“Would Louisa have been under home goods?” Scarlett says, her voice lowering.
“It was only coffee,” I say, reminding us both of the day Scarlett was behind the couch in the Busy Bean Café. The day I learned she was still in town, and I wanted to kick myself because she was so close, and I was unaware. “I’d put you in the lingerie section because you’re so sexy.”
“Oh, you shop for lingerie often?” she teases, and I laugh but release her. I roll to my back as much as the couch will allow. Reaching for a cushion behind me, I toss it off the couch, providing more space for me to lay flat.
“I sound like a loser,” I admit, staring up at the low ceiling and swiping fingers into my hair. Scarlett shifts beside me, almost falling off the couch until I catch her. I tug her forward until we lay face-to-face. Her fingers play with the collar of my short-sleeved shirt.
“I don’t think you sound like a loser. You sound like someone who easily gives his heart, opening it wide to possibilities, and has had it trampled on a few too many times. I’m sorry all those experiences happened to you.”
Her eyes focus on the buttons of my shirt as she speaks, and her fingers move to my chest, toying with one.
“My mom used to say everything happens for a reason. She died between Sabrina and Gisela, and I think it’s another reason I fell for Gisela. She filled more than one void, which sounds heartless on my part.”
“Bull, don’t try to justify the actions of someone who did you wrong. All those women hurt you, and it’s okay to accept that it wasn’t you, but them.”
I lean forward and press a kiss to her forehead. When those dark eyes finally glance up at me, full of sympathy, I lick my lips. She’s so close with her head on my arm, and our bodies lined up.
“If I were to catalog you, I might put you in the toy section.” My gaze falls to her mouth. “Sex toys, that is.”
She laughs, jiggling against me. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Would you?” I tease in return, but the heat in her eyes answers my question, and a part of me rises with this teasing discussion.
“Are you considering me a plaything?” Her voice drops as she bites her lower lip in that sexy way she does, letting me know she wants me. With two fingers, I lift her chin so our eyes catch each other.
“I consider you many things, Scarlett, but a plaything is not one of them. You’ve been played yourself, so you know how much it hurts.”
“I do,” she whispers, and for some reason, that phrase does something to my chest. However, I dismiss the ache as another part of me surges for attention from her.
“It’s so hard not to kiss you.” The fingers at her chin drag along her jaw until they dip into her hair at the side of her head. Combing to the back of her head, I give the short strands a little tug, and her breath hitches, causing her lips to fall open.
“I’m sorry, Bull. I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to be like those other women.”
I nod, releasing my fingers and smoothing my hand down her arm, ignoring the sting of being shot down while she presses against me.
“Maybe I’m protecting my own heart,” she says. “I’d been such a fool with Shelton. His affair blindsided me, but I’d feel even worse if something started between us and the baby isn’t yours.”
I nod again as if I understand. It’s practical and reasonable, but I’d also like to make my own decision regarding another man’s child and the woman carrying it, especially when said woman is in my arms. It’s a strange position to be in, that’s for certain, but Scarlett doesn’t seem to realize I don’t care about her ex. As long as she isn’t going back to him, I’m here for her and Sprout. But perhaps, she’s correct in guarding herself. I don’t want to be the one to hurt her as I’ll never be in the market to marry again. And I need to tell myself this over and over because the warning bells in my head tell me I’m at great risk of falling for her and wanting something I never get—a wife.
A few days later, I’m driving Scarlett to her doctor's appointment in Montpelier, where we’ll be able to hear the baby’s heartbeat. While Scarlett and I have discussed potential birth plans and baby names, she tends to cut those conversations short once her eyes start to spark with possibility and hope.
“There’s so much that could happen at my age,” she’d eventually say, closing the door on any budding excitement. “The what-ifs can wake me out of a dead sleep.” My chest tightens when she tells me such a thing. I want to hold her each night, comfort her in my bed, and soothe away those nightmares.
There’s a touch of reality in her fear, though. Because of her advanced age, as she sarcastically states, she could have had a sonogram at her first doctor’s visit when the pregnancy was detected. However, there’s some controversy because of Scarlett’s age around such a test so early on in a pregnancy, and she opted out of it.
“I was afraid it might harm the baby even though the doctor assured me it wouldn’t.” Scarlett erred on the side of caution, and I’m grateful. There was also the possibility of not hearing a heartbeat in those first few weeks, and Scarlett didn’t want the disappointment of a false negative, meaning no heartbeat when there might be one if she’d only waited another few weeks.
I don’t want anything to happen to her or the baby. Even though Sprout, as Scarlett affectionately calls the baby, might not be mine, I can’t help hoping—and thinking—that he is. We will also discuss the paternity test during this visit, but again, I don’t want to do anything that will put Scarlett or the baby at any additional risk. I’ve come to some conclusions myself about Scarlett and her ex. I don’t care if it’s his.
“I want to share everything with you,” I reassured her before we left the house for this appointment.
As we ride in my truck, she’s uncharacteristically silent. I actually admire Scarlett’s ability to talk. She doesn’t just chatter, but she’s truly inquisitive. She wants to know answers, and she’s not just filling silence by speaking. She knows how to be quiet as well, and those moments are just as precious to me. They usually happen when she falls asleep against me while we’re sitting on my couch.
Since the night we discussed my former engagements, we’ve fallen into the routine of cuddling while not taking things to any other level. At times, though, I need to adjust myself, moving back an inch or two from the curve of her backside too close to my front or control the temptation to cup her breasts as my hand skims over her belly, feeling the slightest of changes to her.
Once inside the patient room, Scarlett is asked to undress and lie on the table.
“I can . . .” I point over my shoulder once the nurse leaves.
“If you don’t mind . . .” Scarlett mutters as her face flushes.
Our sexual tension isn’t tamping down, and each evening is a painful reminder of how much I want her, but I’m respecting her position. Watching her take off her clothes for a routine doctor visit might just push me over the edge, no matter how inappropriate our setting is. The bottom line is, I want Scarlett. She’s already in my home, but I want her in my bed. We don’t have to complicate things with promises or proposals.