He groaned. “Are we back to that? I already told you about my phone and the well.”
“Look,” she said as she examined her sadly painted pink nails. “There’s much more going on here than you could possibly understand. It’s complicated.” All her life, she’d had a private manicurist, and she still hadn’t mastered the art of doing it herself. But she was trying—just like she was giving all she had to this real estate job. All she’d need was one good commission to build her savings and ensure Gigi and Pearl would be comfortable and warm for at least a few months if that was how long it took for her to make her next sale. “All my life, I’ve depended on men, and they’ve always, always let me down. Now the only person I trust with my well-being is me.” She hugged her belly. “Don’t think for one hot second I wouldn’t love being a stay-at-home mom, but I’ve been down that road and discovered the hard way that it’s a dead end.”
“So you don’t want to get married?” Was it her imagination, or did he look relieved?
“Excuse me?”
“I’m cool with you being a single mom. I mean, I’ll always be there for you whenever I’m in the States and I plan to support my kid whether we marry or not, but it might be best if we don’t tempt fate by—How do I put this in a delicate manner?” There he went again with his maddeningly sexy grin. “Let’s just say it probably wouldn’t be in either of our best interests to go at it quite to that degree again.”
“Get out.” She pointed toward her closed office door.
“Aw, now, don’t go getting your pretty pink panties in a wad—I wasn’t complaining. I just—”
She stood. “I don’t care what you meant. And for the record, Mr. Jones, my panties are black—like a black widow spider. After she mates, she kills.” Tiffany had once heard the line in a movie and thought it made for a great dramatic effect. She tried crossing her arms to further emphasize she meant business, but of course, they landed too high on the baby to be comfortable or sufficiently menacing. Still, no way was she giving in now. “Get out.”
“Miss Tiffany, you are one helluva special snowflake.” After a good long chuckle, he pushed himself to his feet, retrieved his hat, then followed her orders. “Want your door open or closed?”
“Closed.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
Only after she was once again alone did Tiffany collapse back into her desk chair. During previous catastrophes, she might have indulged in a nice long cry, then soaked in a bubble bath with plenty of champagne and imported chocolates.
Now? Her only option was to pull out the big guns.
With an extra-hard tug, her bottom desk drawer popped open to reveal one of her favorite wedding gifts—a Baccarat crystal candy dish from Crawford’s Aunt Cookie. Since they’d been married two years before their divorce, Tiffany got to keep all the gifts. She’d sold the vast majority but kept a cherished few. After all, now that she’d reached rock bottom, she needed to remember what awaited her back at the top.
Smiling, she reached into the bowl for one—okay, make that four—fun-sized Snickers.
Rowdy might have temporarily interrupted her day, but she refused to let him permanently bring her down. She had commissions to earn, a mother and grandmother to support, and a healthy baby to raise for the Parkers. Which was why she next ate a snack-sized bag of minicarrots, followed by apple juice and cheddar cheese cubes.
All of which should have filled her but didn’t.
What was she really craving?
One of those cinnamon rolls Rowdy said his mom made.
Covering suddenly flushed cheeks, Tiffany rested her forehead against the cool laminate top of her desk. Given the fact that according to WebMD, the average cost of childbirth in America was $9,600—an uncomplicated C-section was a whopping $15,800—she had no option other than to give her son up for adoption so his new parents could pay. Pearl offered to mortgage her home to keep her great-grandson in the family, but Tiffany could no more let her do that than she could afford health insurance—she knew she’d owe a hefty penalty come tax time for not finding coverage, but she’d worry about that next April.
What Rowdy proposed sounded crazy. Maybe if he’d presented his proposition in a more reasonable manner, she might have considered it.
All she had to do to keep her baby was marry his father, and voilà—her every financial problem would vanish. Only it wouldn’t be quite that easy. Rowdy wasn’t going to make her his bride for nothing, and not to be a drama queen, but she’d already learned the price for marriage was her soul.
“Uh-oh...”
“That about sums up my morning.” Rowdy shut the back door on nasty blowing snow, wishing he were back on a beach—or, shoot, even a desert would be preferable to this.
“I take it she didn’t accept your proposal? Told you so. You should’ve taken a ring.” Patsy Jones lounged in the kitchen’s usually sun-flooded window seat, wearing the Hello Kitty grown-up footy pj’s his dad had bought her last Christmas. Maybe it was best he hadn’t brought Tiffany today?
“Best as I could tell, her refusal had nothing to do with a ring.” He hung his hat and coat on the rack beside the door, then went straight to the oven, only to find it empty. “Thought you were making cinnamon rolls?”
“I was, but in the book I’m reading, Jack just got chased by a bear and Marcy has his gun.”
Shaking his head, Rowdy settled for heating up a can of SpaghettiOs, then asked, “Where are Dad and Carl?”
“They called a while ago. Found a momma determined to have her calf in this storm. They’re staying out there to make sure she’s okay.”
“Cool.” Only it wasn’t. He was used to having every minute of his days filled with action, and out here, seemed like everyone had something to do but him. He’d planned on having the mother of his child here to at least hash out plans.
He was running out of time. He needed to get back on base, and their baby wasn’t going to wait for Tiffany to make a decision. “I’ll be in my room.”
“Why? Don’t tell me you’re giving up?”
He sighed. “No way, but there’s not a whole lot else I can do today. Since my ambush didn’t work, I need to come up with a better plan of attack.”
“How about if you don’t treat this like one of your military missions but like a man asking a woman to marry him for the sake of their child? Did you tell Tiffany how sweet you can be if you set your mind to it?”
“I told her I was good-looking.”
“Good grief, Rowdy. No wonder she’s confused.”
“More like pissed. From what I can gather, this isn’t her first rodeo, and she’s been burned before.”
His mom paled. “You mean she already has a child?”
“No. I meant her previous relationships went sour, so now she’s one of those man-hater types.”
Frowning, she noted, “I’m not sure what that means.”
“You know—like the last guy she was with was an ass, so now she hates all men.”
“That can’t be true.” She winced at his foul language, then rested her book on the nearest pillow. The kitchen was yellow, and by yellow, Rowdy meant every last thing save for the oak kitchen table and white marble counters was the color of a damned lemon. Her pillowed window seat was no exception. “Did you tell her you’re not like that and wouldn’t hurt her?”
“Sure,