The Baby Jackpot

Chapter Eight



“Dr. Rattigan?” Harper sounded confused.

“Is...? Oh, there she is.” Cole’s expression warmed. As she approached the door, Stacy caught the enticing scents of basil and garlic from the sacks he carried.

She yearned to hug him and snatch the food from his hands.

Must be my crazy, mixed-up hormones.

“Hi, Cole,” she managed to say. “This is Harper.”

Still in the doorway, he returned his gaze to her roommate. “I’ve seen you at the hospital, haven’t I?”

“Yes. What are you...?” Perhaps realizing that she had no business cross-examining Stacy’s guest, Harper backed off. “Come in.”

This was growing more awkward by the moment. “Don’t you have to go pick up Mia?” Stacy asked.

“Not for fifteen minutes.”

“Well, don’t you have to go somewhere?” If Harper found out about the pregnancy, she’d be racked by guilt about leaving. And if Cole learned that Stacy was being left alone...

He’d do what? Renew his offer of a marriage of convenience? Seriously, nobody did that sort of thing.

Or he might suggest moving in.

The scary part was, she kind of liked the idea. Having him around felt safe and comforting. And sexy, too, now that her earlier queasiness had subsided.

The two of them, living together as she ballooned with his baby? So much for keeping his paternity secret. Stacy cringed at the prospect of them becoming the butt of everyone’s jokes. More important, they weren’t in love. No matter how impractical her attitude might seem to others, Stacy meant to hold out for the real thing, an all-encompassing, everlasting love like her parents shared.

“You brought supper?” Harper was asking. “That smells wonderful. Are you two, uh, dating? Not that I’m trying to be nosy, but Stacy didn’t mention it.”

This conversation felt like a runaway train. Stacy’s mind scrabbled frantically, trying to figure out how to throw the switch. “He’s only being, uh...”

“Supportive, although I’m glad she has such a close friend to help her through her pregnancy,” Cole said.

Crash. Train derailed. Or, more accurately, smashing right through the station, littering the ground with casualties.

“Pregnancy?” Harper turned to Stacy. “What pregnancy?”

“I just found out,” she answered weakly.

“When were you planning to tell me?” her friend demanded. “Before or after I moved?”

Noting Cole’s startled look, Stacy sank onto the couch. Why had she imagined she could keep secrets from the two people closest to her?

“I’m surprised to hear you’re leaving,” Cole said to Harper.

Stacy held up both hands. “Stop.” Two pairs of eyes fixed on her. “I’m not your responsibility. Either of you.”

Harper’s head swiveled as she made the connection between her and Cole. “He’s the father?”

Stacy had forgotten that other confidential matter. Blam went the caboose, toppling what little remained of the train station. The only course left was to run damage control. “Don’t blame him. I could have taken a morning-after pill.”

Neither of them responded. They were too busy staring each other down. “Yes, I am,” Cole announced. “And I’m prepared to do my share.”

That had to be the most unromantic statement Stacy had ever heard. She felt like crying, which was ridiculous. Why did she keep hoping for more than the man was capable of giving?

“I can’t unsign the lease, so Stace, you’re moving with us,” Harper said. “It’s a three-bedroom house.”

“I’d prefer to move here,” Cole said, as calmly as if they were discussing dinner plans. “But it’s up to Stacy.”

Her decision became sparkling clear. “No to both of you,” she answered. “I’ll look for a new roommate, and if I can’t find one, I’ll get a smaller apartment.”

“You can’t live alone.” Setting aside the take-out sack, Cole joined her on the couch. Earnest, concerned. Doing his share.

“He’s right. And afterward, how are you going to manage the baby?” Harper asked. “Does Adrienne know?”

“I’m giving it up for adoption, and yes, I saw Adrienne yesterday,” Stacy replied. “I’ll be fine.”

She wished Cole would do something other than gaze at her in a faintly baffled way. Take her hands. Get down on his knees. Tell her he couldn’t live without her.

But he wasn’t that kind of man. And the sooner she dispensed with such childish fantasies, the better.

* * *

COLE ADMIRED THE RATIONAL way Stacy was handling all this. Having her roommate jump ship must have come as a shock, yet she hadn’t grabbed at either of the alternatives they’d proposed.

“I’ll help you find a roommate, if that’s what you want,” he told her. “And if you can’t, I’ll pay half the rent, regardless of whether you let me move in.”

“That won’t be necessary,” she replied tautly.

“I want to.” From her frown, he sensed that he was missing the point. This was more difficult than he’d expected.

Cole had done a search on the internet before coming over. He’d typed in, “What should a man do if he gets his girlfriend pregnant?” Up had popped a site labeled “What to do if your girlfriend gets pregnant: ten practical ideas.” Now there, Cole had figured, was the kind of information every guy ought to have.

The suggestions had included “Act like you care,” which wasn’t hard, because he did. Also “listen to her” and “be honest about how you feel.” But what if he wasn’t sure how he felt—or rather, what if his emotions about babies were evolving, possibly in a direction that she wasn’t going to like?

“Help her decide what to do”—she’d already decided that on her own. “Be there for her.” He was trying, damn it. The other topics had been equally useless.

He hated seeing tears darken Stacy’s eyelashes. He’d done this to her in a moment of selfishness. Why wouldn’t she let him put it right?

If only she’d melt into his arms. He’d pull her onto his lap, stroke her hair and soothe away those worry lines.

Except, he admitted silently, this situation was no longer solely about him and Stacy. They had a child on the way. A little boy or girl who was going to star in somebody’s cell phone pictures and fill someone’s home with teddy bears and picture books.

Harper checked her watch. “I have to go. I won’t be long.”

“Regardless, this is not a discussion suitable for a six-year-old to hear,” Stacy said. “Does she know you’re moving yet?”

“Not yet,” Harper admitted. “If I hadn’t signed the lease and paid the first month’s rent...”

“Go.”

“As I said, I signed already.”

“I meant, go get your daughter.”

“Oh, that.” Harper grabbed her purse. “See you.”

When they were alone, Cole helped Stacy set the food out on the table. He’d brought several entrées, as well as salad and garlic bread, and she ate hungrily.

During dinner, he told her about the afternoon’s speech and the audience reaction. She beamed at him. “You made quite an impression. Well, of course! You’re one of the world’s foremost experts.”

“Not on reduced sperm counts,” he said. “That was Dr. Tartikoff’s idea.”

“But you’re a leader in your field.” Stacy swallowed some milk before adding, “That’s why people listen to you and respect you.”

“Thanks.” Cole hadn’t expected to hear praise over the dinner table. At the only dinner table he’d regularly shared with anyone, Dr. Colette Rattigan—aka Mom—had analyzed the day’s mistakes and gone over how to rectify them.

In other words, she’d given him constructive criticism.

No wonder I’ve always preferred living alone.

Being with Stacy was different. Cole wanted to move in with her more than ever, now that he realized emotional support could flow in both directions.

“I hope you’ll reconsider,” he said as he set slices of tiramisu on plates for them. “Sharing quarters will have advantages for us both.”

“Advantages?” She scowled at the layered, coffee-drenched cake. “Doesn’t this have rum in it?”

Cole hadn’t thought of that when he chose the rich dessert. “It’s been baked. Surely there’s no alcohol left.”

“Flattered as I am by your reference to sharing quarters, I’ll pass,” Stacy said. “On the dessert, too. I already feel the size of a barn.”

Pregnant women had a reputation for being touchy, Cole recalled as he downed his slice of dessert and got started on Stacy’s. She didn’t say anything more, and his mouth was too full to talk.

The door opened, and a little girl came bouncing in with excitement. “I’m getting a kitten!” she cried as she raced toward them. Catching sight of Cole, she paused for an instant, before she found something more worthy of her attention. “What are you eating?”

“Cake, but Cole took it all,” Stacy grumbled.

Fork in hand, he hesitated over the last bite. She’d refused once. How was a man supposed to know she hadn’t meant it?

Mental note: When a woman refuses dessert, ask her again.

“Sorry.” He held out the plate. “If you want it...”

“She’s eaten more than enough sweets for one day,” Harper commented, coming through the door. “Mia, this is Dr. Rattigan.”

“Oh, you’re a doctor!” the little girl said. “Don’t give me a shot, okay?”

“I won’t. I promise.”

That seemed to satisfy her. Nevertheless, the presence of a child created a whirlwind atmosphere in the apartment. The girl displayed small toys from a goody bag while dancing around and chattering about the birthday party. It had featured a police theme dreamed up by the birthday girl’s stepmother, a former police officer. Each child had received a badge and an ID card with his or her own picture. They’d flown toy helicopters around the neighborhood while patrolling for crimes and arresting “criminals” that Harper explained were plastic golf balls painted with burglar masks.

“It was like an Easter egg hunt,” Mia told them.

“What fun.” Stacy gave the little girl a hug. “I’m glad you had a good time.”

Feeling like the odd man out, Cole cleared the table and said goodbye. Did other men instinctively know what to say to children? Or did it get easier when you knew them better?

On the drive home—he’d brought the car this time—he sorted through his turbulent emotions. While he’d enjoyed hanging out with Stacy, he wasn’t sure how to cope with her moods. Also, he experienced a touch of guilt. He shouldn’t have eaten her dessert, even after she’d refused it. A gentleman would have saved it to offer to her roommate, or her roommate’s child. But was it even appropriate to give sweets to a little girl who’d just filled up on birthday cake and ice cream?

He should get some practice babysitting. That would give him a clearer idea of how one established rules and a routine. Except what would be the point, since he wasn’t going to be a father other than in the genetic sense?

He wondered why he kept forgetting that fact. Was it possible he had paternal instincts?

Cole recalled reading a study that showed men’s testosterone levels dropped after they became fathers. Researchers had theorized that this drop might be an evolutionary development to help men commit to their families and play a larger role in raising them by reducing aggressive behaviors. Perhaps being in the proximity of Stacy’s maternal hormones was altering his body chemistry.

At home, Cole sprang up the outer stairs and stepped into his apartment, expecting his usual relief at finally being alone. Instead, he felt as if he’d entered a motel room. Aside from the electronics and the table lamp, nothing inside belonged to him. The place looked bland and impersonal.

He’d never minded before.

Cole switched on the TV. Watching the news tended to calm him. Even bad news made him appreciate his good fortune.

The screen zeroed in on a car crash, with ambulance lights flashing and firefighters struggling to free someone from the wreckage. Who was inside? Had any children been hurt?

What was with this surge of empathy? Maybe his testosterone levels really were dropping.

He switched channels, stopping when he came to a report of a new earthquake study. Since it dealt with probabilities and scientific projections rather than any specific event, Cole found the drone of the announcer soothing. He left the TV on while he went to change into pajamas.

From the bedroom, he heard the name Safe Harbor jump out of the broadcast, as if it were his own name. But wait, that was his name being pronounced—in a tone of doom.

Cole shot into the living room. There, on the screen, loomed his white-coated image on the stage of the hospital auditorium. “We hear reports from around the globe that sperm counts are dropping,” he was saying. There was a quick, almost imperceptible cut, and then: “The man’s condition is involved in about sixty percent of infertility cases.” Followed by: “Toxins in our food, our air and our water.” Another cut. “We could be in trouble.”

“That was the prediction today from men’s fertility expert Dr. Cole Rattigan,” the anchorwoman informed viewers.

“No, it wasn’t!” Cole snapped, outraged that someone had stitched his words together to create what sounded like an alarming prophecy.

Annoyed, he changed channels again. Flipping past a hamburger commercial and a man touting used cars, he landed on another newscast. “Is mankind’s future in doubt?” a jowly male reporter queried from the screen. “According to Dr. Cole Rattigan of Safe Harbor Medical Center...”

Cole turned off the news. Preoccupied with his personal life, he’d put this afternoon’s events out of his mind. He’d certainly never anticipated such sensationalism.

Remembering that he’d set his phone on silent mode before visiting Stacy, he scooped it up from the coffee table and checked for messages. Since the number was private, he didn’t expect any calls from the press, and there weren’t any. Only a message from Jennifer Martin.

“If you haven’t seen the news yet, I’m sure you will,” said her recorded voice. “Don’t let it bother you. The media love to blow things out of proportion, and Saturdays are notoriously slow news days. By Monday they’ll move on to something else.” During a short pause, he thought he heard her mutter, “I hope.” In a louder voice, she said, “Keep a low profile. Call me if you have any questions, and enjoy your evening.”

Keep a low profile? How, exactly?

Despite his rising frustration, Cole reminded himself that there was nothing he could do about this. Anyway, compared to his concerns about Stacy and her pregnancy, this fuss struck him as the proverbial tempest in a teapot.

Mankind’s ability to reproduce was not even close to being in danger. And he was the living proof.