Courtney's Baby Plan. Allison Leigh
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back at her, pushing his head harder against her palm. His long, feathered tail slapped the base of her chair. “I knew you’d like the idea, too.” Plato had been around children before she’d adopted him. His previous owner had run a foster home before cancer had stricken her.
Thinking of the woman who hadn’t only been Courtney’s teacher in Cheyenne, but also her friend, made her sigh.
Then she leaned over and pressed a kiss on Plato’s big head before turning back to the computer screen that glowed in front of her. She wasn’t going to end up like Margaret, taking in other people’s children when they couldn’t properly care for them. For Margaret, that had been enough.
Not for Courtney.
She wanted a child of her own.
“Thank goodness for Axel, huh?” She didn’t look away from the computer screen. “If it weren’t for him, we’d be waiting even longer.” Of course, when her cousin had approached her about taking in Mason, he’d had no idea of her plans and still didn’t. For that matter, nobody in her family had any idea.
She simply wasn’t ready to share, yet.
She looked back at her faithful companion and scrubbed her fingers through his thick coat again. “You’re the only one who knows,” she whispered.
The four-year-old Saint Bernard gave a huge, contented sigh.
Which had pretty much been the dog’s reaction ever since she’d begun voicing her intention to add to their small family.
She was twenty-six years old. Financially independent in a modest way. She had a good job. She—along with the bank—owned a home that she’d spent the past nine months remodeling.
And she wanted a baby.
So what if she didn’t have a man in her life?
Weaver, Wyoming, was a small town. She’d known all of the available men here since they’d all pretty much been in diapers. She also knew the men who weren’t available, yet liked to think they were.
She had no problem giving them all a pass.
The fact was, not a single man in Weaver had ever really turned her head, romantically speaking.
Well.
She grimaced slightly. Not any man who was from Weaver, she amended, thinking of the man sleeping right down the hall from her.
She was a modern, independent woman.
She had scads of supportive—albeit nosy—family members in the area. Everything in her life was aligned perfectly, just as she’d planned and worked for.
And now, thanks to Axel’s suggestion and Mason’s rent, she’d have the funds she needed even sooner than she’d planned.
If she’d learned anything in her life, it was not to wait too long to put into action the things you wanted.
Well, the waiting was done.
For months, she’d been checking out the various websites of sperm banks. Checking references. Checking reputations. And she’d finally settled on one—Big Sky Cryobank. It was located in Montana, had been around for as long as she’d been alive and came with impeccable references.
Now, given what she was earning, thanks to Mason, she would be able to bank enough extra money to pay the cryobank fees and the associated physician fees, since she knew her health insurance wasn’t going to cover the process of getting pregnant. She’d also have enough in her savings to tide her over for a few months when the baby came, so she wouldn’t have to go back to work the very second her maternity leave was used up.
“Everything is perfect,” she told Plato.
The dog stared up at her as if he could read her mind.
She grimaced a little. All right. Modern, independent woman or not, she had to admit that “perfect” would be the husband and a wedding ring along with the baby she was desperate to have. But she wasn’t willing to wait for all of that to come knocking at her door. Not when her door—save that one night with Mason all those months ago—was essentially silent. “As perfect as it’s likely to get,” she allowed, giving Plato a firm look.
“What’s perfect?”
She jerked, her heart lurching in her chest, and spun around on her chair to peer down the darkened hallway. “Mason. What are you doing awake?”
His rubber-tipped crutches provided a slow, rhythmic clump as he moved closer.
Her heart hadn’t stopped lurching, and she rose, wishing like fury that she’d thought to put on a robe over her thin knit pajamas. Thank heavens the room was lit only by a small lamp and the glow from her computer monitor. He would never be able to see the thumping in her chest, which felt so heavy it was probably visible. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
He finally stopped on the other side of the dining room table. He shook his head.
She moistened her lips and pressed her palms down the sides of her drawstring pants. “Do you need anything? You were sleeping when I came by during my break, and I didn’t want to disturb you then. But if you’re hungry or thirsty, I’m happy to get something for you.” Better to have a task to focus on, even if she did realize that she was talking too fast in the process.
He shook his head again, then jerked his chin toward the computer. “What’s that? One of those computer dating websites? Searching for your perfect match?”
She barely kept herself from shutting off the computer monitor. “Sort of.”
His dark gaze shifted back to her. “What’re you looking for? Blond hair? Dark hair? Blue eyes? Brown?”
She laughed a little nervously. Maybe if she described him, he’d drop the subject. Or not, considering his “sex option” comment when he’d arrived.
She wasn’t brave enough to find out.
Nor was she brave enough to hear what sort of comments he might have about her decision to find a daddy for her baby through a sperm bank. She pushed a few buttons on the computer keyboard, and the screen went blank, and she moved toward him. Away from the narrow desk where the computer sat. But the closer she got to him, the warmer she became.
Fortunately, there were a few working brain cells left inside her head for her to realize the heat wasn’t coming from inside her, but physically radiating from him. At a temperature much higher than normal.
She reached up and pressed her palm against his forehead. He was burning up.
“Mason,” she tsked. “You have a fever. Are you in pain?”
“No.” He’d closed his eyes and sighed faintly when she’d laid her hand on his forehead. The kind of sigh that signaled relief.
“I don’t believe you,” she murmured, but left her hand on his forehead a moment longer than necessary before she tucked herself between his casted arm and his side. She slid the crutch out of her way and leaned it against the table.
The feel of his torso against hers was blazing hot.
“Come on. You shouldn’t be on your feet.” She wrapped her arm behind his back for support and gently nudged him in the direction of the hallway.
“I don’t want to go back to bed. I’m sick of beds at the moment.”
“Okay.” She shifted slightly. “How about the couch?”
He gave a faint grunt and, with most of his weight on his remaining crutch, headed toward it. By the time he’d managed to half hop and half crutch his way around until he could pretty much collapse on the smooth leather cushions, she was glad she’d rearranged the furniture. She was also out of breath, and she didn’t consider herself exactly out of shape. Not with the running that she did.
She propped her hands on her hips and blew out a breath. “Now