Baby by Design: Designing Love Book One (Crimson Romance) (12 page)

Her face wrinkled. “Thanks for that, but I hardly think they’d agree once they found out I was pregnant by you without so much as a dinner date between us.” She banged her head off the woodwork. “What was I thinking? Angie was right.”

Like fingernails down a chalkboard. Angie was always right, and it irked him. “Let’s go.” He marched up the stairs. “I’m taking you to dinner.”

She scrambled after him. “Tony, it’s not that simple.”

“The hell it isn’t. Ange knows we slept together. It’s only a matter of time before she whines to Ma. But nobody can say a damn thing about it if we’re dating.”

“But we aren’t dating.”

“We are now.” He grinned. “And don’t forget to put on a bra. I can still see your nipples.”

• • •

Sitting across from Tony Corcarelli in an IHOP restaurant, Trish surmised this was her life. There was some sort of poetic justice in it. Hadn’t her mother always warned her about falling for the smooth-talking guy? Oh, and Tony was smooth. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be caught dead inhaling a stack of chocolate-chip pancakes at midnight. She swiped at a dribble of maple syrup on her chin.

“Damn, you can eat.” He smiled around a forkful of omelet.

“I eat when I’m worried.”

“You talk a lot, too, which must make a big mess.”

She chewed slower, wrinkled her nose in disgust, and glanced at her shirt to make sure it was syrup-free.

“I’m teasing,” he said.

“You always are.”

“Not always.” He held her gaze with smoldering eyes.

Okay, she’d give him that. He could be serious when the situation warranted. There was nothing teasing about the way he made love. Not that they made love, she reminded herself. They had sex and hopefully made a baby. Big difference. Huge.

She took another bite of pancake and then dropped her hand to her belly beneath the table, rubbing back and forth. Was anything going on in there?

Angie’s interruption and Tony’s late-night dinner caused Trish to miss out on the obsessing she planned to be doing at home. She raised her other hand, wrapping it around a glass of orange juice. What were the chances she was pregnant on the first try?

Taking a sip, she held the cold liquid in her mouth until it warmed and then swallowed. She wanted to be pregnant on the first try, because prolonging interactions with Tony had become unnecessarily complicated.
But we aren’t dating
, she’d said to him.
We are now
, was his reply. Why did that silly technicality make her tummy tumble? Dating Tony was a front, so his family didn’t see her as a slut once the test turned positive. She needed to keep that in mind if she was going to get through the next nine or so months sane.

“So what’s on the agenda tomorrow?” Tony sprawled in the booth, arm flung across the back, plate pushed away from the edge of the table.

Trish blinked. “What agenda?”

“What do you have planned?”

“Work,” she said, leery of where this was going. He’d asked to do
it
again before Angie interrupted, and now they were “dating.” Surely he didn’t plan to exploit their interactions, and yet, this was Tony she was talking about.

“What kind of work?”

“Interior design.”

He bobbed his brows and tilted his head. “Are you this difficult with all your dates?”

“Maybe.” Hardly. Only him. He made her do the damnedest things.

“Then I can see why you’re still single.”

She tossed her napkin across the table at him. It flopped against his chest. He simply smiled and tossed it back.

“You’re going to need that for cleanup, what with all the eating and babbling,” he said.

She couldn’t stop the smirk. “Fine,” she said, dropping the napkin into her lap. “I’m working on the Collins’s house tomorrow morning. Angie’s laying hardwoods in the addition, and I’m meeting with cement contractors. Tomorrow afternoon I have blocked off for shopping. They’re minimalists, so it’s something different.”

He nodded while he dipped a finger into a clump of whipped cream on the edge of her plate. “How does a frilly traditionalist shop for a minimalist?”

“Very carefully,” she said with an easy smile. “Or else the minimalist ends up with a floral-patterned, oversized ottoman where a recycled-materials coffee table should be.”

Tony straightened, sucked the cream from his fingertip with a smack of his lips, and rested his elbows on the table. “Where’d you find a recycled-materials coffee table?”

“No place yet. That’s what I want to buy, but I can’t find what I’m looking for.”

His brows inched higher on his forehead. “Then let me make it.”

“I thought you only upholstered furniture.”

“Honey, you’ve only scratched the surface of what I can do.”

Her tight skin burned. Ever suggestive, always the flirt, he riled her insides until she squirmed on thoughts of the other things he could do. Put it this way, the man had a very talented tongue.

Trish nearly groaned in disgust at the way her brain and body were behaving. Yes, he was attractive, but she refused to pine over him or make him more important than he was. As warped as it sounded, all she really wanted was his baby. She needed to remember that.

Life was entirely too complicated already.

“I’ll tell you what. I have a few sketches of what I’m looking for. You can take a look and see if it’s something you’d be interested in, but no guarantees. If I’m not pleased with the workmanship, then I’m not buying.”
There
, she thought. The easiest way to remember Tony’s place was by putting him in his place. She was the boss.

His hands disappeared beneath the table, and he leaned forward until his chest was inches from his plate. “Sounds fair. And I’m not worried.” A warm hand landed atop her thigh. “You’ll be buying…again and again and again.” He winked as he pressed fingers into the flesh above her knee. “I’m good at everything I do.”

Trish shuddered.
Let’s just hope you’re good at making babies.
If she had to endure much more of this, she was headed for major trouble.

Trish wasn’t hungry, but that couldn’t absolve her of lunch with Mom. So she sat in her usual seat at the club, staring over her mother’s shoulder out the window at the golf course.

Angie was on her mind.

Talking hadn’t gone as planned. When Trish arrived at the Collins’s, Angie busied herself with work. The few times she paused long enough for Trish to speak, Angie pretended like nothing was different. Pretending like nothing was different made it feel like everything was different, especially when Angie cited an evening with Nonna as her reason for not hanging out with Trish. Maybe it was the truth. Maybe it wasn’t. But if things were normal between them, Angie would’ve asked Trish to go along.

Trish didn’t want this strain. That’s why she was rethinking her plan.

A sweater-vested man with a caddy half his size walked the green moor. They had the same wobbly gait. Were they father and son? Trish bit her cheek. Some people were meant to be biological parents. Some people weren’t. If she fell into the latter category, then so be it. But then her stomach cramped, and her heart jumped, and Trish immediately wondered if it was the baby.

She slipped a hand to her belly. Every twinge was a reminder that one time was all it took. She had unprotected sex with Tony around the time of ovulation. Pregnancy wouldn’t be a shocker. As much as she wanted to rethink this plan, she’d already put it into motion, leaving her no choice but to improvise for a few more weeks. Then she could take a test, and if the test was negative, she could put a healthy distance between her and Tony, hoping to make things right between her and Angie. If the test was positive… She didn’t know what that would do to their friendship. She only hoped all the Corcarellis would be happy, because she would be.

She rubbed the non-existent bump.

“Darling, get more sleep. You have bags under your eyes. Or change your eye cream. You’re not getting any younger, you know.” Trish’s mother paused for a sip of chardonnay. “Which is why I think you should consider something.” Another sip of wine built anticipation. “Mary Perrault’s son is in town for a couple weeks.”

Trish sharpened her focus from the green outside the window to her mother’s painted face. “Stu is in town?”

“Yes, dear. And he asked if you were seeing anyone. He wants to call you.” Her glistening pink lips curled. “Looks like you have unfinished business.”

“We finished any and all business when he moved to Paris.”

“He may be moving back, but don’t tell him I told you. Your father said the Paris operation isn’t as productive as Glenn had hoped. But never mind that. Wouldn’t it be lovely, darling, for you and Stuart to reconcile after all these years?”

Lovely? Comical, really. Here she sat with her hand on her belly which may or may not contain a speck of Tony’s child, and the only man she ever loved wanted to call her while he was in town for two weeks.

Stu.
Trish huffed a breath and returned to staring out the window, gazing at a pure white sand trap. Stu had been perfect for her. He was handsome, warm, and ambitious with an adorable propensity for making lists. In fact, she owed their breakup to the wisdom found in such a list, one that outlined the positives and negatives of a transcontinental relationship. Over a bottle of Cabernet, they listed the good and the bad, and when the bad hung below the good, they called the relationship off. Just like that. How did one argue in the face of sound rationale? She missed that kind of straightforward thinking.

“Stu’s back,” Trish mumbled.

“Yes, dear. That’s what I said.”

But what would Trish say to him?
Why yes, Stu, I’d love to have dinner with you, maybe rekindle the flame. By the way, how do you feel about the possibility of raising another man’s child? I might be pregnant.

Trish coughed on stomach acid until she choked.

“Darling, drink something.”

Trish had the urge to drain her mother’s wine, but the maybe baby in her belly made her reach for water instead. After a long drink cooled her throat, she nodded. “Mother, there’s a slight problem with Stu calling me.”

Dolores wrinkled her brows and leaned in. “Do tell.”

Trish winced. “I’m sort of seeing Tony Corcarelli.”

Dolores's eyes widened and her lips curled. “You don’t say.”

Oh, Trish said it, whether she wanted to or not, because what choice did she have? As long as there was a chance she was carrying Tony’s baby, she had to act the part.

• • •

Tony was avoiding Angie. It was easier that way.

He saw the fire in her eyes at Trish’s house, and he knew her anger wouldn’t die. He had that effect on her, ever since he turned down their father’s offer to run the carpentry business, resulting in his father’s insistence that Angie buy out Tony’s half. Fifty-fifty split, the feeble man had said. And who would argue with a guy who was dying? Angie sure didn’t. She accepted the offer to take the company reins, and she bought out Tony two weeks after their father died. Tony was stupid enough to think that was the end of it.

He stared at Trish’s sketches sprawled on his kitchen counter until his vision blurred. It wasn’t so much that he hated carpentry. It was more that he hated being tied down to one thing. No sense of responsibility, Angie called it. He shrugged. Maybe she was right about that, too. After all, look what he’d done. He tried to get her best friend pregnant. Where was the responsibility in that?

His vision cleared, and the longer he looked at the drawings, the more his mind whirled with ideas for Trish’s table. Brainstorming was better than dwelling on his tanking relationship with his sister. It was also better than wondering if one time with Trish was enough. The way he’d dreamed about her last night, he knew the answer to that question. It wasn’t. He’d do it again in a heartbeat, because there was something about the way the woman made love, rougher than he expected, like all that prim and proper professionalism was desperate for a break. Of course, what she was really desperate for was a baby. Was one time enough for that?

In a blink, his thoughts became convoluted again.

With a growl, Tony shoved the drawings across the countertop and watched them float to the floor. What if she was pregnant? He thought all he wanted was bragging rights to a wish-list topping gift for Nonna, but he’d also get a kid. His kid. His and Trish’s kid. He looked around 400 square feet of apartment and couldn’t find room for a crib. Unless he sold the pinball machine, downsized the flat screen…or moved.

The money from the buyout sat there like a thorn in his heart, because if he spent too much, he worried he’d somehow make things worse with Angie. She already assumed he’d blown the majority on loose women and tattoos. Yeah, he’d had a few of both, but not enough to drain the account.

Still, the idea of moving, of altering his life that dramatically frustrated him, and he pounded a fist against the countertop. His willingness to take a risk got him into a hell of a mess this time.

When the intercom buzzed, Tony thought to ignore it, but then curiosity got the better of him. With Ma helping Nonna, and Nonna preferring to stay home, daytime visitors were far and few between. And if it was Angie, which Tony doubted, he needed to grow up and face her.

“Yo,” Tony called into the yellowed box beside the front door.

“Tone, it’s me. Lemme up,” Vin said.

Tony obliged, waiting with the door ajar for Vin to make the two-flight trek. When he saw the black of his head bob above the bannister, Tony smiled. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Invites.” Vin held out an envelope. “It’s kinda late in the game to mail them, so I’m hand delivering.”

“Invites to what?” Tony asked as he opened the envelope and removed the black cardstock.

“An Evening with the Italian Tenors. Nice, huh?” Vin gestured to the professionally printed invitation.

Tony stared at the silver lettering. “Cripes. A little fancy, don’t you think?”

“The guys sing in tuxedos. I booked Hillman Center. What did you expect? Construction paper?”

“An email.”

Vin rolled his eyes and flicked a finger at the invitation. “It’s Tony and guest, but bring somebody classy. This is a big deal.”