Читать книгу The M.D. She Had To Marry - Christine Rimmer - Страница 11

It was barely eight-thirty when they got back to the cabin.

Logan suggested that they sit outside for a while and watch the sun set behind the mountains.

Lacey vetoed that idea. “I’m tired,” she said.

It was a lie. She wasn’t tired. She simply had to get away from him. Having him so near, having to be so very careful, was making her crazy.

She was no good at carefulness. She had never taught herself how to hide what was in her heart. She wore her emotions on the surface. And she liked it that way, felt comfortable in her own skin because she could always be honest about what was going on inside her. And it translated into her work, gave her a freedom to create whatever came to her, to follow her own ideas wherever they wanted to take her.

But she couldn’t afford to let her emotions show now. If she did, Logan would only use her poor heart against her. Her love would become his ally in his relentless quest to do the right thing—the Logan Severance version of the right thing, which included marrying the mother of his child whether he loved her or not.

She had to watch herself every minute. And still, she kept messing up, kept slipping into ridiculous moments of pure adoration. Kept snapping to attention to find herself staring at him dreamy-eyed, mooning over him as he slept, caressing the side of his face at the dinner table while Zach and his family looked on.

He was watching her strangely now, one corner of that sexy mouth tipped up, a musing, thoroughly nerve-racking look in his eyes. “Tired? You? The original night owl?”

He had her dead to rights, of course. Even far advanced in pregnancy, Lacey Bravo was a night owl. She went to bed late and if she got up by noon, she felt she’d started the day good and early.

She stuck with her lie. “Tonight, I am tired. I’m taking a shower and I’m going to bed.”

Of course, once she got there, she knew she wasn’t going to be able to sleep.

She decided to do a few exercises. She practiced her Kegels—contracting and relaxing the muscles she would use in childbirth. She sat up and rolled her neck and did a few simple stretches. She got on her hands and knees and flexed her back, then relaxed it, remaining aware of her breathing the whole time.

When she ran out of exercises, she tried to concentrate on a novel, sitting up among the pillows, the book propped on her big stomach. But her attention wandered. The baby seemed restless. The little sweetheart kept surprising her with nudges and pokes. And her back was aching. It was hard to get comfortable.

She heard Logan go out to the bathroom, heard the water pipes sighing as he took his shower. When he came back in, she heard him moving around in the main room and wondered just what he was doing out there.

Then she heard the click as he turned off the light over the table. The springs of the daybed creaked. And then silence.

From outside, faintly, came the far-off howling of lonely coyotes and the hooting of an owl. But there was no sound at all from the main room. She continued her attempt at reading until ten, then gave up and turned off her own light.

As the hours crawled by and she couldn’t sleep, she silently called Logan Severance a hundred nasty names. She practiced more Kegels—hundreds of them. She sat up and rolled her neck, stretched her arms, closed her eyes, breathed slowly and evenly in and out, seeking relaxation and inner peace.

Hah.

By midnight, her poor bladder could no longer be denied. She pulled on her robe and tiptoed out to the back door. With agonizing care, she turned the latch, then tried to pull the door open slowly enough that the old hinges wouldn’t creak.

They didn’t. Or if they did, it was just barely.

Still, he heard them. “Lacey?” His voice was thick with the groggy remnants of sleep.

If she hadn’t loved him so blasted much, she could have hated him for that, for his ability to drop right off to sleep while she lay staring wide-eyed into the shadows, counting her Kegels—not to mention the seconds, the minutes, the hours.

He sat up. She could see the shape of him, outlined in the moonlight that streamed in, pale and silvery, through the window above the daybed. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She pushed the door open the rest of the way and lumbered out into the night.

When she came back, the light was on and he was standing by the rocker, wearing a pair of navy blue sweats and nothing else that she could detect. He had his bare arms folded over his chest.

“Are you in labor?”

She let loose an unladylike grunt. “Is that an accusation?”

He dropped his arms. Lord, that chest of his was beautiful. Planes and angles, power and the readiness for motion. Da Vinci would have drooled. “Come on, Lace. Are you having contractions? That’s all I want to know.”

“No.” She gathered her robe closer around the barrel of her belly. “I am not having contractions. And honestly, there is no need to ask me that. I can assure you, when I am in labor, I will have no hesitation at all about sharing the news with you.”

“Believe it or not, sometimes a woman won’t even know when she’s in labor.” He was grinning.

“You know, Doctor. You are way too cheerful about all of this.”

“It just occurred to me. You haven’t called me Dr. Do-Right once since I arrived here.”

“I guess I must be slipping—and I’m sure you mean, a woman might not know when she’s in the early stages of labor. After a certain point, it’s got to become pretty obvious.”

“True.” He frowned. “Did you ever get a chance to take a childbirth class?”

“No. But I bought a few books and I’ve been studying them, getting to…understand what will happen.”

“Well. Good.” There it was again—that musing look in his eye, that half-smile on his lips.

“What is that?”

He lifted a dark brow. “What?”

“That…look.”

“Look?”

“Yes, Logan. That look. That look that says you know something I don’t.”

He lifted both big, sculpted shoulders. “Beats me.”

She wanted to slug him. Or kiss him. She said, “I’m going back to bed. And if I get up again, could you pretend not to notice? It’s bad enough that I spend my nights going in and out of the back door. I don’t need you hovering nearby ready to check my vital signs every time I come in.”

“Will do.”

“What does that mean?”

“Unless you call for me, I won’t get up.”

“Thank you.”

“You are very welcome.”

She peered at him. “What is going on?”

“Nothing. Go on back to bed.”

It was good advice, and she knew it. She ducked into the sleeping nook, dragged her poor ungainly body onto the bed and curled on her side. The light in the main room went out.

The next time she got up, about two hours later, Logan didn’t even stir.

Daylight came as it always did: earlier than Lacey would have liked.

Not that she noticed. By then, as always, she was finally sound asleep. If Logan went outside, she didn’t hear it, and she didn’t hear him come back in, either.

But she did hear him fiddling with the stove.

She turned over and grumbled to herself and drifted back into a pleasant, floating state of slumber, thinking as sleep claimed her that at least he was trying to be quiet.

Not much later, she found herself awake again. She sighed, breathed deeply, told herself to relax and let go.

But there was a problem.

She could swear she heard every move he made. The clink of a bowl as he set it on the table, the rustle of cereal spilling out of a box. The muffled click—twice—as he carefully opened, then closed the refrigerator door, the pad of his stocking feet across the plank floor, the glug-glug-glug of milk poured from a carton.

She tried putting her pillow over her head, then even yanked the blankets over that. It did no good.

She was awake—at eight thirty-three in the morning, after having slept fewer than four measly hours.

She knew that Logan usually woke around six. Which meant that in all likelihood, he’d been lying there for at least a couple of hours, actively restraining himself from getting up and starting in with his annoying morning-person activities. The only reason he would do such a thing was to give her a chance to sleep undisturbed.

It was thoughtful of him. And she should have been grateful.

But she wasn’t grateful.

She was nine months’ pregnant and she was tired and Logan Severance was driving her crazy with his will of iron and his musing I-know-something-you-don’t-know smiles and his absolute refusal to accept that she was never, ever going to say “I do.”

Lacey pulled the pillow closer around her face and muttered a few choice naughty words.

Couldn’t he see that it would never work? Even if he returned her love, what possible chance did they have of making it as a couple? They didn’t even get up at the same time.

He went back to the refrigerator—did he actually imagine she couldn’t hear every move he made?—and put the milk away. Then back to the table again. He didn’t scrape the floor with the chair, but it creaked when he sat down. His spoon clinked against the bowl.

When she found herself straining to hear him chew, she knew it was no use.

With another low oath, she shoved back the covers and reached for the tent of the day, a scoop-necked, ankle-length, teal-blue creation, which she’d left hanging on a wall peg along with her bra the night before. Her ballerina flats were right there, too, in the tiny space to the right of the bed. She tore off her sleep shirt and put on the clothes, shivering a little with cold, realizing that he must not have built a fire after all, even though she’d distinctly heard him fooling around with the stove.

When she entered the main room, he looked up in mid-crunch. She didn’t say a word, just went out the door and into the bathroom, where she relieved her overworked bladder and splashed icy water on her face and grumbled to herself in the mirror as she raked a brush through her hair.