Dream a Little Dream (Chicago Stars, #4)(122)

“He’s not your child.”

“Yesterday morning he wasn’t. Today he is.”

She couldn’t speak. Why was he making this so hard?

“You might have noticed that all the Bonners take kids pretty seriously.”

She thought of the way Ethan and Cal treated Edward. As much as they had disliked her, they’d never shown him anything but kindness. And that morning Rosie had been passed from one adult to another, as if each person was responsible for her well-being. “I’ve noticed.”

“Then it’s a deal.”

“Gabe, I barely survived one disastrous marriage, and I’m not going to put myself through that twice. If I ever marry again, it’ll be for love.”

His eyes crackled with indignation. “Do you seriously think you can sit there and tell me you don’t love me, and I’m going to believe you? I’m not stupid, Rachel. Despite all your high-minded talk about being a wanton woman, you’re as straitlaced as anybody I know, and if you didn’t love me, there’s no way you would have let me touch you, let alone spend some of the best nights of my life in your bed.”

She thought seriously of punching him. Instead, she gritted her teeth. “It’s not my love that’s in question here.”

He regarded her blankly.

She snatched one of the throw pillows from the couch and hurled it at him.

“Damn! You made me spill my Dr Pepper.”

She jumped up. “I’m outta here.”

He slammed down the can and jumped up, too. “You’re not a reasonable woman, Rachel. Has anybody ever pointed that out to you?”

“Reasonable!” She was spitting mad. “Just because I won’t be your charity case, you think I’m unreasonable?”

“Charity case? Is that what you think you are?”

“I know it. Ethan’s not the only saint in the Bonner family.”

“You think I’m a saint?” Instead of being annoyed, he looked rather pleased.

“Brother . . .” she muttered.

He pushed his index finger toward her. “I’m going to marry you, Rachel. So just get that through your head right now.”

“Why would you want to marry me? You don’t love me!”

“Says who?”

“Don’t play games with me. It’s too important.” Her anger fled. She bit her lip. “Please, Gabe.”

He went to her at once, and pulled her down on the couch next to him. “Why would I play games about something like this? Don’t you think it’s important to me, too?”


“Not the way it is to me. You care about me, but I need more. Can’t you understand that?”

“Of course I can. Rachel, don’t you know how I feel about you?”

“Not the way you felt about Cherry, that’s for sure.” She hated the sharp note she heard in her voice, hated herself for being jealous of a dead woman.

“My life with Cherry is over,” he said quietly.

She gazed down at her hands. “I don’t think it’ll ever be over. And I can’t live in competition.”

“You aren’t in competition with Cherry.”

He didn’t understand at all. She twisted her fingers and thought about walking from the room, but she had just enough fight left to give him one more chance. “Then tell me something bad about her.”

“What do you mean?”

One part of her said to back off while her pride was still intact, but some things were more important than pride. “You said I wasn’t in competition with her, but I don’t think that’s true.” She felt petty and miserable. She couldn’t look at him, so she continued to gaze at her hands. “I need to hear something bad about her.”

“This is silly.”

“To you, maybe, but not to me.”

“Rachel, why are you putting yourself through this?”

“There had to be something about her that wasn’t wonderful. I mean . . . Did she snore?” She finally looked up and regarded him hopefully. “I don’t snore.”

He slipped his hand over her clenched ones. “Neither did she.”

“Maybe she—I don’t know. Put the newspaper in the trash before you had a chance to read it?”

“Once or twice, I guess.”

She hated the compassion she saw in his expression, but she had to see this through. Her mind searched for something an almost-perfect woman might have done. “Did she ever . . . use your razor to shave her legs?”

“She didn’t like the razors I used.” He paused and regarded her pointedly. “Unlike you.”

She began to feel desperate. Surely there was something. “I’m a very good cook.”

If anything, his expression grew even more sympathetic. “She baked bread at least once a week.”

The only time Rachel had tried to bake bread, she’d killed the yeast. “I hardly ever get traffic tickets.”

He lifted one eyebrow.

She rushed on. “And sometimes people who are exceptionally kindhearted don’t tell jokes well. They sort of screw up the punch line.”

“You’re reaching.” He kissed her on the forehead, then let her go and sank back into the corner of the couch. “You really want to go through with this, don’t you? Even though it doesn’t have anything to do with you.”