Surrogate and Wife. Emily McKay
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shaking in her boots. Or she would have been if she’d been wearing boots. As it was, she was merely shaking in her sensible, size-nine black pumps.
“Can we talk?” she blurted out when the door finally opened.
Jake stared at her blankly for a long moment.
Long enough for her to be reminded how handsome he was. How purely masculine. Of course, it didn’t help matters that he was bare-chested.
But the thing that really got to her, that actually made her heart stop beating for a second, was how the sheer size of him made her feel feminine. Delicate. Almost frail, even.
She was a solid five-nine, barefoot. No one made her feel delicate.
No one except Jake.
She didn’t like the feeling one bit. And she couldn’t help wishing that Beth and Stewart had picked some other man to be the donor. Someone who didn’t make her feel so distinctly at a disadvantage. Preferably someone who didn’t make her feel anything.
Someone who didn’t look as if he’d just tumbled out of bed.
“Oh, God,” she muttered, finally breaking the silence. “You’re not alone.” The naked chest, the disheveled hair, the sleepy stupor. She’d have put it all together sooner if she hadn’t been so distracted by the…well, the naked chest and disheveled hair. Mortification spread through her and she spun on her heel to leave. “I’ll come back another time. Or better yet, just forget I ever came here.”
But before she could make it even a few steps, he grabbed her by the arm.
“Oh, no, you don’t. You got me out of bed. You might as well say whatever it is you came here to say.”
“I…”
He pulled her into the apartment, not roughly, but with enough force to remind her—again—how much stronger he was. Toeing the door shut, he wheeled her around to face him.
“I, um…” she began again, only to have all thoughts evaporate the instant she realized how close she was to his bare chest.
“What’s wrong? You look…sick, or something.”
Or something, indeed. “I’m a little faint,” she lied, pulling her arm from his grasp. “I’ve been having dizzy spells lately.” Which wasn’t entirely untrue. He did make her head spin.
He reached for her arm again, carefully steering her to the nearby leather sofa. “You should sit. Can I get you something to drink? Water? No, wait, milk. Can I get you a glass of milk?”
Great. Here she was wrestling with this unexpected attraction to him, and he wanted to make sure she was properly hydrated. Just great.
“No, nothing. Look, I’m sorry I interrupted your…evening. I should have called first.”
“You didn’t interrupt anything. I was asleep.” He smiled wryly as he grabbed a flannel shirt that had been left dangling over the back of a chair. He slipped into the shirt, buttoning enough for modesty, but not enough to block the occasional glimpse of his muscles. “Alone.”
“Oh. I see.” Except she wasn’t sure she did. It was Friday night. And it was only nine-thirty.
He must have noticed her looking at her watch because he explained, “I have to be at the firehouse pretty early in the morning.”
“Oh. Then I’m sorry I—”
“Why don’t you stop apologizing and go back to the part where you said we need to talk.”
He lowered himself into the club chair beside the sofa. Again he seemed entirely too close.
“I…um…” The words caught in her throat, trapped there by a giggle rising to the surface. This was absurd, but so was the question she couldn’t see a way out of asking. So finally she just said, “Will you marry me?”
Jake froze, his expression blank for the second time this evening. Then shock registered, and his voice rose sharply as he asked, “What?”
“I need to get married.” Then she added in a rush, “And you did offer to help out with the pregnancy. You said you’d do anything you could.”
“I meant I’d help with your laundry. I didn’t think you’d want to get married.”
“You said you would help.”
“Sure, but married? You want to get married?”
“It’d be a marriage in name only,” she reassured him. “Just until after the baby is born. Maybe not even that long.”
“Let me see if I’ve got this right. Four days ago you didn’t even want me to do your grocery shopping, and now you want to get married?”
“Yes. Well, not exactly.” She frowned, trying to sort through the logic of her proposal. “See, here’s the thing. There’s a slight chance that if I have this baby out of wedlock, I’ll be fired.”
She watched his expression carefully, looking for any hint of his emotions, but he remained stoic. After several seconds he asked, “How slight?”
“Slight-ish.”
“Can you give it to me in a percentage?”
“Maybe forty…” She paused, then added honestly. “Ninety percent.”
For another several seconds, he stared at her, then he sprang to his feet and marched to the kitchen. She heard him open and close the refrigerator door. A minute later he reappeared with a bottle of beer, half of which was already gone, as if he’d had to take several fortifying gulps before facing her again.
He rested his shoulder against the doorway to the kitchen and leveled his gaze at her. “So there’s a ‘slight’ ninety percent chance you’ll get fired when you have this baby and you didn’t think to mention it until now?”
“I didn’t think it wasn’t an issue before Beth and Stew got pregnant.” As briefly as she could, she explained about Hatcher’s bid for a seat on the Texas Supreme Court and his moral-values campaign. “So you see, being a surrogate mother for your sister who can’t get pregnant could be considered noble. Claiming to be a surrogate for your sister who’s already noticeably more pregnant than you is definitely suspicious.”
He eyed her doubtfully. “You really think anyone will even notice that you and Beth are pregnant at the same time?”
“Yes, I do. Beth and Stew know a lot of people. Half the town shops in their health food store. Trust me, people are going to notice she’s pregnant.”
“So, you just have to explain the situation. Most people will believe you.”
She sighed. “You’re right, of course. Most people will. But Hatcher doesn’t have to convince ‘most people’ in order to get me fired.”
“Do you have some kind of morality clause or something in your contract?”
“I’m an associate district judge,” she explained. “We’re appointed by the district judges. We don’t have contracts.”
“This Judge Hatcher can just fire you on a whim? His decision doesn’t have to be based on your performance? That’s bull.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” Even under the circumstances, she couldn’t help being a little amused by his vehement reaction. “Of course, it’s not his decision alone. There are eight district judges total. They’d have to vote on it. All Hatcher really has to do is call a press conference questioning my morality. A public outcry from a few concerned citizens would be enough. He only needs a simple majority to vote me out of office. That’s just four other people.”
“And you think he can convince them?”
“I think it’s possible. He doesn’t even have to convince them that what I’ve done is wrong. He just has to