She got as comfy as she could while ignoring the reality of her situation. She turned on the TV, loud, and forced herself to enjoy her extralarge milk shake.
* * *
“WHY ARE YOU sleeping here?” Spence asked later, appearing over her nest of pillows on the couch.
“This is more comfortable.” The king-size bed in the other room intimidated her.
“This is where I’m sleeping. I’m not going to let a pregnant woman sleep on a couch when there’s a perfectly good bed.”
Fully awake now, she felt her gorge rising again at the word pregnant. Why had he said that? She swallowed.
“Are you going to be sick?”
“No.” She shook her head but stopped quickly. Maybe the overly rich shake hadn’t been such a good idea after not eating all day. She didn’t move and closed her eyes again, turning her head away and slowly rolling so her back was to him. She didn’t care what Spence thought or wanted. She was staying right here.
His hand, with its smooth—but not girlie—palm, rested against her forehead as she tried to move farther away.
“No fever,” he grunted.
“You woke me out of a sound sleep.”
“I wouldn’t have woken you if you’d been in the bed.”
“I was comfortable here.”
“I’ll help you to bed.”
“You will not. I’m staying here.”
“Olympia, I’m not letting you sleep here. Come on.” She turned enough to see him towering over the couch, his arms crossed over his chest—his broad chest, where she’d laid her cheek after they’d made love.
“Go away.” She squinched her eyes closed against him and the memories of that night. Dear Lord, the night she’d gotten pregnant. Her stomach heaved, and she fought her way out of her nest of pillows.
When she finally came out of the bathroom, she didn’t fight Spence as he helped her to the bed. Exhausted, she just wanted to lie down and have her head stop spinning. Spence held up the covers for her, and she carefully slid in. She lay there in the middle of the huge empty bed, listening to him in the bathroom, brushing his teeth and doing all those domestic things that she’d imagined in her silly girlhood would mean that she finally belonged somewhere and to someone. Now here she was, married to a man she didn’t like most hours of the day, pregnant—there, she’d thought it without hyperventilating—and alone on her wedding night.
Tears tracked down her cheeks. She wiped at them and buried her face farther into the pillow. She hated crying but couldn’t stop the sob that bubbled up and out. She tightened her jaw to keep the next one in. Her chest hurt from holding back her gasping breaths. Her eyes burned from the tears, then the sob parted her lips and she couldn’t stop. What the hell was she crying about? The bed dipped. She popped up, wrestling with the blankets and sheets.
“Everything’s okay,” Spence whispered, brushing her hair behind her ear. “Lie down.” He pulled her toward him, bringing her cheek to rest on that solid chest, where she could hear the thud of his heart. His hand rubbed her back. She wanted to tell him to get away from her. Instead, she lay there, clutching his shirt and blubbering. Damn it. She wasn’t the kind of woman who cried. She’d always prided herself on that.
Hours passed. It had to be hours. Her tears left tight, salty trails on her cheeks. Her eyelids rasped across her eyes. She tried to push herself away from Spence, but he just tightened his hold.
“Relax. Go to sleep. Morning will be here before we know it.”
Even those inane words made her feel better as she drifted into sleep, thinking that this would be something to tell their children. She jerked awake. She wasn’t keeping the baby, and she wasn’t keeping Spence. None of that was in the life she had planned. James women made horrible wives and even worse mothers.
* * *
THE COMBINATION OF a vibrating pocket and deliciously round female butt against his crotch brought Spence slowly and pleasantly from sleep as an imaginary Olympia asked him, “Is that your phone? Or are you just happy to feel me?”
The vibration paused for five breaths as he gathered himself to figure out where he was and why his mouth tasted as if he’d eaten dead coyote for dinner. He rolled slowly away from Olympia. His wife. Had he really married her? Had they really gotten pregnant? Was that the sun coming in through the curtains?
He sat up slowly, making sure he didn’t jar his head. He knew that once he really woke up, the hangover he deserved would pierce his brain. “Hello,” he whispered hoarsely into the phone.
“Daddy,” Calvin said. “You forgot to call.”
Spence stood quickly and hustled from the bed to the window. Crap. The sun was bright and way up in the sky. Then the spike-through-the-head hangover hit. Why had he sucked down four whiskeys? Whiskey always gave him a bad hangover. “Calvin...” Spence started, then cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, buddy. I got busy.”
“You’re always busy. When are you going to come and get me? I don’t want to live here anymore.”
Spence choked on his response. Calvin actually sounded cranky, like a normal little boy. Not the quiet and older-than-his-years boy who’d learned tough lessons from his years of illness. His son’s idea of defiance was not putting his LEGOs away. “We’ve got to talk to the judge—”
“He’s a poopy head.”
Spence stifled a laugh to stop the tears. He wanted Calvin with him now. Not months from now when the legal system figured out that Spence was the boy’s father and the person who had the “greatest concern for his physical and emotional well-being.” He dug deep for his calm, firm dad voice. “That’s not nice. He’s the judge, and we’ve got to listen to what he says. It won’t be long.”
“Uh-oh.” Calvin’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Grandma...Mimi is in the hall. Bye, Daddy.”
Spence’s knuckles turned white as he fought the urge to hurl the phone across the room. Just the sound of Calvin’s grandma in the hall was enough to send the boy running. He didn’t know how Calvin had found a phone to use, but his son clearly needed to talk with him. When he calmed down, he’d call and ask to speak with the little boy. Hopefully, Eugenia and Stuart Smythe-Ferris—the pretentious last name Missy was back to using—would be open to a brief conversation, despite being sticklers for following every comma of the custody agreement.
He glanced over at Olympia, who’d scooted into the divot made by his body. She didn’t look close to waking up. Wasn’t she a cowgirl? Weren’t they up at the crack of dawn? The only other cowgirl he knew was his sister-in-law, Jessie, and she was out in the barn before the sun rose most days.
He moved to the in-room coffeepot to brew something to combat the headache. They needed to get on the road because he had to be at the office by noon. He’d given some crap-ass excuse to get the time off. No one at the office knew about his marriage, except HR.
“Olympia,” he said more sharply than he’d meant to. She jerked.
“Wha—?” she mumbled, her head coming up, then falling back down with a thump.
“It’s nearly checkout time, and I’ve got to get to the office.”
Olympia squeezed her eyes shut and moaned.
Crap. She was going to be sick. Sympathy jabbed at his conscience. After all, it was his baby making her so ill. He said calmly, “There’s soda there for your stomach.”
She climbed out of the bed and slammed into the bathroom. He heard retching.