Baby by Design: Designing Love Book One (Crimson Romance) (17 page)

“If I am pregnant, Angie says you should marry me.” Trish looked at him, those big eyes blazing. “I’m telling you right now that is not what I expect from you. I never expected that. I will go to bat for you with your family, because I know how traditional they can be. So no pressure, ya hear?” She blinked a few times, and then forced a smile.

Ya hear?
Under normal circumstances he would have teased her about his lack of proper English rubbing off on her, but hey, they were talking about more than his poor grammar becoming a part of her. They were talking about his child. And marriage. And suddenly, all the silly, flirty games he lived to play whenever she rolled around didn’t hold the same allure.

But marrying her did. If Trish was going to be the mother of his baby, then Angie was right. Tony needed to marry Trish, to give his baby legitimacy, a real last name, a dad who didn’t come around once or twice a year, a dad who taught him how to fish, hold a hammer, stand up for the little guy and take care of the women who meant something, all things Tony’s dad taught him.

His throat closed, but he cleared the way for words with an extra-deep breath. “What if I wanted to marry you?”

She tucked her chin to her chest and furrowed her brow. “Why would you want to do that? I mean, it’s not like I’d ever try to keep you from the baby.” She shrugged. “What’s the benefit of going to such an extreme?”

Of course his juvenile brain jumped right to the honeymoon, causing him to grin.

“I’m serious, Tony. What would marriage do besides placate your family and tie us to a relationship that could get ugly? I don’t want to raise a child with a man I hate.” She stared at him with an intensity he’d come to expect, like she was trying to draw out the truth with a tractor beam radiating from her heart.

He lost the smile and walked toward her. “You could never hate me.” If he had to, he would prove his point.

“It happens to the best of them,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

“Did it happen with Stu?” Cards on the table, because the douche had been in and out of Tony’s thoughts for too many days. Once and for all, he wanted to know where he stood.

Trish fidgeted as she loosened the belt around her waist. “No. Not at all. I’m indifferent to Stu. When we broke up, I was sad, but I wasn’t heartbroken. There’s a big difference.”

Tony sat. “Oh yeah, what’s the difference?”

She shuddered when she exhaled. “Sadness is in your head, not in your heart.” And then she tapped a finger to her temple. “The stuff up here can be replaced by other stuff, sellout prices on bolts of fabric, minimum measurements for a master bath, that sort of thing.” Her smile was shaky.

So he smiled back, but then he touched a finger to the slight bulge of her left breast, and neither one of them was smiling anymore. “What about the stuff in here?” he asked, smoothing his finger over the flawless skin. “What can that be replaced with?”

“Nothing,” she said, swallowing loudly. “It just lives on, and on, wishing things could’ve turned out differently.”

Yeah? Well, suddenly Tony wanted to be sure that things would be as different as they could ever be. He slipped his hand into the hair at the base of her head and gently tugged until she opened her mouth. And then he kissed her, erasing all thought of why she’d come and what she’d been doing here. This was all that mattered. He needed her, and if her hands strangling the fabric of his shirt were any indication, she needed him too. And not just to make a baby. Somehow this had turned into so much more.

Tony pushed into her, laying her down, spreading her coat around her body while he worked with his tongue inside her mouth. Wanting her burned him alive, had him squirming in his skin. He fumbled with the buttons of her shirt, yanking and twisting until one broke free and landed on the floor with a tap.

“No worries,” he said, smiling against her lips. “I can fix that. There are benefits to a man who can sew.”

She chuckled, wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her bottom half to his. “After you fix the button, you should fix this couch.”

He reared his head and narrowed his eyes, while his hand slipped beneath silky fabric to her breast. “What’s wrong with this couch?”

“It’s ugly,” she said, hissing as he rolled her nipple, making it hard.

“Just for that, I’m going to keep you here—all night long.”

Never once did she complain.

Trish stood in the Collins’s remodeled kitchen behind a shiny metal island, propping her elbows on the acid-dyed concrete countertop. She scrolled through Google search results for
early pregnancy symptoms
on her phone. She should’ve had these memorized by now. Spotting?
Nope.
Cramping?
Yep.
Tender breasts? She cringed.
Oh yes!
Tired? Cranky? Nauseated?
Check. Check. Check.

She hated to say it for fear of false hope, but it looked like her chances were good, especially now that she and Tony were having regular sex—two nights in a row and counting. The first night, on his couch. The second night, on hers. Tonight, maybe they’d make it to a bed.

She blushed, which was stupid. The nearest crewmember worked on the opposite side of the house. And even if they wandered by, they couldn’t read her mind. Still, she absentmindedly fanned her face with her hand, hastening a return to normal, thinking maybe the blush signified nervousness instead of embarrassment.

After all, having more sex with Tony increased her chances of pregnancy, but it also increased her anxiety over what they meant to each other beyond the baby making, something that had boggled her mind since he didn’t balk at the idea of marrying her.
Only if I’m pregnant
, she reminded herself. And because it was the honorable thing to do, like Angie said.

It wasn’t like Tony professed his undying love for her. Besides, he hadn’t mentioned marriage since the night at his place, and even then, he only mentioned it in passing. Maybe it was all about getting her into bed—or on the couch. She shook away a fresh batch of tingles crawling up her face.

She was too late to get control of this situation, wasn’t she? A few months ago she would’ve sorted her feelings and made a plan by making a list of the pros and cons. She tapped her screen and opened a blank note, typing
+ vs. – of recreational sex with Tony
, but then she stared at the electronic page, not a single bullet item, good or bad, forming in her head.

Pregnancy brain.
Check.

Her phone chimed, and a text from Angie overtook the screen.
ETA 5 seconds.

Straightening on an inhale, Trish deleted the note and tucked the phone into the pocket on her hip so she could meet the delivery truck at the door. As she watched the familiar van back into the driveway, her stupid heart thudded against her ribs, and her smile broadened.

Because Tony was driving.

Before Trish could get carried away with the anticipation of seeing him again, Angie leaped from the passenger side, steel-toed boots colliding with the pavers. She pointed to the Corcarelli Carpentry Co. logo over her left breast. “I must’ve forgotten how to read. Can you see if the word delivery or hauling is printed on here, because I’m confused. Every time I turn around he has me lugging something else, while my crew runs around million-dollar homes unsupervised.”

Trish patted Angie’s upper arm. “Your crew is behaving themselves beautifully.”

Angie nodded, a rare smile splitting her face. “Music to my ears.” She ripped the rubber band from her wrist and fastened her hair into a knot at her neck. “Seriously, though, who’d have thought garbage could weigh so freaking much?”

“It’s not garbage,” Tony said, rounding the front of the truck. “It’s art.” He said the words to Angie, but he was grinning at Trish. “Tell her, babe.”

Apparently Trish had upgraded from Boss Lady. Of course she blushed, but she managed to keep her smile intact and speak. “It’s art, and it’s perfect. Exactly what I wanted.”

“Cripes,” Angie said. “If I were in middle school, I’d be gagging myself with my finger, but since I’m all grown up and running a business here, I’ll forego the antics so we can
work
. Tony, if you can peel your eyes off of her for ten freaking minutes, then we can haul this trash inside.”

Angie clomped to the back of the truck, while Tony sauntered to Trish.

“Hey,” he said, widening his grin and looping his arm around her waist.

She was just about to protest when he pulled her against him, and thrilled her with a hard, hot kiss.

“Tony, so help me God…” Angie’s voice mixed with the truck’s clanging, rolling rear door.

Tony didn’t seem to care. His arms tightened around Trish’s waist, and she had to push palms to his chest to gain release.

“You should go before she gets angry,” Trish whispered.

“She’s always angry,” he replied loud enough for Angie to hear, and then he placed a kiss on Trish’s nose and joined his sister inside the truck.

Trish wandered after them, warmed by his kiss. Was this really her life, thriving design company, hot male companion who made marriage seem appealing, and a baby on the way? It sounded like a fairytale.

“Boss, we got a problem.” Nico Corcarelli held open the front door. “You need to call the plumber. Mickey hit the main line.”

That was when Trish remembered she never held much stock in fairytales. Real life got messy. Planning and preparing weren’t guarantees. Angie’s crew had blueprints and hashmarks, and still they had hit the line. Trish’s lists had pros and cons, and still some things fit both sides. She hated that, wished there was some way to control the chaos. But when she found herself standing ankle-deep in tap water, the only thing she could hope for was to be strong enough that chaos couldn’t wash her away.

• • •

“Can I stay?” Tony dragged his lips from Trish’s lobe to follow her jawline.

Since the Collins’s family room flooded, she’d been preoccupied. Tony hoped a little lovin’ would put her body and mind to rest, but she had yet to reciprocate his advances, so he figured he better ask, being a gentleman and all.

Technically, she wasn’t his “woman” to be pawing anyway.

“If you want.” She fidgeted beside him on her living room couch.

He winced and sat up, giving her some space. “Do
you
want? ’Cause right now it doesn’t seem like you want me here.”

She sighed. “I’m sorry. I have a lot on my mind.”

“Like?”

“Work. You were there. You saw the mess.”

“It’s being professionally cleaned.”

“But it’s a setback and more dollar signs.” She ran her fingers through her shiny hair, tugging on a clump when she reached the ends. “And then there’s this.” She patted her stomach. “Am I? Am I not? It’s a constant back and forth.”

He slid his arm along the back of the sofa, lifting his hand to play with her hair.

“And then there’s this.” She gestured at his hand.

Tony froze with a strand wrapped around his index finger. “What? This?” He tugged the strand.

“Yes.” She lifted her shoulders and shuddered.

“What about this?” He dropped his hand to her head and rubbed.

“What is this?” She shrugged again, this time acting an awful lot like she wanted to be free of him.

He could take a hint. “A massage,” he said, dropping his hand and sliding a few inches away.

“That’s not what I meant. I’m sorry. I’m…” she sighed and shook her head. “Maybe it’s the hormones making me cranky.”

“Maybe. Or maybe you’re realizing you don’t like me as much as you thought you did.” It didn’t sound like the joke he meant for it to be. He leaned forward, embarrassed he sounded so needy.

“No.” She flattened a hand against his back. “That’s definitely not it.”

The heat from her hand seeped beneath his skin, warming his blood until his breathing quickened. “Good,” was all he could manage to say.

“I just feel a lot of pressure, and I worry it’s somehow going to end badly, you know?”

He nodded. Despite the great sex and his strange lack of horror at the thought of marrying Trish, he could relate to her worry. Hard not to, with Angie warning him daily of the potential for doom. Two days ago, she backed him against the tool cabinet in her garage and threatened to castrate him if he fucked up. Talk about pressure.

“And the more we carry on like this, the more I worry we’re kidding ourselves that we’ll be able to be objective if…” her hand dropped from his back, “I’m not pregnant, and Nonna...” She huffed. “I’m sorry.”

Glancing over his shoulder at her bunched face, he reached across the cushion and took her hand. “Don’t be. Nothin’ to be sorry about. You’re a thinker. That’s a good thing. I should probably do a little more of that.”

She shrugged, but then settled into tracing her thumb over his knuckle. He liked the way her hand looked smaller in his. “Thinking is good,” she said. “Overthinking is not. There should be a balance.”

He straightened, moving closer, keeping her hand wrapped in his. “Like you should feel as much as you think?”

“Exactly.”

He wanted to kiss her again. “I can help with that, you know?” He lifted her hand from his lap and placed it on his chest as he moved in for that kiss. ‘If you want me to.”

“I do,” she said, tickling his lips with her whisper.

And he did.

After two nights of half-hearted sleep on surprisingly uncomfortable couches, Tony hauled Trish to bed. Of course, they didn’t sleep much once they got there either, and that sort of bothered him. He slipped out of bed, making a mental note to Google
sex during pregnancy
before he kept her up again.

While she slept, bathed in moonlight, he showered and brushed his teeth with the spare toothbrush she magically produced the night before. It only partially wigged him out that she kept it in the holder next to hers.

Without waking her, he headed downstairs for coffee. Two nights and days in a row, and somehow it felt like routine. All he needed was a change of clothes and it’d be like he was living here.

The thought stopped him on the bottom stair. He glanced around the flashy, floral surroundings lit by the soft glow of the crown molding lights. Hardly what he’d call his style, but damn, he liked that sixty-inch TV. And the bed. And the family room couch. Hell, every piece of upholstered furniture here.