Do You Take This Baby?
Wendy Warren
Marriage is in this playbook! Football champion Ethan Ladd planned to spend the off-season dating beautiful women and living the good life. Until his ailing infant nephew is thrust into his care. Despite his best efforts, social services doesn't believe Ethan is up to the task. It's fourth and long…and the offense has a loaded diaper. Time to pull out a trick play.Marry Ethan Ladd? They dated once. It was so bad, people are still talking about it. But after Gemma Gould's failed engagement, a temporary husband and baby may be the closest she ever comes to having her dream family. Gemma agrees to play until Ethan wins custody. But when he makes a play for her heart…will they score a touchdown for love?
Marriage is in this playbook!
Football champion Ethan Ladd planned to spend the off-season dating beautiful women and living the good life. Until his ailing infant nephew is thrust into his care. Despite his best efforts, social services doesn’t believe Ethan is up to the task. It’s fourth and long...and the offense has a loaded diaper. Time to pull out a trick play.
Marry Ethan Ladd? They dated once. It was so bad, people are still talking about it. But after Gemma Gould’s failed engagement, a temporary husband and baby may be the closest she ever comes to having her dream family. Gemma agrees to play until Ethan wins custody. But when he makes a play for her heart...will they score a touchdown for love?
“I know you wanted to be married, have kids the normal way. But you yourself said you weren’t willing to wait to be married in order to have children. You were going to push ahead on your own. This is another option. You’re my friend, and I think you’re sexy as hell. Marriages have been built on less, I bet.”
Her face flushed a deeper pink than her pajamas. A good sign? He found himself hoping so.
“Think about it, will you, Gem?” He raised the marshmallow he’d plucked from the jar and brought it to her open lips. “What was it Scott and Elyse said at their wedding? ‘I promise not to let the sun set without telling you how lucky I feel to have you’? I can promise you that. And marshmallows. If you say yes, I promise never, ever to make you go without marshmallows.”
Before she could say yea or nay, he popped the treat into her mouth, following it with a kiss he intended to be as light and sweet as the candy. And it was. Until her arms went slack, and the blanket fell, and the temptation to make the kiss something more became too much for either of them to resist.
* * *
The Men of Thunder Ridge: Once you meet the men of this Oregon town, you may never want to leave!
Do You Take This Baby?
Wendy Warren
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
WENDY WARREN loves to write about ordinary people who find extraordinary love. Laughter, family and close-knit communities figure prominently, too. Her books have won two Romance Writers of America RITA® Awards and have been nominated for numerous others. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with human and nonhuman critters who don’t read nearly as much as she’d like, but they sure do make her laugh and feel loved.
For
Tim Blough
And
Matt Pizzuti
Husbands, fathers, true heroes.
Contents
Cover (#ue4e67b13-b771-5e0e-b40a-8cb19ac40172)
Back Cover Text (#ub6f98846-bc0a-5967-828d-017917645015)
Introduction (#uf8ad7958-4aa2-5a4a-8207-ef0bdc506006)
Title Page (#ud739c906-5920-5500-847d-46fd62331ab6)
About the Author (#u5826ca10-d3bb-506e-9216-b7ed9ce05bda)
Dedication (#uc1ecbda7-4828-51e2-87b5-394f1d29351c)
Chapter One (#uf42ec078-b16d-5c89-b809-0ce22d6e6fbf)
Chapter Two (#u208f6bb8-0210-5aa0-9df5-232a64b49c8b)
Chapter Three (#u6707ceab-8557-5430-a6b7-7553fd9b6b83)
Chapter Four (#u42f30ad2-b4f0-560d-8483-9eba83165472)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#u5a0e35c3-92e3-5665-b49c-5ed9c141cfdf)
One little mistake. That’s what Gemma Gould had made. One little mistake...that she was going to pay for the rest of her life.
“Beer or Bellini?” she muttered, keeping her head lowered as she manned the bar set up in her parents’ backyard. Today’s coed bridal shower for her youngest sister, Elyse, was turning into her own worst nightmare.
“Let’s go, everyone.” Elyse’s maid of honor stood at the Goulds’ sliding glass door and clapped her hands. “Grab your burgers and your drinks and head to the family room. Elyse’s episode of That’s My Gown! is about to begin.” The announcement made Gemma’s blood curdle in her veins.
Perspiration trickled down her back, hot and damp and sickening. Maybe she could say they were out of peach nectar for the Bellinis and that she had to run to the market. For about three days. Or better yet, she could fake an appendicitis attack—total rupture—and disappear for a week or more.
Nine months ago, Elyse had insisted that Gemma accompany her on a trip to New York to shop for a wedding gown (the selection on the West Coast being far too limited), and they ran into one of Elyse’s college friends who, as it turned out, was working as a producer on the TV show That’s My Gown! The next thing Gemma knew, she was Elyse’s “entourage,” tasked with the responsibility of murmuring “ooh” and “aah” as Elyse modeled an endless parade of gorgeous wedding gowns. Simple.
Only it hadn’t gone so well.
“I’ll have a Bellini, please,” requested the sweet, high voice belonging to one of Elyse’s eleven bridesmaids, “and could you hurry, Gemma? I missed the episode when it aired on TV. I hear it’s a hoot!”
Gemma smiled with her teeth gritted. Yeah, it’s a hoot, all right. Pouring a slushy, Creamsicle-hued drink into a stemmed glass, she passed it over the portable bar. “There you go, Collette.”
“Thanks,” chirped the tiny brunette. “You’re such a good sport to let Elyse show the episode today.” She reached a toned arm across the top of the bar to grasp Gemma’s shoulder meaningfully. “You know, it’s very powerful the way you two have decided to embrace humiliation and turn it into something super fun. You’re an inspiration.”
Gemma gaped at the girl. “Thanks.”
Scooping ice into the blender and pressing Crush while Collette hurried away, Gemma kept her gaze averted from the guests who were streaming toward the family room.
The fact was, until someone mentioned it ten minutes ago, she’d had no idea the episode was going to play on her parents’ fifty-two-inch plasma TV during the bridal shower that she was cohosting.
All of her family and plenty of the other people here had already seen the episode. It had been the talk of the town when it first aired on TV. And in a town as small and, lately, as wedding-obsessed as Thunder Ridge, she and Elyse had become instant celebrities.
Morosely, she watched the blender chop the hapless ice cubes into tiny shards. I know just how you feel. She’d heard all the witty comments about her appearance on the show—that she, always the bridesmaid and never the bride, must have been suffering from PTBS—post-traumatic bridesmaid’s syndrome. Or that, at almost thirty-four, she’d had a “senior moment” on TV. And of course there were the people who felt “just horrible for poor Elyse,” whose big sister had fallen dead asleep (and actually snored) while Elyse was sashaying along the runway in her very favorite gown.
Yep, Gemma had nodded off, snored, probably even drooled a little on a national TV show. The cameraman had caught her catnap—and Elyse’s outrage—on-screen. The show added thought bubbles and sound effects in postproduction, making it appear as if Gemma had fallen into a stupor after a few too many strawberry margaritas at brunch and suggesting that Elyse was a bridezilla, just waiting for her sister to wake up so she could smack her unconscious again.
Good times.
After loudly sobbing out her humiliation, Elyse had decided to face the episode head-on, showing everyone she was rising to the occasion by laughing at it herself. Nonetheless, Gemma had been making amends for ruining Elyse’s fifteen minutes of fame ever since.
“If you’re trying to show that ice who’s boss, I’d say you’ve succeeded.”
The deep, amused voice made every muscle in Gemma’s body go rigid. Oh, no. Noooo. She had known, of course, that Ethan Ladd was on the guest list for this afternoon’s party, but he was in town so rarely that she hadn’t expected him to show up.
Go away. She turned the blender up a notch, and the noise was satisfyingly obnoxious.
“Seriously? You’re going to pretend I’m not here?”
“Not at all. I’m pretending I can’t hear you.” She dropped several more ice cubes down the safety spout in the blender’s lid. The crunch was deafening.
A tanned hand reached over the bar and into her space. Involuntarily, she jumped back as Ethan managed to switch off the blender.
The nerve.
He was taller than her by at least ten inches and outweighed her by...what? Five, maybe six pounds?
Joke. She wasn’t that heavy. But having been pudgy throughout her childhood and teenage years, she’d learned there were people who appreciated her “curves” and others who thought she could drop a few pounds.
Keeping her head lowered, she felt rather than saw Ethan wag his head as he stared down at her. “Genius IQ, and ignoring me is the best you can do?” He clucked his tongue.
“I don’t have a genius IQ. And I’m not ignoring you,” she lied, her voice as tight as her muscles. “I’m concentrating on the job at hand.”
“You always were a perfectionist,” he said dryly. It didn’t sound like a compliment. “I think you’ve lost your customer base for now, though. Except for me. I’ll take a soda. Please,” he added after a beat.
She inclined her head to the left. “They’re in the cooler. Help yourself.”
“I was hoping for some ice.”
“In the cooler.” She still didn’t look at him. Could not look at him. Because looking at Ethan Ladd had always been her downfall. Like kryptonite to Superman, an eyeful of Ethan Ladd could turn Gemma into goo, marshmallow fluff, overcooked linguine—a squishy, messy mound of something that wasn’t remotely useful.
“I’ll help myself,” Ethan said sardonically and moved away from her line of vision.
Gemma grabbed a dish towel and mopped at the water pooling around the blender, her mind racing a mile a minute. When she’d gotten dressed for the evening, she’d felt perfectly confident about her outfit—a sweet 1950s-style red-and-white polka-dot dress with a cinched waist and full skirt. She’d paired the vintage piece with red patent-leather peep-toe pumps and wound a yellow scarf, headband-like, around her dark brown hair. Now she wondered if she should have opted for something more trendy or sedate.
Dang it. Ethan freaking Ladd—on today of all days, when she was already the underdog.
Refusing to glance in his direction, she listened to him root around in the cooler, heard the ice clatter as he withdrew his soda and the click of his no doubt expensive shoes as he walked across her daddy’s stone pavers to where she stood, all her senses on red alert, at the bar.
“’Scuse me, Gem.” Directly behind her, he reached around her frozen-in-place body to grab a glass, his shirt brushing the back of her shoulder. Silky shirt...bare shoulder. Her heart flopped like a defibrillated fish. Then his right arm came around, and he grasped the handle of the blender. “I like my ice crushed.”
Was it her imagination or did he deliberately brush against her a second time?
“You don’t mind, do you?” he asked as he shook the frosty shards into his glass, then replaced the blender. Moving to her left, he opened the soda and poured, leaning one hip against her work space.
That’s when Gemma made her fatal mistake: she looked up, and there it was—his gorgeous kisser. Whether you liked Ethan Ladd or not, it was an empirical fact that he was practically an Adonis. The last time she’d seen him had been about a year ago. She’d been standing on the corner of Southwest Broadway and Southwest Salmon in downtown Portland, waiting for the light to change, and Ethan had been on the side of a bus. Or rather, his likeness had been.
Grinning face; thick golden locks styled, no doubt, by someone who charged by the hair; shoulders that bulged with sculpted muscle; abs chiseled from granite; and his Super Bowl ring front and center as he posed with his hand resting along the waistband of what had to be the skimpiest pair of underwear in BoldFit’s lineup of men’s briefs.
“So, your sister seems to be enjoying herself,” he observed.
Gemma’s throat and mouth were so dry, she could barely speak. “Mmm-hmm.”
“How about you? Are you enjoying the spotlight?” Behind the ever-present I’m-thinking-something-very-amusing-right-now smile, Ethan watched her steadily, his dark-rimmed blue eyes thoughtful.
“Not my cup of tea.” She gestured toward the house. “Why don’t you take your soda inside, Ethan? I’m sure Elyse wants you to see the show.” That would give Gemma time to catch her breath, practice her company smile and knock back a pitcher of Bellinis.
“No thanks. I had dinner with Scott and Elyse in Seattle four months ago. Heard all about it. Naps are supposed to be very healthful.”
She was a summa cum laude, had a master’s degree and taught literature at a private college, yet she rose to his bait like a trout to a lure. “I was teaching summer courses. I told Elyse I was too busy to go to New York, but she insisted, and—Why am I explaining this to you?”
“Well, I’m no psychotherapist, but I’d say you have an inflated view of your own importance.”
“That was a rhetorical question! You’re not supposed to answer it.”
“Sorry, Professor.” His grin was challenging. Maddening.
“So—” Gemma worked at affecting a disinterested tone “—should we prepare ourselves for a brief stopover, Ethan, or are you gracing the old hometown with a longer visit?” As a wide receiver for the Seattle Eagles and the proud bearer of a Super Bowl ring, Ethan was one of Thunder Ridge’s favorite sons. He truly was a local celebrity, with fame lasting a lot longer than fifteen minutes. And his ads for BoldFit men’s skivvies had garnered a new generation of teenage girls who were swooning over him.
“I’m Scott’s best man. Have to fulfill my duties.”
“Getting the keg for the bachelor party? Just FYI, Elyse will sever body parts if you hire a stripper.”
He grinned hugely. “I don’t know any strippers.”
“Not even the ones you’ve dated?”
He laughed outright, not the least bit offended. “And how about you?” he asked. “You still live and work in Portland, right? Last time I was in Thunder Ridge, I stopped by to see your parents. They mentioned they don’t see you as much as they’d like.”
The news that he still visited her parents when he was in town did not come as a surprise. Her mother proudly mentioned it each occasion when it happened. Ethan was two years younger than Gemma and the same age as Scott Carmichael, Elyse’s fiancé. He and Scott had met while playing middle school sports. Growing up with an aunt and uncle who’d rescued him from a dysfunctional situation, he’d spent lots of evenings and weekends accompanying Scott to the Gould home. Elyse and Scott were already an item in middle school, and Gemma’s mom had considered Ethan a “trustworthy chaperone.” Ha! She should only have known.
“My parents won’t be happy until every one of us kids moves back into our old rooms—with or without our spouses and children,” Gemma said, intending to dismiss her mother’s complaint, but then she winced. Ethan’s eyes narrowed, and she realized her parents must have told him that her engagement to William Munson, a math professor, had ended almost a year ago. “Anyway,” she said with false brightness, “I come home almost every weekend.”
Oh, hell’s bells. Could you sound more boring?
A burst of hysterical laughter rose in the family room. Her star turn as the worst bridesmaid on the planet must be playing in surround sound.
Looking down so Ethan wouldn’t see the heat that rose furiously to her face, Gemma wiped her hands on the apron she wore over her dress. “Well, I’d better go...check on the dessert.” A lame excuse, for sure, but she needed to escape.
He grabbed her arm before she could leave. “Why do you let them take advantage of you?” The words were soft, but penetrating.
She blinked at his expression. Gemma had seen Ethan on TV when his team went to the Super Bowl. The whole town had watched. Ernest Dale at Ernie’s Electronics had set up three TVs in the store window, all programmed for the game. Gemma couldn’t have missed it if she’d tried; Thunder Ridge had turned into one giant Super Bowl party just for Ethan.
As the wide receiver, he’d caught a number of passes and was playing well, but then three-quarters into the action, he’d missed an outside pass. He took off his helmet and threw it to the ground, the camera following him. Jaw square and tense, brow lowered, eyes penetrating, he looked very much the way he did right now—angry and disgusted.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, because she truly didn’t. Her family wasn’t perfect, of course not, and as the baby, Elyse could appear spoiled at times, but they loved Gemma. She was the eldest daughter, and perhaps the only one in their family tree who was logical, practical and coolheaded in a pinch. “No one is taking advantage of me. I help because I want to.”
“Admirable.” His eyes looked almost iridescent in the afternoon sun slanting across her parents’ backyard. “But who helps you?”
Maybe it was his lowered voice adding intimacy to the question. Or perhaps Gemma was simply tired and vulnerable, but tears pricked her eyes. Oh, no, no. We are not going there. Not with him.
She had thoroughly humiliated herself twice in her life. One of those times was being replayed in the family room for everyone to see. The other incident was long past, but in many ways it had been worse, and Ethan Ladd had been responsible for it. Partly responsible. Mostly responsible.
Oh, what the hell, it had been all his fault. He had ruined her senior year homecoming dance. He had ruined her senior year, period. Gemma had her revenge, but she’d stayed emotionally distant and physically away from him as much as she’d been able to after that miserable night. No way was she going to give in to the weird urge to blubber into his broad chest now.
“Thank you, Ethan,” she said in her best Professor Gould voice, “but I have lots of support. Right now, all I need is to make sure the cheesecake stands at room temperature for twenty minutes before we serve it, so if you’ll excuse me.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Yeah, it is. I brought my own veggie burger. Left it in the kitchen.”
She glanced at his heavily muscled body, evident even beneath the T-shirt and jeans. “Veggie burger?” she said doubtfully, walking toward the patio door that led to her parents’ ample kitchen. “Since when?” In high school, he’d once sat in their kitchen and scarfed down four hot dogs and half a large pepperoni pizza.
“I consider my body a temple.” Mischief undercut his tone. He reached the door, opened it and held it open, his arm high above her head, looking down at her as she passed through. She caught his wink. “Have to make up for all those years of debauchery.”
He was angling for a response. “Careful you don’t change too quickly,” she replied, “you wouldn’t want to send yourself into shock.”
Ethan’s easy laughter rang through the kitchen. Her body responded to the sound, sending shivers over her skin. Darn.
“I was kidding about the veggie burger. I only like them if they have meat and cheese.” He went straight to the refrigerator and peered in. “That’s a lot of cheesecake.” He began to stack the boxes in his arms.
“I’ll do it,” she protested.
Paying no attention, he deposited the cakes on the center island and opened the white cardboard. “Rocky road,” he murmured. Knowing exactly where to look in her mother’s cabinets, he retrieved a plate and fork.
“Stop!” she ordered as he began to work a knife into the dessert. “I told you, those aren’t supposed to be sliced until they’ve sat at room temperature for twenty minutes.”
“A rule clearly intended to be broken. Like so many other rules,” he purred, sliding a slice of the mile-high cheesecake onto the plate.
“I thought you were treating your body like a temple.”
“I am. I’m bringing it an offering.” Ethan seemed to let the bite melt in his mouth. His eyes half closed. “Mmm-mmm.”
Gemma’s knees went weak. How did he do that? How did he make eating look sexy? If she floated the fork through the air the way he was doing, she’d probably drop a chunk on her bosom. No wonder he’d garnered as much celebrity for his sex appeal as he had for playing football. Suddenly, Gemma felt very, very hungry, but not for cheesecake.
Fiddlesticks. Ethan Ladd short-circuited her brain and hampered her logic. It had been different when she had a fiancé. William was intelligent, educated, taught at the same college as her and was pretty much perfect for her. They’d met in the library, for crying out loud. Engaged to William Munson, Gemma had no longer thought about men who were wrong for her. She’d stopped reacting when Ethan’s name came up or when she heard he was in town, working on the McMansion he’d built on four acres that backed up to Long River. She had become neutral.
She needed another fiancé, stat.
“Gemma? Hey, Gemma!”
Ethan’s voice made her jump. “What?”
“I said, are you sure you won’t join me?” He held his fork out to her, his eyes half closed in a way that made him look as if he’d just rolled out of bed. Or was still in it.
Oh, yes, I’ll join you... “No! Absolutely not.” She marched around the counter and closed the box. Reaching into the cabinet beneath the center island, she withdrew a large silver tray she had polished earlier in the week.
In a moment, today’s guests would emerge from the family room, laughing and ribbing her about her appearance on TV. Elyse would be grinning on the outside, but Gemma knew her perfection-seeking sister was crying on the inside, because Gemma had marred her big moment. So she would try to make amends—again—by earning a spot in the bridesmaids hall of fame.
A few months ago, she’d ordered a book about fruit and vegetable carving online and had dedicated more hours to perfecting watermelon roses than she had spent on her master’s thesis.
“I need to prepare the dessert tray,” she told Ethan, waving him toward the other part of the house. “You have a legion of fans out there. Why don’t you bask in the glory of being Thunder Ridge’s favorite son?”
“Well, now, that’s exactly why I don’t want to be in the other room. All that attention tends to make my head swell, and I’m working on humility.”
He gave her such a deliberately innocent expression that Gemma felt a genuine smile tickle her lips. The man was wearing a Bulgari wristwatch and designer jeans. And the home he’d built? It was so massive and completely out of proportion with any other home in the area, it shouted, “Hey, everyone, a really, really rich dude lives here.”
Seeing her smile, Ethan leaned against the kitchen counter and tilted his head. “How about I help you with the dessert? I promise not to eat any more cheesecake. Scout’s honor.”
A wave of déjà vu hit her: once before, he’d offered to spend time with her, to take her to senior homecoming dance, in fact. And that had been a disaster.
Before she could courteously decline his offer, Ethan’s cell phone rang. He used Kenny Chesney’s “The Boys of Fall” as his ringtone.
“Thought I silenced that.” He grimaced. “’Scuse me.” Into the phone, he said, “Ethan here.”
While he listened to the caller, Gemma tortured herself with memories: the thrill of believing that Ethan wanted to take her to homecoming. Yes, he’d been two years younger, but there hadn’t been a senior girl at Thunder Ridge High who wouldn’t have jumped at the chance to date him. And Gemma, she had...well, she’d...
Oh, go on, admit it. We’re all adults here.
With Ethan turned half away from her, she looked at the massive squared shoulders and sighed. Every time he’d come to her house with Scott, she’d fantasized he was there to see her. That the two of them were going to hang out, study together, talk about music and books and movies and sports teams. Not that she was into sports, but with her photographic memory it hadn’t taken all that long to memorize the stats for every player in the NFL, so that if he decided he wanted to get to know her one day, she would be ready with the kind of conversation he was likely to enjoy.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Ethan’s tone was sharp and concerned, jerking Gemma back to the moment at hand.
Oookay. She moved about self-consciously, withdrawing a tray of edible flowers with which to decorate the dessert while she pretended not to eavesdrop. Which, of course, she was.
“No, I was not aware. Where is she?” Ethan spoke with his jaw so tight, the words had trouble emerging. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll get ahold of her myself...I see. Yes, do that. I’ll be available by phone.”
There was silence. The heaviest silence Gemma had ever heard. She worked at her corner of the center island, her face turned away from Ethan, wondering if she should speak. She had no idea what the phone call was about, but his distress was obvious, and she felt a strong desire to say something comforting.
When the silence had lasted long enough, Gemma finally turned to catch Ethan staring at the floor.
Suddenly he didn’t look like Ethan, King of Thunder Ridge High, or Ethan the Football Star, or Ethan the Sex Symbol, or Ethan the Boy Who Made Gemma Gould Feel Like an Ugly Duckling Loser in High School. He was, perhaps for the first time in her eyes, just a regular human being. And he looked really, really alone.
“Are you all right?” she ventured. “If you need to talk—”
Her voice seemed to bust him out of his spell. “I have to go.” He didn’t look at her directly. “Tell Elyse and Scott I’ll call them.”
He seemed to hesitate a moment longer, or maybe that was her imagination, then exited through the kitchen door. And that was that.
Returning to her edible flowers, Gemma told herself not to feel compassion for the big boob. He’d just rejected her friendly—no, not friendly, simply humane—overture, and, let’s face it, rejection pretty much summed up her relationship with Ethan Ladd through the years.
She shook her head hard, jiggling some sense into it. She was over thirty, had a great career, good friends. She’d had a fiancé and would surely date again. Someday. Ethan Ladd did not have the power to make her feel valuable, attractive and worthwhile or rejected and unwanted. That was so fifteen years ago.
All she had to do was get through this wedding. Then he would be gone again, her regular life would resume and her heart would stop beating like a hummingbird in flight every time she thought about weddings and true love, or about the first man who had broken her heart.
Chapter Two (#u5a0e35c3-92e3-5665-b49c-5ed9c141cfdf)
Two months after Elyse’s bridal shower, Gemma was in Thunder Ridge again, staying at her parents’ place over the weekend, so Minna Gould, mother of the bride, would have an audience while she fretted over last-minute preparations for the wedding.
“You need to decide whether you’re bringing a date,” Minna insisted as they carried the dinner plates to the Goulds’ cozy pale-blue-and-white kitchen. “This is the last chance to order another meal from the caterer. After this, she’ll serve my head on a platter.”
“I’m not bringing a date, Mom. I don’t want your head on my conscience,” Gemma assured her, taking the plates from her mother and plunking them in a sinkful of suds.
“Don’t be silly! If you want to bring a date, then by all means—”
“Mom, I was kidding. I’m not seeing anyone.”
Only twenty-four years older than her second child, Minna Gould, née Waldeck, was still a beautiful woman. Most of the Waldeck women married young, started their families young and stayed beautiful without artificial enhancements well into their fifties.
Gemma, unfortunately, took after the Gould side of the family. The women on her father’s side were outspoken with above-average intelligence, very average looks and way-above-average bustlines and butt, and they tended to marry later in life—so much later that children were often out of the question—or they never married at all. Depressing.
“I’m just saying, Gemma, that if you do want to bring someone so you can have more fun dancing, for example,” Minna suggested, picking up a dish towel, “I’m not really afraid of the caterer. I’ll dry,” she said, holding out her hand for the first dish Gemma washed. Minna’s hazel eyes, the only physical characteristic Gemma had inherited from her mother, sliced her daughter’s way. “Maybe William would like to come with you?”
The mention of her former fiancé nearly made Gemma drop the plate. “Absolutely not.”
“But you’re still friends. You still work together.” It was impossible to miss the hopeful note in Minna’s voice.
“Mom, William and I decided our engagement was a mistake.” Lie. William had decided they were meant to be friends only. Gemma had been perfectly (or pathetically, depending on how you looked at it) willing to accept friendship as a solid basis for marriage. “We are not getting back together.” When Minna opened her mouth to interject, Gemma cut her off. “And he is not coming to the wedding.”
In all fairness, Minna had no idea that a scant two weeks after he broke up with Gemma, William started dating the new, adorable French lit teacher at school, and that they were now “serious.” It had seemed kind to spare her family that bit of information. They worried about her, she knew. None of her siblings, who favored Minna in looks and in character, had ever lacked a date on weekends. Only Gemma, with her Gould-given averageness and her keen interest in historical novels and theater versus, say, sports, pop culture and who won Dancing with the Stars, tended to struggle in the dating arena. True, she lived in a busy, exciting city, but Portland tended to skew more toward families and the twentysomething indie-music crowd. Gemma knew her options were decreasing, but she just couldn’t bring herself to look online for a mate.
Okay, lie. She and her friend Holliday had imbibed a mimosa or two one Sunday brunch at Gemma’s place, and Gemma had allowed Holly to make a dating profile for her on one of the more popular sites. In the light of stone-cold sobriety, however, Gemma had deleted it.
“Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll have a great time going stag to the wedding.” She bumped her mother’s hip. “When Dad’s doing the Cupid Shuffle with Grandma, you and I can practice twerking.”
“Oh, stop it, you!” Minna snapped Gemma with the dish towel. “Do you happen to know if Ethan wants to bring someone? I can’t get Elyse or Scott to slow down long enough to tell me anything these days, and I can’t imagine he would come alone. I saw on the cover of In Touch that he’s been dating that redhead from the TV show about vampire cheerleaders. What’s her name?”
Gemma felt a little pinch to her heart. “I have no idea.”
“Well, do you know if he’s bringing someone?”
“How would I know that?”
“You dated him in high school.”
The pinch felt tighter. “I wouldn’t call it a date,” she mumbled, “exactly.” Had nobody in the family ever told Minna the truth about the single evening Gemma had spent with Ethan? Elyse knew all about the disastrous homecoming event, since she had set the “date” up to begin with. And their sister Lucy knew, because she’d seen Gemma crying, and Elyse had blabbed all about it. Even their older brother, David, knew. “Mom,” Gemma said carefully, “that night with Ethan...that was more of a high school convenience thing.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You primped for two hours, and he brought you a corsage.”
Amazing how the memory could induce a flood of embarrassing heat all these years later. Yes, she had primped. Yes, she had been excited. No, he hadn’t given her a corsage. Elyse, as it turned out, had provided the corsage for Ethan to give to Gemma. The entire evening had been Elyse’s brainchild, not Ethan’s.
Keeping her eyes on the sudsy dishwater, Gemma said, “Everyone primps for the homecoming dance, Mom. It didn’t really mean anything.”
Minna shook her head, exasperated. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Three daughters, and not one of you interested in Ethan. I don’t understand it. If he’d been in town when my friends and I were in high school...”
Gemma didn’t have to listen to know what came next—we’d have been fighting over him like cats and dogs.
Well, who said she hadn’t been interested? And girls had fought over Ethan like cats and dogs; it was just that Gemma had never had a prayer of winning that particular battle.
“Fine.” Minna shrugged. “It didn’t work out, so that’s that, but he always liked talking to you.”
Yes, I am a sought-after conversationalist, all right. Even William still dropped in at her office for the occasional chat.
“You were the only person he spent any time with at all at the wedding shower,” Minna continued. “Really, I can’t imagine what would have made him run off the way he did. Are you sure he didn’t give you a clue?”
It didn’t feel right to repeat a conversation she probably shouldn’t have overheard in the first place, so Gemma muttered, “He didn’t tell me anything.” That was the truth. “He said he’d talk to Elyse and Scott.”
“Oh, they’re both so busy, they’re useless when it comes to—” Her mother cut herself off.
“Feeding you juicy gossip about Ethan?” Gemma teased.
“Oh, fine. We’ll definitely see Ethan next week. I’ll ask him for some gossip myself.”
“Next week?” Gemma heard the panic in her own voice. She hadn’t seen or heard a word about Ethan since the bridal shower, and life was much more peaceful that way.
“Gemma,” her mother chided. “Please say you didn’t forget the rehearsal dinner. I told you to write the date down immediately. You’re not going to tell me you have one of those endless work functions or dinner with the dean.”
“No, I remember the rehearsal dinner. I just forgot Ethan would be there.”
“Well, of course he’s going to be there. He’s the best man. I’m giving you the job of calling him to confirm.”
“What? Why me? Why not—” Gemma stopped herself. The more she protested, the more she would draw her mother’s attention. And she couldn’t claim not to have Ethan’s number; it had been her job to text the wedding party to give them the time of the fittings for their gowns and tuxes. “All right.”
She’d merely text him again. Wouldn’t have to trade actual words until the rehearsal dinner.
* * *
Past 9:00 p.m., the General Store in Thunder Ridge was closed, so if you had a midnight hankering for a pint of mint chocolate chip or a desperate need to read the latest celebrity gossip mag, you had to drive to Hank’s Thunderbird Market on Highway 12. When Gemma’s sister Lucy phoned their parents’ house at 11:00 p.m., asking if someone could please, please, please pick up ear drops for her baby, Owen, and some teething gel—“The pink gel, not the white. The pink!”—because Owen had been crying nonstop for two hours, Gemma volunteered to make the drive.
Deciding a snack would make the late-night trip more entertaining, Gemma grabbed a package of Nutter Butters, which were the best cookies on earth, then added a bag of rippled potato chips since she was going to need to crunch on something on the way home. With her basket of support foods, she headed to the pharmaceutical aisle intending to grab the teething gel quickly and go to her sister’s. As she rounded the corner of the aisle, however, she nearly collided with another late-night shopper.
“Oh! My gosh. I didn’t expect to see you.”
“Yeah, no, me either. I’m... I had to pick up a few things.” Ethan nodded to the loaded cart in front of him and then—was it possible?—he blushed. As in, a deep red infused his gorgeous face. His gorgeous, exhausted-looking face.
Why was he blushing? Other than seeming tired, he looked great. She, on the other hand, had been wearing a T-shirt that read Eat, Sleep, Repeat and her hot-pink emoji pajama bottoms when Lucy had called, and she hadn’t seen any reason to change for the trip to the Thunderbird.
Her surprise at seeing Ethan here turned into absolute shock when she saw the contents of his shopping cart.
“Teething biscuits?” She arched a brow.
“Yeah.” He glanced around, then lifted a shoulder. “I like ’em.”
“Favorite locker-room snack?”
Ethan did not look happy. He looked, in fact, miserable. With one hand, he finger-combed the thick golden hair that appeared to have been mussed several times already. With the other hand, he retained a white-knuckle grip on the cart.
Gemma peered at the rest of the contents, which looked as if they’d been scooped up by a dump truck and piled in.
Coffee, milk, two four-packs of energy drinks, cotton balls, bandages, a thermometer (several, in fact, each a different brand), tissues, baby wipes—
Baby wipes? She looked closer. Yep, baby wipes. And formula! He had at least four different kinds of formula in that cart. And were those boxes of...
Oh, my goodness. Ethan was buying diapers. Disposable diapers, again in a few different brands. Plus, she spied the very item she was looking for—teething gel.
“You got the white kind,” she said, pointing to the small box with the picture of a tooth. “You should get the pink. My sister says it works the best.”
Frowning, Ethan followed her finger. “Really? Where is the pink one?”
Feeling as if she’d fallen asleep and was having a very weird dream, Gemma led him to the correct spot along the aisle. “This one.” She picked a box from the shelf. “Worked like a charm when my nephew Owen was cutting his first tooth.”
Looking as confused and frustrated as he was tired, Ethan scowled at the label, then tossed it into the cart along with everything else.
Selecting a box of the ointment for her sister, Gemma ventured, “So, Ethan, you have a toothache? And—” she nodded toward the diaper boxes peeking out at the bottom of the cart “—a problem with incontinence, perhaps?”
“Very funny.” He did the finger-comb again. “Can you keep a secret?” he growled, sotto voce.
“I can,” she replied, wondering at the strangeness of this meeting. “I’m not sure I’m going to want to.”
When he spoke, he looked as if even he didn’t believe the words he was about to say. “I have a baby.”
Gemma stared at him until her vision got blurry. “A baby what?”
“You know.” He made a rocking motion.
“A person? You have a baby...person?”
He nodded, and she could hardly breathe. I’m blacking out, I’m blacking out. Her heart flopped in her chest. “Wh-who-who is the mother?” Then she gasped. “Is it the redhead from the vampire cheerleader show?”
He looked at her oddly. “Who—You mean Celeste? No!” He swore. “Lord, no.” Coming around from behind the cart, he took her upper arm, glancing up and down the aisle as if this were a dark alley. “It’s not my baby,” he whispered.
She whispered back. “You said, ‘I have a baby.’”
“I do. In my house. Look,” he grumbled, “I don’t want to talk here. Are you done shopping?”
“I want to get ear drops for Lucy’s son. He’s been crying all night. She thinks he’s just teething, but you never know.”
Ethan’s attention sharpened. “Would an earache make a baby cry? A lot?”
“Yes.”
“Where are the ear drops?”
“Over here.” She showed him. He handed her a box, then added one to his cart. “Let’s go.”
The fact that he was asking her to go to his house was weird—and exciting—to say the least. “I can’t come to your house right now. I have to take these things to Luce.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes. Owen’s crying.”
“Where’s her husband? Why are you out this late?”
“Rick is out of town. I help when I’m here.”
“Aren’t you already helping with the wedding? I hear you’re driving up from Portland every weekend.”
Was she mistaken or was there a note of censure in his tone? Instantly, Gemma felt on the defensive. “I don’t mind.”
Ethan shook his head. “You have three other siblings and parents who live in Thunder Ridge. Couldn’t one of them have helped Lucy?”
“They all have families, so...” She shrugged.
“So you get dumped on in the middle of the night.”
“It’s not the middle of the night! Anyway, it’s not like that. I told you, I don’t mind.” She sounded convincing, even to her own ears, but a cold heaviness filled her chest.
Sometimes she minded. Sometimes she was envious of her siblings’ problems and their time commitments with kids and spouses and PTA meetings. Sometimes she wished it were her living room walls that needed to be repainted again, because the kids woke up early one Saturday and got creative with an indelible marker. Gemma chewed the inside of her lip.
“Sorry,” Ethan relented. “I shouldn’t have said ‘dumped.’ You’re good at fixing people’s problems. It’s natural they turn to you.”
“Yes, I’m good at fixing problems,” she murmured. Everyone’s problems but her own.
Her thirty-fourth birthday was in September. According to her friend Constance, who taught reproductive biology to premeds, 95 percent of thirty-year-old women had only 12 percent of their original ovarian follicular cells. That was a lot of cells MIA. And everyone knew that when women reached thirty-five, fertility dropped like a rock. With no man on the horizon, Gemma could feel her ovaries shrinking to the size of raisins right here in the market.
Her gaze fastened on Ethan’s face. He was even more handsome now than in high school.
Why do you have a baby? Whose is it? Clearly, the situation was a surprise. He was about to purchase half the infant-care aisle and didn’t seem to know a single thing about infants.
“Who’s with the baby now?”
“I hired a nanny.” He frowned. “She’s young.”
“Oh. I’m sure she’s capable.” And I am going to mind my own beeswax. “I’d better get going,” she said hastily before she could change her mind. “My nephew is really uncomfortable.”
“Right. Okay.” He looked at his cart and frowned. “Me, too. I’d better—” he waved a hand “—head home.”
“Good luck with everything, Ethan.”
“You, too.”
As he picked up a box of infant cold and fever medication and stared dubiously at the label, she sped up the aisle toward the single cashier on duty. Her mother would kill her for not getting all the info on Ethan’s mystery baby. Come to think of it, it was strange that he hadn’t told Scott, who surely would have mentioned it to Elyse, who would have told not only their mother, but all of her former sorority sisters and everyone else who would listen. “Oh—” She turned back. “I’m supposed to ask if you’ll be at the rehearsal dinner and whether you’re bringing a date to the wedding.”
Ethan glanced up. “Yes. And no.”
“Yes to the rehearsal dinner, no to the date?”
“Right.”
“Okay. Well, see you soon.”
He nodded, turning back to the cold medicine, his brow furrowed in thought.
Gemma continued on her way. No date. She could thrill quite a few women with that information. And flatly refused to consider her own response.
Paying for her items and carrying the bag to her car, she tried not to think about William or about how, if he hadn’t ended the engagement, they would have been married by now, attending Elyse’s wedding as husband and wife and quite possibly arguing over baby names (he liked Jane for a girl; she favored Eliza). Instead, she was flying solo with shriveling ovaries, while Ethan, who apparently chose dating celebrities as his off-season sport, wasn’t bringing anyone to the wedding...but did have a baby.
Forget Ethan. Forget William. And, for heaven’s sake, stop thinking about your ovaries.
But she kept picturing Ethan with a baby and seeing images of him in high school, dating cheerleaders. And going out with her, Gemma. Once.
Turning the key in the ignition, she found the bag of ripple chips and tore it open. She just might require a few peanut butter cookies, too, for the lonely drive to her sister’s house.
* * *
Elyse and Scott’s rehearsal dinner was held at Summit Lodge, a fabulous place that could accommodate rustic or more formal affairs. Nestled into the base of Thunder Ridge, the Scottish-themed lodge allowed guests to enjoy the mountain’s year-round majesty, and every December, Santa distributed presents among the boys and girls whose parents brought them to Brunch with Saint Nick. Gemma’s baby sister had chosen the lodge as her wedding venue all the way back in elementary school.
Because it was Memorial Day weekend, and Oregon’s weather could be unreliable, Elyse had opted to walk down a formal staircase and up the aisle between rows of guests who would be seated before one of the lodge’s massive stone fireplaces. Elyse and Scott were being married by their friend Jessie, an ordained minister. The fireplace was so tall and so wide that they, their officiate and some of the wedding party could have stood inside it.
It was in this majestic, romantic environment that Gemma saw Ethan for the first time since their meeting in the market.
At their current altitude, it was a bit chilly, and in his ivory cable-knit sweater and straight-leg jeans, he fit perfectly into his surroundings. His hair glowed golden in the ambient lights, and his blue eyes held their customary laugh, but once, when he glanced Gemma’s way, she thought he looked stressed.
Elyse had Gemma running around, asking so many questions and tying up so many loose ends that there was no time at all to speak to Ethan. Her sister’s remaining bridesmaids, on the other hand, seemed to find plenty of time to gather around the sports star. He looked as if he were holding court, and his million-dollar smile almost made her think she’d imagined the tension. So far no one she knew had mentioned Ethan’s baby news. Sometimes it seemed she’d dreamed the whole thing.
As the rehearsal finally wound up, Gemma dropped into one of the wide chairs positioned around the perimeter of the room. She still hadn’t caught up on the sleep she’d missed while running to Lucy’s last weekend, and at school, rapidly approaching final exams had kept her working extra hours. She was toast, and the wedding was tomorrow.
“Auntie Gem! Auntie Gem!”
Her brother David’s six-year-old twins, Violet and Vivian, ran over and grabbed her hands.
“Do you wanna see the floor where we get to dance tomorrow? We know where it is! Come on, we’ll show you. Come on, Auntie Gem! Come on!”
Resisting the yanking of her appendages, she instead pulled the chair with her and frowned doubtfully into freckled faces topped by curly auburn hair. “Do I know either of you? You don’t look like anyone I know.”
“We’re your nieces!” Vivian, the bolder of the two, told her indignantly. “You knowed us since we were babies.”
“You changed our diapers,” Violet, the more serious of the two, pointed out.
“Really?” Bending toward each in turn, she sniffed. “No, you don’t smell like those kids. They were stinky.”
Both girls dissolved into giggles as Gemma cuddled them.
“We’re not stinky anymore, Auntie Gem,” Violet informed her. “Mommy says we have to take a bath once a year, whether we need it or not.”
Gemma grinned. “Yeah, I do the same. Once a year, no excuses.”
“I knew we had something in common.”
The deep voice had them all raising their eyes. Ethan was looking right at her, azure gaze steady, his smile an ad company’s dream.
Gemma glanced around, wondering if the groupie bridesmaids, as she was starting to think of them, were going to pop up in a second. But nope, amazingly, he was alone.
“Your fellow bridesmaids are with Elyse and Minna,” he supplied as if reading her mind, “making sure there are enough mirrors for everyone to get ready tomorrow. First one who calls a mirror gets to use it.” He arched a brow. “You want me to take you to them so you can stake your claim?”
“I’m not very competitive. I’d rather take my chances with a compact. How about you? Shouldn’t you be duking it out with the groomsmen for mirror rights?”
The perfect lips unfurled into an electrifying grin. “Nah. I just roll out of bed, and I’m pretty already.”
He may have been joking, but it was the gospel truth. Not that she’d seen him straight out of bed, but... Gemma sighed. It only took a glance to realize he’d been gifted. If she was plain as brown bread, he was red velvet cake.
“I think I can guess who these lovely ladies are.” Ethan looked at the two girls who were staring at him, a bit intimidated. Getting down on his haunches to make his six-foot-three-inch body less imposing, he said, “Your dad is Gemma’s brother. Am I right?”
Protectively, Gemma pulled her nieces closer. That is the kind of smile for which you do not fall.
Vivian spoke up first. “No. She’s our aunt.”
Ethan pursed his beautiful lips. (And, really, why were those wasted on a man? The Cupid’s bow looked drawn on.) “Hmm. So that would mean your father is Gemma’s...grandfather?”
“No!” The girls rocked with laughter.
“Your father is her...great-grandfather?”
“No!”
“Her son?”
“No!”
Ethan scratched his head. “I guess I’m not good at this. Never mind. What were you talking about again—oh, yeah, bathing habits. Let’s see, I try to shower when there’s a full moon—”
“Okay, that’s too much info,” Gemma interrupted.
His devilish expression seemed to reach out and grab her. “For them or for you?”
Violet wriggled off the chair. “We want to show Auntie Gem where we’re gonna dance.”
Leaping to the floor after her sister, Vivian craned her neck to look up at Ethan. “You can come with us.”
“Sure.” He glanced at Gemma. “If we go before the return of the bridesmaid brigade, I would be eternally grateful.”
“Too many adoring fans for you to juggle at once?” she asked, rising.
“Yeah, I usually have my manager do that.”
Vivian grabbed her sister’s hand and raced ahead with her twin. “Follow us!” she called back as they ran along the wide-planked wood floor to a carpeted hallway that led to the reception room.
Gemma walked more sedately by Ethan’s side. “So, Ethan,” she said, “the last time I saw you, you were taking care of a baby. Or did I dream that?”
“Do you dream about me often, Gemma?”
She looked up sharply. “Only when I have indigestion.”
He grinned, but the smile faded quickly, replaced by fatigue. “I do still have the baby,” he answered her.
Gemma’s heart thudded strongly in her chest. Questions tumbled through her mind. She chose the most boring one. “Have you told anyone else in town?”
“No. Have you told anyone?”
“No, of course not. You didn’t tell me I could.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Good. I don’t think I could handle the press right now.” Gazing at her speculatively, he commented, “You always did have good principles, Gemma.” A hint of mischief returned to his eyes. “Except that one time.”
She knew, of course, exactly what he was talking about: when she’d discovered he hadn’t wanted to take her to the homecoming dance, that he’d had to be persuaded, she had paid him back by playing a trick on him. A rather mean—and rather effective—trick.
Preferring their current topic, she asked, “Why are you taking care of a baby? You said it’s not yours. Whose is it, then? How long are you taking care of it?” She wrinkled her nose. “I have to stop saying ‘it.’ Is the baby a boy or girl?”
Ethan smiled. “Still don’t want to discuss the great homecoming debacle, huh?” They walked a few more paces, following her skipping, giggling nieces. “I’m taking care of Cody—who is a boy—for someone close to me. I’d like it to keep it quiet for now. The media is a funny thing, Gemma. Journalists twist stories all the time to find a hook that will sell. I’d like to stay under the radar as long as I can.”
“Staying under the radar isn’t your usual MO, is it?” She winced. That sounded snarky. “I mean, the media’s been good to you, haven’t they?”
“I’ve made a good living off the media, and they’ve made a good living off of me. But this isn’t business. It’s personal.”
She nodded. “Your world is different from mine. So much larger. Thunder Ridge is a fishbowl. In Portland, I work at a private college and rent a mother-in-law unit a stone’s throw from campus. It can be claustrophobic at times. I thought a life like yours would be more expansive, freer. I didn’t realize it could get claustrophobic, too.”
Ethan stopped walking and turned toward her. “That is how it feels.” He nodded, almost to himself. “Sometimes when I’m in a crowd of people, there’s not enough air.”
“It’s over here! Come here!” Vivian and Violet were waving them to the Long River Room, where Elyse and Scott’s reception was being held tomorrow night.
A rare intimacy wove around Ethan and Gemma, real yet frail, like the sheerest of scarves.
“I’ll respect your privacy,” she said, meaning it, and wanting the delicate moment to last awhile longer.
“Thanks, Gemma.”
Vivian emerged from the ballroom, fists on her little-girl hips. “Are you coming?”
“Or not?” Violet mimicked her sister’s body language, though with less conviction.
Ethan relaxed enough to laugh. His eyes glinted again as he arched a brow at Gemma. “Shall we?”
“We’d better. It’s not wise to cross Vivian when she’s on a mission.”
Side by side, they walked to the ballroom, and Gemma realized she was in no hurry to get back to the rehearsal dinner. No hurry at all.
Chapter Three (#u5a0e35c3-92e3-5665-b49c-5ed9c141cfdf)
Ethan had been friends with Scott Carmichael and his bride-to-be since they were in their tweens. He thought it was great that they had stayed together and were getting married after all these years. Scott hadn’t even asked him to be his best man; it was simply a foregone conclusion, and Ethan had been happy to oblige. Recent events in his life, however, were turning this wedding weekend into one giant pain in his neck.
Elyse had already hinted that she’d traded on his name to get a friend of hers from college to cover the wedding for The Oregonian. Ethan didn’t come home to Thunder Ridge often, and when he did he valued his privacy, but he’d figured he could grin and bear Elyse’s desire for a taste of celebrity. That, however, was before the Department of Human Services had called to tell him he was about to become the guardian of one very tiny baby.
“This is where we’re going to dance!” Vivian pulled her sister to the large wood-floored square in the middle of the room. The girls began to spin, watching their skirts swirl around their legs. Cute.
“Come twirl with us, Auntie Gem,” Vivian invited. “It’s easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy!”
“Twirl!” her sister echoed.
Ethan looked at Gemma. As long as he’d known her, she’d been serious, studious, responsible. Not exactly the twirling type. Smart in a way he could never be. He’d been at the Goulds’ once, hanging out with Scott and Elyse, when Gemma and a friend of hers were studying for an English exam. He’d barely known what she was talking about, but listening to the conversation, he’d felt a pang of envy and a yearning so deep he’d made some smart-ass comment to Scott just to cover his discomfort.
Having a friend like her would have been impractical. Impossible. They’d had zero in common. And then Elyse had convinced him to ask her to the homecoming dance. He’d been a sophomore, already making a name for himself on the football team, and she’d been a senior. Elyse had insisted that Gemma needed to attend at least one high school dance before she graduated. He remembered thinking how wrong Elyse was, how bored Gemma was bound to be, especially if a bonehead like him accompanied her.
“Are you going to twirl?” he asked now, nodding to the spinning twins. Gemma might not be interested in dancing, but her skirt was made for it. Sea-foam green with alternating sections of lace from the knees down, it flirted with her legs when she walked. Her silky top was deep purple, and on her very nice feet were coral-colored shoes with just a couple of straps. All those colors might have clashed on someone else. On Gemma, the outfit looked artsy. Joyful. Suddenly it occurred to him that her clothes had always been the least serious thing about her. “I like the way you dress.” He surprised them both by speaking the thought out loud.
“Thanks.” She blushed, her cheeks turning a deep pink.
Inexplicably not dizzy, the girls ran over and tugged on their aunt. “Come on!”
Gemma chewed the inside of her full lower lip.
A smile tugged at Ethan’s mouth. The women he knew had no problem dancing in public. They fed off the attention. Gemma, however, looked sweetly self-conscious.
Hoping to help her out, he bowed in his best impression of Prince Charming. “May I have this dance, Princess Professor?”
The girls giggled and clapped.
“I’m not a professor, yet. And there’s no music,” Gemma pointed out reasonably.
“You don’t hear anything, Professor?” He looked at the twins. They wore huge smiles, by which he concluded that small children were a lot easier to impress than tiny babies. Or maybe it was because they were female. He didn’t have a wide range of talents, but football and females? Yeah, he had that down. Tilting his head, he insisted, “I hear the castle musicians. Girls, can you hear it?”
“Yes!”
“It’s loud!”
“Then let the dancing begin.” As the twins resumed an energetic ballet, Ethan looked at Gemma. “We’ve danced before. I’m sure it’ll come back to us.”
At the reference to their single awkward dance at homecoming, Gemma narrowed her gaze. “You danced with me once. Then you spent the evening with a varsity cheerleader.”
Yee-ouch. He’d forgotten that part. The cheerleader hadn’t intimidated him at all. Wagging his head, he figured it was time for the apology he’d been too embarrassed or too egotistical to offer her back then. “I was a punk kid, Gemma. I didn’t think much beyond the moment. Or about other people’s feelings.”
He’d been too busy trying to protect his own. From the moment he’d arrived at Thunder Ridge High, Ethan had struggled to appear more confident than he’d felt. Actually, it was more accurate to say he’d been struggling since elementary school. His deficiencies had simply become more noticeable in high school.
Gemma Gould, on the other hand, had been the president of the National Honor Society and captain of the debate team, had started both their school’s geography bowl and Spanish club and led an after-school program called Community Kids, a group that performed socially conscious acts in their own neighborhood. Hadn’t she played the flute, too?
He, on the other hand, had played football and flirted with cheerleaders. When Elyse had told him Gemma needed to go to homecoming and would write an essay for him if he took her, he’d balked at first. His fall progress report had been worse than bad, however, and to keep playing football, he’d needed to pass social studies. So he’d agreed to accompany Gemma in return for an essay guaranteed to bring his grade up. When he’d picked his “date” up that night, she’d been so nervous and he’d felt so damn awkward when she’d presented him with a boutonniere that he’d started babbling about the paper she was going to help him with, and somehow the night had turned to crap really quickly. He wasn’t even sure why.
Fifteen years later, he still cringed. The more uncomfortable she had seemed, the more he’d started to act like a jerk, leaving her to find her friends while he hung out with his. And when another girl—the cheerleader with grades on par with his—had asked him to dance, he’d accepted. Gemma had paid him back but good for his behavior that night. Even though her brand of retribution had infuriated him at the time, deep down he’d figured he deserved it.
“Auntie Gem, you’re not dancing!” Vivian stomped her foot, came over and tried to mash the two of them together. “You need to start dancing.”
Sliding an arm around Gemma’s back, Ethan pulled her body closer to his, leaving what he deemed to be a pretty respectable space between them. Still, he could feel her go rigid.
“For their sake, hmm?” he murmured, though he realized that dancing with her was a good opportunity to get the guilt monkey off his back. “About that homecoming date,” he began, surprised by the nervous adrenaline that pumped through his body. He must be overtired. “I should have danced with you more. I should have danced with you the whole night.” He was merely stating the truth. He’d agreed to take her; he should have behaved like a gentleman.
“Don’t be ridiculous. We shouldn’t have gone to homecoming together at all.”
“Maybe not,” he said. “But I could have behaved better. I was young. And a jerk.”
Gemma stopped moving and gently pulled her hand from his. “This—” she gestured to the dance floor “—is awkward. I mean, there’s no music or anything. Maybe we should—”
“Here.” He pulled his phone from his pocket, tapping it a few times, and Aerosmith’s “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing” began to play. The twins were delighted. He handed the phone to Vivian—despite his better judgment—and pulled Gemma toward him again.
Her head only came up to his chin, and she kept her gaze straight ahead. Because he wasn’t sure what else to say at the moment, he simply danced until she murmured something he couldn’t quite make out. “What’s that?”
“I’m sorry about the social studies essay.”
A reluctant smile curled his lips. “Don’t be. Best grade I ever got.”
“You were teased for weeks. That was my fault.”
“True. But I forgave you.” He stared at the top of her head, wishing she’d look up. “After the initial impulse to throw you into Long River.”
Ethan had felt like the world’s biggest jackass when his social studies teacher, Martin Oleson, had read his paper—the one Gemma had written—out loud in class. Gemma had penned a ridiculous, but grammatically correct, essay on how participating in a sport like football increased testosterone in young men and made them want sex all the time. How could they be blamed if that’s all they focused on, even when they were sitting in their social studies class? The paper had gone on to propose that school funding be put toward maintaining a library of men’s magazines, which would be far more useful than textbooks to retain student attention. Ethan had been mortified. His only recourse had been to brazen the moment out, laughing along with everyone else. Humiliation had been preferable to admitting he hadn’t written the paper, couldn’t have penned something that articulate no matter how hard he’d tried.
Gemma lifted her face, plainly revealing the guilt she felt after all this time. “I never expected you to turn it in, you know. I thought you’d look at it first and ask for an extension so you could write it yourself.”
Ethan stiffened. Look at a ten-page paper twenty minutes before he had to turn the thing in? Not damn likely. “Too lazy,” he lied.
Gemma frowned. “You’re not lazy. You play professional sports. You won the Super Bowl. You work during the off-season and you mowed my parents’ lawn every Sunday morning for five years.”
The discomfort began in his gut and spread. He pasted a glib smile on his face, as he always had in moments like this. “I’m academically lazy.”
“The brain is like a muscle. It grows and becomes stronger when you use it. If you ignore academics, you may as well cut your head off.”
“But my face is so pretty.”
Her outraged expression both shamed and amused him. Choosing to focus on the amusement, he laughed. A big dumb-jock laugh. “Calm down, Professor. We can’t all belong to Mensa. Every hive needs drones.”
“Oh! That is a terrible way to look at one of the greatest gifts you’ll ever have—your mind.”
She had no idea how ludicrous that comment was. If his mind had come with a return policy, he’d have traded it in long ago.
“How do I make another song play?” Standing beside them, Vivian tapped on his phone.
She was right; the music had stopped. He let go of Gemma. Her creamy skin reddened as she took a step back.
“Sorry,” she said. “I don’t know why I went on like that.” She shook her head. “Sorry.”
He didn’t want her to be sorry. Pretending school didn’t mean anything to him had always been easier than caring. That didn’t mean she should lower her standards. He’d be disappointed if she did. “You’re a teacher. You’re supposed to be irritated by someone like me.” He smiled, but it didn’t change his plummeting mood. “I’d better head home.”
“Home? But they’re serving dinner in—”
“I can’t stay. I already told Scott.” Turning from Gemma to reclaim his phone from a reluctant Vivian, he tapped the little girl’s nose gently with his finger. Violet presented her nose, and he tapped it, too. “I will see you two ladies tomorrow. Save me a dance.”
The girls beamed. “What about Auntie Gem?” Violet inquired thoughtfully. “She likes to dance, too.”
Ethan looked at Gemma, who appeared confused. “Dancing doesn’t seem to agree with us,” he observed softly. “Maybe tomorrow we could try again and improve our track record?”
Her smile was uncomfortable, but she nodded. “See you at the wedding.”
With a tip of his head, he strode from the ballroom, reminding himself that this part of his life—this crazy time with a baby in his house and more contact with people from his past than he usually had—would be over soon. This summer, he’d return to training camp, which was, at least, a world he understood. Being glib worked there. He’d be able to keep things light and...what had Vivian said? Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy. Which was how he liked his life.
He would stop thinking about Gemma Gould and her intimidating brain. And her calming presence. And her beautiful awkwardness.
They were oil and water, and even he knew that combo didn’t mix. Sometimes, though, when Ethan was with Gemma and there were few other people around, he had the strangest sensation that, for once, he wasn’t alone.
* * *
The next evening, Gemma felt like a plump pink sausage in a bridesmaid’s gown clearly meant to be worn by a woman several inches taller and at least two cup sizes smaller. Women like Elyse’s other ten attendants, for example.
Seated at the long bridal table amid the rest of the exquisite wedding party, Gemma felt restless. Ethan was to her right, currently engaged in discussing football with the other groomsmen. As discreetly as she could, she reached beneath her armpits and gave the strapless bodice of her fuchsia gown a healthy tug. Oh, was she going to be glad when the final kernel of birdseed was thrown and the happy couple drove away in their glossy white limo. Despite her sister’s constantly voiced worries, the ceremony had been perfect, and the reception was under way without a hitch. Still, seated at the elegantly appointed table while servers poured wine from vintage labels and placed dishes of filet en croûte before the laughing guests, Gemma couldn’t help but feel twinges of grief.
She frowned, idly plucking chia seeds off her house-made soft breadstick. Her own wedding, had it not been called off, would have been last month. A full year and a half before the date, she’d already chosen her gown (winsome chiffon skirt, no train), her location (on the beach in Manzanita) and the food (casual-but-authentic Mexican—crab-and-tomatillo quesadillas, street tacos, carnitas...yum). She and William would have had only one attendant each, and her four-year-old nephew could have worn a pair of swim trunks and his favorite Ninja Turtle floatie instead of the toddler tux he kept trying to struggle out of tonight.
“Whoa, what did that breadstick ever do to you?”
Ethan’s bemused voice jerked Gemma’s attention to the crumbles of bread over the table. “Dang.” She wiped bread crumbs off the white linen and into her palm, depositing the mess on her bread plate as a waiter placed her dinner in front of her. “Thank you.” She smiled at the server, then looked glumly at her meal. Pastry-covered filet mignon, wild mushrooms and Yukon gold potatoes in a dill-and-Gruyère cream sauce and an individual spinach soufflé—there had to be three thousand calories on that plate.
While everyone around her tucked in, Gemma mentally calculated the odds of living long enough to hook a man and become a mother if her heart was pumping dill sauce through her veins.
“Something wrong?” Ethan spoke close to her ear.
She glanced at him. Men, she thought, but didn’t say out loud. Men are the problem. In a dove-gray tuxedo that perfectly complemented his golden hair and tanned skin, Ethan had already drawn more attention than the bride. Betcha he could go home with any number of women tonight. Some of the willing ones were probably married. Love was too difficult for some and too easy for others.
“This food is a little rich,” she said.
“Aw, no. Don’t tell me you’re one of those.” He wagged his head tragically.
“One of what?”
“Bird women. The ones who barely taste their food and don’t take it to go, because they don’t have a dog, and there’s no way they’re going to eat anything more interesting than a celery stick, anyway.”
Gemma gaped at him. “You’re kidding, right? Do I look as if all I eat is celery?”
Apparently, he took her words as an invitation to let his gaze roam leisurely over the parts of her he could see while she was seated. He even leaned back a smidgen, as if he was trying to get a look at her bottom. When she glared at him, he grinned.
“You look good.” He nodded to her dinner. “Eat up.”
“I’ve seen your girlfriends,” she said. “Three of them standing together wouldn’t fill out a pair of size-eight jeans.”
“You keep track of the women I date?”
“Of course not.” She managed to sound highly offended. “My mother buys gossip magazines when you’re in them.”
He grinned. “I know. She has me autograph them when I’m in town. Between you and me, I think she’s selling them on eBay.” He nodded, sliced off more meat, chewed, then tried the cheesy potatoes. Gemma’s stomach growled. She picked up her fork and was about to give in to temptation when he observed, “So you read about me when you come home on weekends, then. I’m flattered.”
Abruptly, she retracted her fork. “That is not what I mean. My mother likes to discuss topics of interest to her. She shows me the magazine articles. I don’t seek them out.” Ooh, liar, liar, pants on fire. Raising her chin, she amended, “I have never bought a rag mag.”
That was true, actually. If she saw Ethan on the cover of a magazine, she would read it while standing in line at the market. No money ever transferred hands.
“From what I’ve seen,” she told him, “you prefer to date women whose physical attributes directly correlate to the norm in print and other media. A norm that is dangerously out of touch with a standard attainable for the average healthy American woman.”
He reached for another breadstick—his third—and lathered it with the sweet Irish butter Elyse had requested. “Could you say that again? In English this time, Professor.”
“You date skeletons!” She wanted his breadstick so badly she nearly grabbed it out of his hand. For the past two months, Elyse had begged her to diet. Her best efforts had led to a loss of four measly pounds, which would be back again before breakfast tomorrow. She needed food. She wanted food.
The breadstick, gorgeously buttered, hovered between them. She pointed. “Are you going to eat that?”
Flashing his most gorgeous smile, he held it out. “I’m happy to share. And happy you’re going to eat. I like you the way you are.”
Unexpectedly her heart filled the hole in her stomach. He liked her. The way she was.
Don’t get carried away. He offered you a breadstick, not a diamond ring. Who could blame her, though, if after a lifetime of being the “smart” sister, it felt good to have a man like Ethan pay her a compliment?
Accepting the breadstick, she took a ladylike bite. Mmm, yummy.
“Why didn’t you get married, Gemma?”
Coughing as the breadstick paused in her windpipe, she took a slug of wine. “What do you mean?” she asked when she could talk again.
Ethan’s blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Elyse and Scott came to Seattle for a home game and mentioned you were engaged. Had the rock and everything.”
Swell. She poked at the beef en croûte. “I wonder how they cook this steak without burning the pastry?” she mused aloud to change the subject.
“Too personal?” The deep dimple in his left cheek appeared. “Even for old friends like us?”
Gemma held her hands up in surrender. “Okay. Yes, I was engaged. We were supposed to have gotten married last month, but we called it off. End of story.” Sort of.
“Your wedding was supposed to have been last month?” He whistled beneath his breath.
“It’s fine. We ended it a long time ago.” Shrugging blithely, she sawed at the beef.
“How long?”
“Almost a year.”
He considered that. “How are you doing tonight?”
It wasn’t the question that made Gemma set her knife and fork to the side of her plate, but rather his tone. How was she doing? He’d asked it so plainly, no hesitation, no lurking reluctance to hear the answer. Most of her family, except for her mother, tiptoed around the topic as if it were a land mine. “I’m all right,” she answered quietly. “But sometimes I wish—”
“Ethan Ladd, you’d better save me a dance tonight.” A hand glittering with rings clamped Ethan’s shoulder. “I haven’t seen you in so long, I almost forgot what you looked like.” Throaty laughter punctuated the statement as a platinum blonde with long straight hair crouched beside them in a sequin-encrusted dress that hugged her body so tightly a bead of perspiration couldn’t have fit between the material and her skin.
“You remember me, don’t you? Crystal McEvoy.” She batted outrageously fake lashes. “Senior year prom? Best date of your life?”
Ethan turned his head slowly to observe Crystal. “Sure, I remember you.” He leaned back and draped an arm at the back of Gemma’s chair. “You know Gemma Gould?”
“Hi.” Predictably, Crystal glanced at Gemma only long enough to appear polite, then shifted her attention back to Ethan. “You save a dance for me.” She put a hand on his thigh, obviously trying to lay claim to a lot more than a dance. “We can pick up where we left off.” Crystal trailed her fingers over Ethan’s chest and shoulder before she walked back to her table, swaying her hips the entire way.
“Where were we?” Behaving as if the previous moment hadn’t happened, Ethan looked at her, not Crystal.
Whoa. Was he going to ignore the fact that he’d practically been groped by a woman he hadn’t seen in a decade and a half? “Uhm...” She couldn’t remember what they’d been discussing prior to the other woman’s arrival.
“You were telling me about your engagement,” he prompted.
Talk about being dumped by her fiancé after that exhibition? Not happening.
Crystal’s perfume lingered in the air, but it wasn’t strong enough to overpower Ethan’s pheromones. Gemma had always known when Ethan was at her parents’ house, even if she’d just walked in the door. Everything about the house changed. It smelled like soap and aftershave and...him. Like right now.
“You okay?” Ethan asked as the bride and groom’s first dance wound down. “You look flushed.”
“You’re right, it’s hot in here.” She waved her hands at her face.
“It’s probably not any cooler on the dance floor, but you want to give it a try?”
Dance? With her and not Crystal or one of the bachelorette bridesmaids? Gemma felt as if the hottest guy in school had just asked her to homecoming—genuinely this time.
“Oh, Gemma, good, you’re done eating!” Her sister Lucy appeared at the banquet table, bouncing baby Owen in her arms. “Hi, Ethan,” she greeted. “Gem, they’re about to open the dancing, and Rick and I haven’t danced without the kids practically since our wedding. Would you hold Owen while I get out there with my husband? Pretty please?”
Lucy was indescribably lovely, with translucent ivory skin, a dancer-like long neck and shiny dark hair she wore simply in a perfect bun. She did look tired, though.
With a rueful glance at Ethan, she replied, “Sure,” even though she thought she might tear up in disappointment.
Lucy blew her an air kiss. “You’re a peach.” She beamed at Ethan. “She’s such a peach. Okay, baby boy, over the table and into Auntie Gem’s arms.” An old pro at handing off kids, Lucy didn’t bother to walk around the table; she merely passed Owen over the stemware. “He’s fed and dry. We’ll just dance to a couple of songs. Thank you, thank you,” she said sincerely as she sped to her husband.
Gemma dangled the eight-month-old above her lap. The baby tried to grab her nose.
“Nasa-fa!” he said.
She turned to Ethan. “That’s Owen-speak for ‘nose.’”
“Quite the conversationalist.” Ethan nodded, but didn’t smile. And now Crystal was wriggling their way.
“Oh, Ethan,” she sang.
“Come on.” Abruptly taking her arm, Ethan helped her to her feet.
“Where are we going?”
“For a walk.”
Guiding her past an unhappy Crystal, whom he didn’t even acknowledge, Ethan led them out of the ballroom. With Lucy’s baby in her arms and Ethan’s hand firmly beneath her elbow, Gemma felt less like a maiden aunt and more like—just for a wee sec—a wife and mommy. Thinking about the man beside her cast in the role of loving husband and baby daddy, she realized how easily that fantasy could become a habit.
Chapter Four (#u5a0e35c3-92e3-5665-b49c-5ed9c141cfdf)
As Ethan propelled Gemma away from the reception, he could practically feel the tension drain from his body. The noise, the crowd, the many pairs of eyes not-so-covertly trained on him—it made stepping through the broad double doors feel like freedom.
Up a short flight of stairs sat a private alcove and a hearth crackling with a lively fire. With a hand resting lightly at Gemma’s lower back, Ethan steered her toward an overstuffed love seat.
“Here?” He made the pretense of asking, but was already loosening his tie.
“Perfect.” Sinking onto the cushions, she kicked off her high heels and tucked the burbling baby into her lap. Her feet were bare, toenails some wild shade of neon orange with sparkly stars, and he couldn’t help but smile as she curled them over the edge of the coffee table. Even her feet were fun.
Sitting beside her, Ethan made himself comfortable and propped an ankle on his knee. “How old is this guy?”
“Owen is eight months old today, aren’t you, old man?” Gemma bounced the baby on her legs, smiling as he shrieked with joy.
“He’s cute.” The compliment sounded lame, but until recently his experience with babies had been limited to his teammates’ kids. He’d admired them from a safe distance when they were infants, enjoyed them more once they were old enough to roughhouse or to joke around with. Now that a baby had been dropped into his own lap...hell, he was half convinced they were aliens.
“So, uh, how long before these little guys settle down?” he asked.
“Settle down?”
“Yeah, you know, when do they stop crying?”
Gemma laughed. “Gee, I don’t know, maybe when they’re eighteen?”
He felt like an idiot. “Okay, when do they stop crying 24/7?” For the last two months, he had witnessed misery personified as his sickly, scrawny nephew struggled to adjust to...pretty much everything.
Gemma didn’t immediately answer, seeming to give his question serious thought. “What’s the baby’s name again?”
“Cody.”
“You’ve taken him to the pediatrician?” she asked.
“Of course,” he snapped, then ducked his head. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound defensive, but we’ve been to the pediatrician four times.” He was afraid he must be doing every damn thing wrong, or why wouldn’t the screaming have, at the very least, lessened by now? “The last two times, I went to Portland for second and third opinions. They all say the same thing.”
“And that is?” Gemma asked softly.
The very thing he didn’t want broadcast all over Thunder Ridge. Ethan dragged his free hand over his mouth and considered Gemma. He didn’t understand why, but somehow he knew he could trust her with the whole story. “The baby I’m taking care of is my nephew.”
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