The Sweetest September

“You’re not alone, Shelby.”

His words did what he meant them to do. Found their way inside her, creating a small bit of warmth in the midst of the madness of her life.

John stood there, handsome as sin, saying the right thing at just the right moment.

Damn him.

He was still the bastard who had treated her like a fungus, impregnated her with a child and implied she was some sort of whore.

But he knew exactly what to say.

And as he took her hand and pulled her toward the door, she realized he also knew exactly how to make her feel cared for.

And that was more dangerous than any other feeling she’d had since seeing him again.

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_940b5571-7dcd-5bda-90a8-fc94a1d86f91)

JOHN LED SHELBY up the steps of the house that had been his home for a decade, every nook and cranny known and loved despite the flaws. Inside, he quaked as much as Shelby did. Outside, he maintained a semblance of control. Like always.

Shelby was pregnant with his baby. Or at least she said she was. The irony of the situation rubbed him, bitter and biting.

Rebecca’s desire for the pitter-patter of little feet had been a driving force in their marriage for the past year of her life. With her death, the thought of children ceased to exist. And now, he’d gotten what he’d once desired so greatly...at the hands of a drunken hookup in a crappy bathroom off Hwy 5.

God had a sense of humor. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe God liked to sucker punch John for the hell of it.

He pulled the screen door open, holding it with his boot as he turned the century-old iron doorknob and pushed inside.

His yellow Lab sat, tongue lolling, ready to greet him.

“Down, Bart.” John pushed the hairy beast with the generous kisses off his thigh and walked inside the cool darkness of the living room, turning right and escorting Shelby toward the kitchen. Bart followed after them, tail threatening the doodads on the low antique tables Rebecca had scattered throughout the foyer and formal dining room. He should pack them away, but something held him back.

It always did.

“You have a dog,” Shelby said like she’d never seen one.

“Yeah. This is Bart.” John released her hand and pulled out a chair in the kitchen. He didn’t know why he’d grabbed her hand to begin with. Maybe because for a moment she looked like a lost child and he hadn’t wanted her to run away. “Here. Sit. I’ll boil some water for tea.”

Bart sat, too. Right at Shelby’s feet. She patted the dog’s head, causing Bart to nudge her hand for more.

John never made tea because he always went for a beer at the end of a long day. In the pantry he found some boxes of herbal tea that had expired a few months before. Tea didn’t go bad, did it? Probably. But this would have to do.

He found the kettle and lit the flame on the stove, eyeing Shelby out of the corner of his eye. Her teeth had stopped chattering, and though she was pale, she looked less panicked.

The woman was almost too pretty, with flaxen hair likely achieved in a high-end salon. Wide blue eyes were framed by inky long eyelashes; high-rounded cheekbones and a mouth he remembered thinking belonged on a pinup girl. Plump and made for sex. Large breasts, nice legs and a waist that was still trim despite her pregnancy. A freaking Playboy Bunny of a woman.

God.

He filled the kettle at the sink and tried to figure out how to handle the situation. Shelby had seemed offended when he asked if she was certain the child she carried was his, but he had to ask, right? He knew nothing about her, and she’d seemed more than willing to pull that condom out of her purse that night.

Of course, it didn’t mean she was morally loose.

Morally loose? Jesus. He sounded like his father.

Stay away from those kind of girls, Johnny. No girl who gives it away is worth your name, and if you knock her up you’ll have to marry her.

So should he insist on a blood test? How did those work? Maybe the baby had to come first before they could test and that was months away. He didn’t know how to handle this situation. Hell, who really knew how to handle this situation? He felt like he’d fallen into a well and was treading water with no foothold on the slick walls, no way to heft himself up.

He focused on what he could control. “Looks like all I have is Apple Orchard or Peachy Keen.”

Shelby stopped petting Bart and the dog whined his displeasure. “Either, as long as it’s caffeine-free. I’m not supposed to have caffeine.”

John put the kettle on and stepped toward the back door, whistling for Bart to come. Reluctantly, the dog stood and waddled to the door. “Go tee-tee,” he said out of habit.

When he turned, Shelby had a weird look on her face. “Go tee-tee?”

He shrugged. “Started when he was a puppy. Somehow changing the term to piss seemed wrong.”

The kettle whistled, and John grabbed a cup, plunked in a tea bag and poured the water. Then he grabbed himself a beer. He’d allow himself only one, though he felt like he needed a six-pack to deal with the woman sitting at his kitchen table. But he needed to get back to the fields.

Pulling out the chair beside her, he slid the cup to her and cracked open his beer. “Feeling better?”

“Yes and no,” she said, lifting the tea and inhaling. Just like Rebecca. The memory punched him. “Thank you for the tea.”

“You’re welcome. So...I’d like to talk a bit more.”

“I assumed that’s why you made me come inside and drink this.” She didn’t look happy about his wanting to know more. What had she said? I told you. Now I’m done.

“So what are your immediate plans regarding the pregnancy?”

“Immediate plans? Go back to Seattle, break the news to my parents and find a permanent teaching job.” She fiddled with the teacup, bending a finger around the rim. Her nails were clipped short and painted a soft pink. Definitely a nice manicure.

“You’re a teacher?”

“I teach high school math. My last teaching assignment in Spain ended this past spring, and I didn’t come stateside in enough time to interview for a permanent position. It’s hard to pick one up midyear so I’ve been substituting in the Seattle school district on a part-time basis. The baby’s due in June, so I should be able to maintain a permanent position next year.”

“The baby’s due in June?”

“The due date’s June 24.”

“My birthday’s the eighteenth,” he said, wondering why the hell that even mattered. But even so, the image of a small bundle cradled in his arms appeared. A son with dark hair and fair skin, his little mouth doing that lip quivering thing as he cried annoyance at being taken from his mother’s arms.

“I know. I hired a private investigator to find you. I was fuzzy on your name.” Her bite of laughter was bitter and when she looked up he saw shame in her eyes.

“I remembered yours. Thought it was a pretty name.” He’d remembered her name, the way she smelled—like something sweet and expensive—and the small encouraging sounds she’d moaned as he pulled up her skirt.

He hadn’t wanted to remember, but on dark, lonely nights when he lay awake staring at the crack in the ceiling he needed to repair, he recalled Shelby and the way she’d felt against him. He hated himself for it.

For a few minutes, they each contemplated the enormity of the situation.