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“I thought most men wanted sons, as a testament to their masculinity.”

“Doesn’t the fact that I got you pregnant prove my masculinity?”

“I guess it does,” she agreed, and took another bite of her burger.

“And truthfully, the sex of the baby doesn’t matter to me. All that matters is that both you and ‘she’ are taken care of.”

She smiled at his use of the feminine pronoun. “It’s strange,” she admitted. “I’ve known you for three and a half years but over the past couple of months, I’ve realized that I didn’t really know you at all.”

“Maybe because you didn’t want to know me.”

She nodded. “Because I was so sure I knew your type. And because I knew your type, I was sure you wouldn’t want to have anything to do with a baby conceived in a reckless and impulsive moment of passion.”

“I guess I can’t really blame you for believing that. I’ve done everything possible to live up to my reputation.”

“And people—myself included—often see what they expect to see. Until a couple of weeks ago, when I saw something at the hospital that made me revisit some of my assumptions.” She picked up her cup and took a long sip of her milkshake.

“What was that?” he asked a little warily.

“You were with an elderly gentleman, sitting on those horrible plastic chairs outside of the ER, and he was crying.”

“Mr. Ormond,” Justin said. “He’d just lost his wife of sixty-eight years.”

Anyone could pay lip service to those who were grieving, and often that was all doctors had time for or were capable of doing. Despite recent advances in medicine, doctors still weren’t given much education or practical advice on how to deal with surviving family members after the death of a patient. They were taught the appropriate phrases, but compassion was something else entirely—and often lacking.

Avery had witnessed Justin offering sincere and heartfelt empathy to an old man who’d desperately needed it. The fact that, more than two weeks later, he remembered not just the man’s name but the reason for his grieving showed her the capacity of his heart and unlocked something inside her own.

“She was with us for fourteen hours,” Justin told her. “And he sat with her the whole time, holding her hand, brushing her hair, reading aloud to her from a favorite book. That kind of love and devotion, after sixty-eight years, is amazing. And humbling.”

“Sixty-eight years,” she echoed, amazed.

He nodded. “He had just turned twenty when they got married, and she was a year and a half younger.”

“You listened to him.”

“It was a slow night.”

And maybe it had been, but she knew that wasn’t the reason he’d taken the time. “You’re an incredible man, Dr. Garrett.”

He just shrugged, obviously uncomfortable with her praise, as he immediately proved by shifting the topic of conversation. “Does that mean I get to choose what we watch on TV tonight?”

She polished off her burger, then crumpled up the wrapper and tossed it into the take-out bag. “That depends on what your choice would be,” she said.

Of course, they argued about what to watch. There was a classic Clint Eastwood Western that he wanted to see; she was more interested in a Sandra Bullock rom-com. In the end, she let him have his way and the movie did hold her attention—at least for a while.

She woke up when Justin carried her to the bedroom.

“I didn’t get to see the end,” she protested.

He sat her down on the bed and rummaged through the duffel bag she’d packed. “I TiVo’d it so that you can watch it tomorrow.”

She looked around, as if trying to get her bearings. “This looks like it’s your bedroom.”

“Because it is.”

“I can’t sleep in your bed.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got,” he told her. “Unless you want to sleep on the sofa—and I’m not letting you sleep on the sofa.”

“You’re going to sleep on the sofa?”

He shook his head. “It’s a king-size, which is bigger than the bed we shared in Atlanta.”

She wished that he hadn’t mentioned Atlanta, because now they were both thinking about that bed—and the things they’d done in it. And suddenly the air was snapping and crackling with sexual tension.

He started to unbutton her shirt; she slapped his hand away. “What are you doing?”

“Helping you get ready for bed.”

“I can manage.”

“I think I can get you undressed without succumbing to my baser instincts.” But his movements slowed when he pushed her shirt away, and he lowered his head to kiss her bare shoulder. Then his lips moved lower, trailing kisses down to the curve of her breast, above the scalloped edging of her bra.

“You said you wouldn’t succumb to your baser instincts,” she reminded him, a little breathlessly.

“Apparently I lied.” He brushed his mouth over her nipple, through the lacy fabric, and she gasped as little darts of pleasure arrowed through her veins.

“We can’t do this, Justin.”

“I know.” He drew in a long, deep breath, then released it.

When he reached for her again, his movements were brisk and efficient. He unhooked her bra, slid the straps down her arms and quickly tugged her pajama top over her head. The only signs that he wasn’t as unaffected as he appeared were the ticking of a muscle in his jaw and the heat in his gaze when it met hers.

“Lie down so I can take off your pants.”

“Usually a guy has to buy me dinner before he gets into my pants,” she said, attempting to lighten the mood.

“I did buy you dinner,” he reminded her. “And dessert.”

“So you did.” She leaned back on her elbows and lifted her hips off the mattress so he could slide her pants down her legs. Then he reversed the process with her pajama bottoms.

“Are you really going to hang out here for the next few days babysitting me?”

“Why not? I happen to like your company.”

“Do you realize that you’ve spent every weekend that you haven’t been working, for the past eight weeks, with me?”

“I wasn’t actually keeping track,” he told her. “Why—are you growing bored with me?”

“No, I just—” She changed her mind about what she was going to say and shook her head. “No.”

“You figured I would be growing bored with you,” he guessed.

She shrugged. “Even when I was younger—and not pregnant—I was never the life of the party.”

“Well, despite your advanced age and cumbersome condition,” he teased, “I happen to like the life we’re building together.”

“You don’t want to build anything with me,” she warned. “I can’t hammer a nail in straight.”

“That’s okay—I can.” And then, because he knew that wasn’t really what she was worried about, Justin took both of her hands in his. “I’m not going to leave you. I’m not going to abandon you or our baby, not ever. I promise you that.”

She shook her head. “You can’t make that kind of promise.”

“Yes, I can,” he insisted. “Because I love you.”

Avery shook her head, and the tears that filled her eyes slashed at his heart like shards of glass.

He forced himself to stay where he was, to let her see the truth of his feelings—even if it was a truth she wasn’t ready to admit. He hadn’t really expected that she would say the words back to him. Maybe he’d hoped, but he knew that it would take her time to process what he’d said, and longer still to believe he meant it.

He blamed her parents for that. From the little that she’d told him, and the little bit more he’d managed to glean through his conversation with her brother and meeting her father, not only had her parents been too preoccupied with their own lives to ensure their children knew they were loved, they’d also made them feel as if their love and attention had to be earned. If Avery got good marks at school, her father would take her out for ice cream. If she promised to be quiet while mommy was working in her office at home, she might be allowed to do her homework on the opposite side of the big desk.

Justin had never appreciated his own parents so much as he did after hearing Avery talk about her childhood. And while he knew there was no way to undo the damage that had been done by her parents’ disinterest and neglect, he hoped he could heal it by loving her. Because he refused to give up on her or the family he wanted them to build together.

Except that Avery’s response to his declaration proved that she wasn’t ready to acknowledge or accept his feelings. He cupped her face gently between his hands and used his thumbs to brush away the tears that spilled onto her cheeks.

“I didn’t expect a declaration of my feelings would make you cry,” he said, trying to keep his tone light.

“It’s been an emotional day.”

“I know.”

“I’m scared,” she admitted. “I don’t want to look too far ahead or make any specific plans when everything could change in the blink of an eye.”

He knew that she was worried about their baby, and he was, too. So he let the subject drop—for the moment.

Chapter Eighteen

T
uesday morning, Avery had her appointment with Dr. Herschel. Justin went with her, and the doctor reassured both of them that everything was fine and there was no reason to suspect that she would have any further complications. He also reminded Avery to take her cues from her body—to eat when she was hungry, rest when she was tired—and to let the baby’s father do as much for her as he was willing to do.

“You bribed him to say that, didn’t you?” Avery asked, when she and Justin left the doctor’s office.

“I didn’t,” he denied. “Although I might have if I’d thought of it.”

She shook her head at that, but she was smiling.

“Are you going back to work tomorrow?”

“I am,” she confirmed. “But I’m going to do fewer shifts at the hospital and shorter shifts at the clinic.”

“I know you’re more than capable of taking care of yourself,” he acknowledged. “But maybe you could consider staying at my place for a while longer.”

“Why?”

“Because knowing you’re capable doesn’t mean I won’t worry about you,” he admitted. “And because I want to watch your body change and grow along with our baby, and because I’d love to be there when you feel her move for the first time.”

“A lot of first-time mothers don’t feel their babies move until after twenty weeks,” she told him.

“I’ll try to be patient.”

She shook her head. “That’s not what I meant. I meant that I’m only in my sixteenth week right now—the novelty of having a pregnant roommate might wear off long before you can feel anything.”

“I’ll let you know if it does,” he promised.

Still, she hesitated. Not because she didn’t want to stay with him, but because she did. Over the past few weeks, she’d started to rely on him, his company and companionship more than she ever would have expected. And even though they hadn’t had sex since they’d returned from Atlanta, she loved falling asleep beside him at night and waking up with him in the morning.

“I guess I could stay a little longer,” she agreed.

* * *

It was three weeks later, after she woke up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, that she felt tiny flutters in her belly. When she realized it was their baby, she immediately nudged Justin awake to share the news. Of course, the movements were so subtle that he wasn’t able to feel anything from the outside, but he seemed as happy as she was, anyway.

She continued to see Dr. Herschel on a weekly basis, and every week Justin was there with her. The baby continued to grow and thrive, and her belly continued to get bigger. Justin seemed to be fascinated by the changing shape of her body, but when he touched her—as he did frequently—it was with the cautious awe of an expectant father rather than the passionate desire of an ardent lover.

She knew that he was being considerate of her feelings and showing concern for their baby, but her body ached for him. So at her next appointment, four weeks after Dr. Herschel had given her permission to go back to work, she asked—without looking at Justin—if there were any restrictions on sexual activity.

The doctor seemed surprised by her question. No doubt he assumed that she, being an obstetrician, would understand that the danger had passed and there was no cause to worry that sex would jeopardize her pregnancy. Which she did know, of course, but she wanted Justin to hear from another professional.

He took the hint. That night, he made love to her passionately but tenderly. Afterward, he snuggled up behind her with his hand splayed on the curve of her belly, their baby nudged against his palm. He felt it that time, and when she saw the awe and wonder on his face, Avery acknowledged that all of her efforts to protect her heart had been for naught.

She wasn’t just starting to fall in love with Justin—she was more than halfway there. All she could do now was brace herself and hope that her heart wouldn’t shatter into a million pieces when reality hit.

* * *

Early in June, Avery and Amy were on opposite schedules but decided to meet at the Corner Deli for lunch.

“Things are slightly chaotic at the clinic,” Amy warned, as she picked up her turkey club wrap. “Pam just broke up with her boyfriend.”

Avery nibbled on a French fry that she’d stolen off her friend’s plate. She’d ordered a salad for her own lunch because she’d already gained sixteen pounds and had promised herself that she would try to eat more healthy foods, but she figured one or two fries weren’t really cheating. “They were together for a long time, weren’t they?”

“Five years,” Amy confirmed. “And because she moved in with him last year, he’s insisting that she be the one to move out. I suggested that she ask you about your place.”

Avery shook her head. “There aren’t any vacant units in my building.”

“I didn’t mean your building but your actual apartment.”

She lifted her brows. “You mean the one that I live in?”

“I mean the one that you pay rent for,” Amy clarified. “Which seems a waste of money when you’re living with Justin.”

“I’m not living with Justin,” she denied.

“Really?” Amy’s voice was tinged with amusement. “When was the last time you slept at home?”

The furrow in her brow deepened as she tried to remember and realized that she hadn’t spent a night in her own bed since the miscarriage scare more than seven weeks earlier. She’d gone back to her own place periodically, to pick up a few things when she needed them, but Amy was right—she
was
living with Justin.