Commitment (14 page)

Fred greeted her with an impassive gaze. She wrestled with the locks. Once she was secure in the safety of her apartment she gave it another shot. “I’m going to have a baby,” she whispered to her companion.

Until today, she never said it out loud. Not to anyone. Not even her doctor. They made it through the entire consultation speaking only in the most detached, clinical terms. It took some amazing skill, really. She visited the fertility clinic her doctor recommended and repeated the entire process, asking questions, filing away information for reference, and mapping out a timeline to turn her life upside-down without actually stating her intention. That is, until she stared into Tom Sullivan’s earnest blue eyes in broad daylight and announced it without missing a beat.

A giggle bubbled from her lips, seeping through her fingers and spilling into the room. Her heart beat a pitter-pat. The throb of her pulse roared in her ears. She could feel the blood whooshing through her veins.

“I’m going to have a baby,” she asserted, throwing her shoulders back. Unimpressed, Fred sauntered into the living room. She chased after him, needing to share the joy with someone who wouldn’t look like they were about to pass out. “A baby, Fred! A baby!”

She hauled the obese cat from his perch on the ottoman and whirled around the room. Her giddy laugh mingled with Fred’s protests. She stumbled on the bags strewn across the floor and clutched the furry feline to her chest.

“A baby of my own. All mine,” she murmured into his fur. Pressing a kiss to the cat’s broad forehead, she cuddled him close and sank onto the couch. “We’re going to be a family, Fred. You, me, and a baby. It doesn’t matter what the turkeys say. We can do this. We don’t need anyone else.”

Fred emitted a growly purr and nuzzled her chin. He also pierced her thigh with his claws. “
Gah
!” Maggie ejected the cat from her lap. “Dammit, Fred! Why’d you have to do that?” Twitching his tail, Fred sniffed and prowled toward the kitchen.

“Typical man. You’re getting dry food tonight!” she called after him.

Rubbing the afflicted spot, Maggie flopped back against the cushions, blowing her hair from her face in an exasperated huff. “Ungrateful…Arrogant…” She traced the weave of her jeans with her thumbnail and checked the fabric for a tear. “We were having a moment, you shit!”

She let her head fall back and stared at the ceiling. “And now I’m talking to the cat.”

A throw pillow nudged her ribs. She yanked it free, flung it at the opposite end of the couch, and followed it down, closing her eyes before her head hit the pillow. Her thigh throbbed. Silence strummed in her ears. The prickle of a headache took root behind her eyes. She pressed the heel of her hand to the center of her forehead, but nothing could block the image of Tom standing on the sidewalk looking like she’d just hit him with a battering ram.

All she could see was the flicker of hope in his blue eyes melting into fear and confusion. Her heart beat a dull thud against her breastbone. That twinge of regret was back, squeezing her lungs. Maggie swallowed hard and lowered her hand to her stomach, stroking the soft curve.

She didn’t wait to watch him walk away. Something told her that might be too much to bear. She liked him. Too much. She liked his cowlick, his smile, and the rumble of his laugh. She liked the way his deep blue eyes crinkled at the corners, fanning his cheeks with lines earned by a man who enjoyed life. A man who would never settle down, never make a commitment beyond dinner and the possibility of dessert.

It hurt to see him go. About as much as she was afraid it would. But Maggie couldn’t afford the luxury of indulging any further. Spending any time with Tom was dangerous. More time would only lead to disaster. She tried for a snort, but it came out in a half-hearted sniff.

“Yeah, best to make a run for it before your super sperm get me.”

She knew herself well enough to know she wouldn’t be able to keep it casual. Each time she saw him, she’d fall a little for that boyish smile. Each time she talked to him, she’d remember what it was like to laugh that much. Each time he drew near, she’d be unable to resist mussing his hair just so she could smooth that cowlick into place.

No. She had a plan, and Tom Sullivan had no business showing up anywhere but in her daydreams. And maybe a few dreams at night, particularly the X-rated variety, but no more than that. That night was a fluke. A fling. A sort of a farewell to living for herself. Soon she would be living for someone else.

The thought filled her with warmth. She tipped her head back, peering at the dusty windows lining the living room wall, absently rubbing her belly as she stared at the crystal star suspended in the window. Her grandmother hung it in Maggie’s bedroom decades before and promised her that wishes could come true.

For too long, Maggie clung to the tattered shreds of her illusions. She nurtured them the same way her grandmother had nurtured her. In the days, weeks, and months following her parents’ deaths in a car accident, Mary Elizabeth McCann weaved a gossamer web of wonder in a frightened little girl’s world.

A pastel pink fantasy of a bedroom became her reality. Sugary sweet cookies chased away the bitter taste of loneliness. Tales of princes on gleaming white chargers and an unshakable belief in the power of true love’s kiss forged an unbreakable bond between two women who should have been separated by the span of decades and the ache of loss. Her grandmother taught her to find joy in little things, and hope in the promise of bigger things to come.

Lately, she couldn’t help but feel she let her grandmother down. The hopes and dreams she held onto for so long never came to fruition. The knowledge that it would soon be too late twisted her heart into a tangled knot. The acrid taste of failure chased by a bottle of wine left a lingering taste on her tongue. That crystal star symbolized all of her girlish illusions, and every dream she was letting go in order to take a chance on another dream.

Maggie stared at the sparkling hunk of cut glass. “Is it too much to ask?” she whispered to her wishing star. “It’s all I ever wanted.”

Pale autumn sunlight filtered through the city grime and into the room. Maggie held her breath, waiting for it to reach just the right angle. In just eighteen days she’d start taking the
Clomid
. That meant that in about a month she could expect to be ovulating. There was a possibility—a very slim possibility, but still a possibility—that she could be pregnant by the New Year.

All of the twinges, tweaks, and pangs of regret she ever felt pushed her deeper into the couch cushions. She gasped for a breath but choked on the sob that rose in her throat. Her eyelashes fluttered, blinking away the tears gathering on the spiky tips. She wet her lips, covering her stomach with both hands. Sunlight streamed through the windows, catching the facets of her wishing star. Bright rainbows of light danced across the walls, splashing onto the floor. Maggie drew a sharp breath then whispered, “I wish I may, I wish I might….”

Chapter Eight

Three days. For three days he was a complete and total train wreck. The first day was the worst. He flubbed his way through his court appearance, going through the motions of making motions. When opposing counsel asked for yet another continuance, he barely mustered up a weak objection. He could hardly remember if he bothered to say anything more to his client before he snatched his briefcase full of legal
gobbledy
-gook and bolted for the door.

The next day, he brought a bottle of John Jameson’s Irish whisky home with him. The only thing he got out of the visit was a pathetic case of the drunk-
sads
and a raging hangover the next morning. On the third day, he decided to switch medications by calling the perky blonde who worked at his bank.

The date was a disaster. Another night, another restaurant too cheap to pay the electric to light the place decently, and another three hours of his life he’d never get back. It wasn’t Jessica’s fault. She was just as perky, blonde, and beautiful as he remembered, and he was just as distracted as he had been since the moment Maggie dropped the bomb. He might have kissed her goodnight at her door, but in all honesty he couldn’t remember. So much for perky Jessica.

His keys clattered into the dish on the hall table. Tom stood in his living room, trying to get his bearings. The hum of the refrigerator greeted him. He scanned the room, trying to pick out every item he’d chosen himself. The television, the couch, and the glass-top coffee table…Everything else seemed to have magically appeared over the years.

Dropping onto the couch, he toed off his shoes and tugged at the knot in his tie. His palm brushed the supple leather of the couch cushion. Tom had to screw his eyes shut as tight as he could to keep the image of Maggie naked, flushed, and panting from flooding his overflowing brain, but it was no good.

He let his head fall back, too tired to fight it any longer. The bitterness that ate at his gut was replaced by the memory of the sweet tang of damp, heated skin. The choking confusion that plagued him eased a little when he recalled the fresh lemon-y scent of her soap. He rubbed his chest, trying to soothe away the ache. Being with Maggie shouldn’t have hurt, she made him laugh. But without Maggie, he hadn’t managed so much as a chuckle for three days. It was ridiculous, spending hour after hour thinking about a woman he never let himself think about outside of his fantasies. What was worse, the more he thought about Maggie, the more afraid he was that the gnawing pain eating away at his heart might actually be jealousy.

Tom launched himself from the couch and stumbled to the foyer. He snagged his briefcase and strode down the hall to the spare bedroom he used as a home office. Seated in the cushy leather chair, he dropped the case onto the desk Marcella
Sebastiani
found at an estate sale and insisted was perfect for him. He pulled a handful of files from the cordovan attaché—a gift from a woman named Susan
Brightman
—and plopped the pile onto the polished mahogany surface.

He plucked a pen from the center drawer and grabbed the nearest yellow legal pad. Gnawing his bottom lip, he tapped the heavy fountain pen against the binding of the tablet. He blew out a breath, tossed the pad aside and flipped open the top file. About six words into the document he realized that only one actually made sense. For some reason, the word ‘Custody’ came across loud and clear.

The fact that his mind automatically latched onto that one disgusted him. Why couldn’t he have picked ‘whereas’ or ‘herein’. Those were both perfectly harmless words. Words that wouldn’t make him start thinking about Maggie. And her baby.

Of course, with a donor father Maggie would never have to deal with messy custody issues. She wouldn’t have to share her child on Wednesday nights and alternating weekends. Neither would she end up spending an inordinate amount of time in the McDonald’s
Playland
trying to squeeze in as many nuggets and minutes of fun into a weekend or Wednesday as she possibly could.

Maybe she was being smart. Maybe she wasn’t as crazy as he first thought. Okay, he didn’t really think she was crazy. Mildly delusional, perhaps, but not certifiable. She had a point. She wasn’t getting any younger, and if anyone was meant to be a mom, Maggie would be the one. Not
The One
for him. The one who should have a baby. Not
his
baby.
A
baby.

He snatched up the legal pad. The cap of his pen clattered to the desk then rolled off the edge. His jaw set in a firm line, he decided to take Sheila’s advice to heart. He started to make a list of more ‘age appropriate’ women who would also qualify as ‘Tom appropriate’. Women with no designs on marriage and children or one without the other. Women who were invested in their careers. Women who might be open to the type of relationship he could tolerate.

Ink flowed onto the page, but instead of forming a letter, all he got was a black splotch. He closed his eyes and focused with all his might, scrolling through his mental rolodex. The only candidate that sprung to mind happened to be opposing counsel on the custody case he nearly blew two days before.

Sharon Kincaid fit the bill. She was attractive enough, in an uptight, poker-up-the-ass kind of way. Of course, she could be a barrel of chuckles outside of the courtroom for all he knew, but he doubted it. Something told him that her hair stayed ramrod straight even when it was released from that god-awful bun. He had a feeling those boxy suits she wore weren’t hiding lacy scraps of lingerie and a killer figure. Tom chewed the inside of his cheek and tapped his pen. He wrote her name on the pad, but he knew it wouldn’t matter. His gut told him it was a no-go.

He had a hunch the woman was drier than the sliced white meat that hung around in his refrigerator for a week after Thanksgiving. After feasting on the bounty of Maggie McCann, Counselor Kincaid would be the caloric equivalent of a Lean Cuisine. It would never work. He wasn’t opposed to frozen foods, but as a guy, he felt they should damn well be the full-flavored variety.

Full-flavored. Full-figured. Hands full of Maggie’s breasts. Milky white skin so translucent he could map the pale blue veins beneath the surface. Taut, beaded nipples. The delightful rasp of pebbled flesh against his tongue. Those tight buds rosy as ripe raspberries and infinitely sweeter.