the rescue’s accomplished, I’m staring at her, because—
I don’t know pregnant women very well.
I don’t know exactly how to judge how pregnant they are.
But it takes nine months, right? And you don’t show for the first three. And she’s not huge-huge. She’s medium-sized. So that means, she’s… well, like, probably? About? Six or seven months pregnant.
I do some super-quick math.
It could be mine.
It could easily be mine.
Holy shit.
But… wait…
It could be someone else’s, too.
I don’t know anything about her. Maybe she has sex with strangers in Vegas hotel bathrooms regularly.
I hate that idea. I hate it with an unholy passion.
I want it to be mine.
Wait. What the hell…? Do I mean that?
I can’t mean that.
But I hate the alternative so much that I think maybe I do.
I drag my gaze up from her lovely round belly, meaning to jump straight to eye contact, but I get stuck on the way. Just for a split second, but wow. Her breasts are a fucking thing of beauty. I cannot tear my eyes away.
She clears her throat, and my gaze snaps back up to meet hers. There’s an expression on her face I can’t read. I could be her dream come true or her worst nightmare.
And I realize I’m a complete disaster. I’m standing in front of this woman who I haven’t been able to stop thinking about for months. Who is definitely pregnant with a child that might be mine. And despite the gravity of the moment, I haven’t managed one word.
In fact, the first Wilder brother to speak is Clark.
“I’ll, uh, leave you two to, um, chat,” he says.
Instinctively, I grab for his arm. Like, omigod, don’t leave me, brother!
“Kane,” he murmurs. “You can do this. You got this.” Then he gives me an unreadable look. “Also,” he says, still under his breath. “I, um, know you have a lot going on here. Like, a lot. But it would be awesome if you didn’t fuck up the job situation. We need her.”
That gets my attention.
Right.
As terrifying as this situation is, I know a few things. And one of them is that Wilders don’t run.
Not from anything.
And definitely not from this.
For one thing, Wilder Adventures needs someone to redesign those Airstream trailers. That someone is Marigold, regardless of whose baby is rounding her belly like a basketball.
And if the baby is mine, then…
All the more reason not to run.
I want that baby to be mine.
This time I find it a little easier to admit it to myself.
I want the baby to be mine for all the reasons I tried to make things work out with Veronica. Because I crave backyard wiffle ball and flag football and Capture the Flag games. Because I long for family vacations and Wilder parties where my kids run in packs with their cousins.
But I also want the baby to be mine in a primal way that makes it clear that wanting a happily ever after from Veronica is the romantic equivalent of settling for whatever pizza topping happens to land in front of you.
I want that baby to be mine because I haven’t been able to get Marigold out of my head in the seven months since we walked away from each other. And now that I’ve seen her?
My whole self remembers why.
Clark gives my shoulder one last reassuring pat and melts back toward the office, leaving the two of us alone. She’s still standing on the ground just in front of the trailer.
I finally suck air into my lungs. I take a few steps toward her and manage, “Hi.”
“Hi,” she says.
One thing I do know about pregnancy, you’re not supposed to comment on it unless the woman says something first. But not being able to comment on something that big and obvious and… right there between us… basically means that I can’t form any other words.
And when I finally manage, what I say is,
“So. You’re here about the trailers.”