The Plan (Off-Limits Romance, #4)(38)

In his own neat, all-caps, hand, he wrote: BE READY FOR ME.





9





Marley





I haven’t told a soul about The Plan. Not because I feel so sure my besties wouldn’t understand but—

Okay, yes, it’s safe to say my friends will think I’ve lost my everloving mind.

Sex with Gabe would seem extremely no bueno—risky at best, self-destructive at worst—but if they find out I’m trying to have a Gabe baby? They’d probably have me committed.

And it’s true, we need to talk more about how we would share the baby. Who would have the baby and when. But I can’t really see a losing situation. It’s about ethics. If I couldn’t conceive a child by a father I have access to, I’d use a sperm bank, and I wouldn’t feel badly about it. But if I can give my baby a dad—if I can give my unborn, unconceived child the gift of a living, breathing father who could mentor him, who would love her—then I have to try. And Gabe would love a baby.

If he still wants to be a father to a child who isn’t his by blood and whose mother wants him to get lost, I think it’s very safe to say that he would love a baby we made.

And he wants to make one. I can’t help grinning into my bedroom mirror like a kid at Christmas.

I’m wearing Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer leggings and a red sweater I know maximizes my bustiness. I rub a little lotion on my throat and have to suppress a giggle. I feel like I’m in high school.

I’m not sure when or if Gabe’s going to come up tonight, so I get busy in the kitchen, setting up some of the southern-style chicken and dumplings Gabe used to love, and then starting on a pecan pie. If he doesn’t come around tonight, at least I’ll have this pie to keep me company.

While I work, I pour some apple cider—this time, cold—and turn on the latest Lorde album. A lot of it is about failing relationships, breaking up, or moving on. Since I didn’t really plan to make this proposal to Gabe in the first place, I haven’t spent that much time dwelling on it…but as I get the dumplings simmering, I think how in a fucked up way, I’m fortunate. To get another chance. To not leave things between us how they were left for so many years. Every time I thought about him, I felt smothered by guilt and regret.

Maybe we can turn all that around. If not spouses, become—

I hear a knock and nearly yelp as I spin toward the door. Wrong door. He’s not knocking on the outside door. He’s at the interior door, leading into the den. I grin as I hurry over to it.

It’s not locked.

I turn the knob, trying for a neutral look as I pull the door open.

And there he is.

I laugh. “It’s you.”

His brows shoot up toward his curls. “It is.” He’s wearing khaki shorts and a gray Tom Petty t-shirt—and socks.

I laugh at his socks.

He shrugs, moving his hands out of his pockets. Which draws my attention to the fact that Gabe had his hands in his pockets. “No need for shoes.”

I step back, waving him in. “Come in.”

“Damn. You cooking something?” He eyes the stove, and I smile.

“Chicken and dumplings. Oh, and pecan pie. For me.”

“I’ve made my peace with pecans.”

“Yeah?”

He shrugs. “Up in New York, I kinda missed them.”

“Yeah, I had to learn to make pecan pie in Chicago. Short of going to a Southern-type restaurant, I wasn’t finding one in any stores.”

His eyes close as he inhales.

“Feel free to take some with you.”

When his eyes open again, he presses his lips together and puts his hands back into his pockets.

“Jesus, Marley.” He gives a shake of his head, like he can’t believe we’re really doing this, and for a heartbeat, I feel almost dizzy with fear that he’s about to back out. Then his eyes rove up and down me, and his mouth curves. “You’re looking fucking good in that thing. Sweater? Tunic? I should know this shit for character descriptions.”

“I would say sweater.” I run my hand along it. “I think tunics are more flowy?”

His gaze tugs up to mine, and I watch his face go serious. “You sure?” he says quietly.

“Is it too crazy for you?” I whisper. “No, don’t answer that.” I hold my hand up. “Are you ready to do something crazy?” I ask, sounding breathless.

“This’ll be the second something.” His words are low and slightly drawled. With his earnest eyes and that low, Southern voice, he sends memories of us driving down The Strip and smoking cigarettes and kissing on a hotel roof cartwheeling through my mind.

I look down at my feet. “I should have made The Plan more thorough.”

His face is thoughtful as he steps a little closer. “What do you need?”

My eyes sting. “I don’t know.” I laugh. “I guess I’m nervous now.”

I can see a bolt of anguish cross his face, and it’s a gift from God. It lets me know he cares.

“You’re not the only one,” he says in that low rumble.

“No?”

He nods, poker-faced, and then I see him bite his cheek as he looks down at my rug. He doesn’t give me more, but then he doesn’t need to.