Courtney's Baby Plan Page 7

  Richie was obviously done with him.

  “Wyatt is not interested in me.” She moved behind Mason to take control of his wheelchair and push him back to the emergency room.

  “Every guy who isn’t related to you is interested.” His voice was dry.

  She wasn’t interested in “every” guy. Just one. And even if she hadn’t already known it herself, he’d made it perfectly plain all those months ago that he wasn’t interested in anything permanent.

  Just remember what you’re doing this for, she reminded herself.

  She wasn’t taking care of Mason out of any hope that something lasting would develop between them. She was taking care of him so that she’d have something lasting. Period.

  A child.

  “No comment?” Mason asked. “Because you know I’m right?”

  Just to suit herself, she made a face at the back of his head. “No,” she assured witheringly. “Because there’s no point in responding to such ridiculousness.”

  “Courtney. I heard you were here this morning.”

  She nearly jumped out of her skin at her mother’s voice and came to a stop with the chair, waiting for her lab-coated mother to reach them. “My patient had a little accident,” Courtney greeted.

  But her mom was already smiling with warmth into Mason’s face as she took his good hand in both of hers. “Mr. Hyde,” she greeted. The pale brown eyes that she’d passed on to Courtney were warm and sparkling. “It’s been over a year since you’ve been to town. It’s good to see you again. I’d ask how you’re doing, but that seems a bit unnecessary under the circumstances.”

  Feeling strangely on edge, Courtney shifted. She’d almost forgotten that Mason had met her parents, too, when he’d been in Weaver. “Mason accidentally cracked his cast. We’re here to get it fixed.”

  Her mother gave her a mild look. “It happens.” She turned back to Mason. “If you’re feeling up to it, you must come have dinner with us. I know Sawyer would enjoy seeing you again.”

  “My social calendar is pretty tight these days, but I’ll do what I can.”

  Rebecca laughed, and her still-dark hair bounced around her shoulders. “You’re frustrated with the inactivity.” She patted his hand. “I have some experience with men like you.” She glanced at Courtney. “Bring him by the house before you go on shift tonight. We’ll have dinner, and we’ll get him back to your place when he gets tired of us old fogies.”

  “Dr. Clay,” Mason drawled, “if you’re considered an old fogy, then getting older suddenly has a lot more appeal.”

  Rebecca laughed again, then shook her head when her name was paged. “Duty calls. See you both later.” She hurried off in the direction she’d come from.

  Courtney let out a careful breath. She wasn’t necessarily surprised at her mother’s hospitality toward Mason.

  But she still felt a little awkward about it.

  She’d never taken a former one-night stand home to have dinner with the folks.

  “We going to just sit here in the corridor?” Mason finally asked. “Or do you want me to do this under my own steam?”

  Flushing, she quickly pushed his chair the rest of the way to the emergency room. “I’ve seen the results of your steam,” she reminded. “It ended up with you on the floor at my house and also wedged in a doorway. Your steam needs to chill for a while.”

  “Your father used to be the sheriff, didn’t he?”

  His conversational leap threw her.

  But then, most everything about Mason threw her.

  She turned into the emergency room. One of the curtained areas was now occupied. “He used to be. Now Max Scalise is. He’s married to my cousin Sarah.”

  “Lot of family around here.”

  “Yup.” She grinned. “I could give you a rundown on the family tree, but it would take the rest of the afternoon.” She locked his wheels next to an empty exam table and, with a swift yank, pulled the long curtain around the area until they were fully enclosed. “Do you feel like stretching out, or do you want to stay seated?”

  “Seated,” he said immediately. “I’ve spent enough time flat on my ass.”

  “Since you were so mysteriously hit by an SUV,” she concluded.

  He shrugged.

  Realizing she was staring a little too hard at the darkening beard on his face, she grabbed his chart and flipped it open. Then she opened one of the drawers in the stainless steel cabinet and pulled out a digital thermometer similar to the one she had at home, as well as a spare stethoscope.

  “What are you doing?” He leaned his head back in avoidance when she fitted a clean sleeve on the thermometer and turned toward him.

  “Making use of the time.” Before he could make some sort of issue about it, she tucked the thermometer in his ear long enough to get a reading. Then she popped the sleeve in the trash, noted his temp—only a few degrees high and much better than it had been during the night—and set the thermometer back in the drawer before turning toward him with the stethoscope.

  But Mason caught her wrist in his hand before she reached him. “Stop.”

  “I’m just—”

  He gave her a hard look. “Courtney, if you put your hands on me again, I’m going to kiss you. Again. Are you ready for that?”

  A nervous frisson chased down her spine and her fingers curled into her palm. For a moment long enough to shock her, she was tempted. Sorely tempted.

  He was her patient.

  She wasn’t supposed to be more interested in tasting his seductive kiss than she was in maintaining some semblance of professionalism.

  With a quick twist, she jerked her wrist free and caught his in hers instead. She had just enough time to enjoy the sight of his surprise before his hand was free from hers. “Where’d you learn how to do that?”

  “My father was the sheriff,” she reminded. She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “And I’ve been surrounded by people like you all of my life. They all made sure I know how to protect myself.”

  The slide of the curtain had her straightening with a jerk, just in time for Dr. Flannery to appear.

  “Fortunately, the X-ray didn’t show any fresh damage to the bones,” he said without preamble.

  “Good. The sooner I get out of here, the better.”

  “Can’t say I blame you,” Dr. Flannery told him, though his smile was aimed at Courtney. “Although I think the scenery here is better than it is in most places.”

  Mason caught Courtney’s gaze before she could turn away. She wasn’t sure if he looked amused or challenging. Maybe both.

  “The crack in the cast is significant, though. Rather than chance its integrity, I’d like it replaced entirely. Once that’s done, you are free to go,” the doctor told Mason as he scribbled on the medical chart. When he was done, he left it sitting on the steel counter next to the sink. “Feel free to call if you have any questions or concerns. Courtney has my number.”

  As he watched the doctor walk away, Mason figured he’d chew off his own casts if he had to, before he’d call this guy about anything.

  Courtney was crouched in front of the steel cabinet, fussing with something in the bottom of it. The back of her T-shirt rode up the small of her back a few inches, taunting him with the sight of her warm, creamy skin above the slight gape of her pants. His fingertips curled down against the vaguely rough texture of his fiberglass cast.

  He knew her skin there was smooth. As smooth as his cast was not.

  Dammit.

  He’d been in Weaver for less than twenty-four hours and already the memories that he’d worked hard to lock away were back with a vengeance. Filling his head. Filling his gut.

  He shoved his fingers through his hair, grimacing. He hadn’t had a decent shower since the accident, though the nurses at the hospital in Connecticut had given him sponge baths and washed his hair a few times.

  What he wouldn’t give for just five minutes under a steaming-hot spray of water.

  His gaze drifted back to
the enticing curve of Courtney’s hips.

  Five minutes under a freezing-cold spray of water would probably do him more good.

  “What are you doing down there?”

  She glanced at him over her shoulder. The action only succeeded in pulling that shirt a half an inch higher.

  He felt sweat breaking out at the base of his spine.

  “I’m checking the supplies for your cast. Making sure Rodney has everything he needs.” She put her hands on her thighs and pushed to her feet. “The only kits I’ve got here are hot pink or light pink.” She smiled a little wickedly. “Interested in either one?”

  “I don’t have anything against pink,” he murmured. “You were wearing pink that night. Liked it real fine, then.”

  Her cheeks went rosy. Proof positive that she knew exactly what “that” night was. “I told you to forget about that.”

  “Pink scrubs.” Knowing he was tormenting himself wasn’t enough to stop him from needling her. “Pink bra. And matching pink panties with that thin, little ribbon stretching over your hips.” He’d taken great pleasure in untying that particular ribbon. Taking his sweet time while she’d breathed his name and pleaded for him to go faster.?…

  Her lips parted. “Mason.” Her voice was low. Hoarse. “You’re not making this any easier.”

  Like a switch being thrown, regret replaced desire.

  He’d pushed at her because he was a slug. Because he knew he wanted her, still, and his ego didn’t like feeling alone.

  So now his ego was fed.

  She wanted him, too.

  It was plain on her face. In the drowsy, melting caramel of her eyes and the soft, parted pout of her full lips.

  Which got them exactly where?

  Nothing had changed since that Valentine’s Day.

  She was still who she was.

  More importantly, he was still who he was.

  A former drug addict with a face that scared most people and a career no woman should get remotely near.

  He cleared his throat. “I don’t care what color the cast is.”

  Something in her eyes flickered. She hesitated for a moment as if she wanted to say something. But then she nodded. “I know somewhere we have the same blue as what you’ve already got. I’ll go find it.” She stepped beyond the curtain enclosing the exam area.

  From somewhere nearby, a baby started wailing.

  Mason pinched his eyes closed. Just then, he figured things would’ve been better if he’d stayed at the hospital in Connecticut. Maybe he’d have been able to handle it. Maybe he wouldn’t.

  But at least there, he wouldn’t have been continually confronted by the one woman even his good sense couldn’t seem to resist.

  It took another few hours, but finally—possessing a new cast that looked identical to the one that had been cut off—Axel dropped off Mason and Courtney again at her place.

  It was nearly noon.

  “I’ll get you some lunch,” she said once they were inside.

  “You don’t have to wait on me.”

  She raised her brows and gave him a look. “That’s one of the things you’re paying me for, remember?” She didn’t wait for an answer but headed into the kitchen. A moment later, he heard the back door, and then Plato was trotting into the house, coming straight for him.

  The dog sniffed at Mason’s casts, then turned tail and trotted back into the kitchen to his mistress.

  Factually, what Courtney had said about payment was accurate. Truthfully, however, it made him feel like some sort of weak weasel, even though he logically knew that in his present condition, he was more of a hindrance than any sort of help.

  He was sitting on the couch, and his crutches, including the one he’d fallen over trying to reach, were still lying next to it. He grabbed them and, with steady determination, managed to get himself on his feet without crashing over again.

  Her telephone was still sitting on the dining room table. Next to it were his pain pills.

  He eyed them for a long moment. Then he snatched up the bottle and carried it down the hall and into the bathroom.

  He managed to pry the lid off and poured the pills out into the palm of his right hand. The little round pills looked even whiter next to the dark blue of his cast.

  He exhaled and let them fall into the toilet. Then he flushed and watched them swirl away for good.

  Inside, he felt a little lighter.

  Which left him with only one remaining dangerous temptation. One he could do nothing about.

  Courtney.

  The other temptation facing him was the shower, and he eyed the tub with admitted want. He shouldn’t have Courtney, but he would have that. He couldn’t get his cast wet, and getting in and out would be a challenge with one leg immobilized, but desperate times made for creativity. Sooner or later, he would have to figure it out, or he’d be enlisting Courtney to hose him off in the backyard like she was giving a bath to Plato.

  Then he looked in the mirror. His reflection was enough to make him wince. And he was used to the sight.

  He fumbled with his shaving kit, managing to get it unzipped. He was right-handed, so shaving with his left didn’t come easy, but he did it anyway since he didn’t want to chance getting the fresh cast wet. Last thing he needed was another half day spent whiling away the hours at the hospital—where every male above drinking age seemed to be infatuated with Courtney—because he’d done something else damaging to the cast.

  Once his jaw was more or less shaved—save a few nicks—he tossed enough water over his head to shove his hair back and out of his face. Then he brushed his teeth and, feeling somewhat more human, hobbled back out to the living area.

  He could hear her still moving around in the kitchen. He raised his voice. “Mind if I use your computer?”

  “Help yourself.”

  Balancing on the crutch and his good leg, he hooked the desk chair and pulled it out enough to sit sideways. His leg cast bumped the desk, and a dull throb took up residence in his knee.

  He ignored it and covered the computer mouse with his right hand. His arm was immobilized from his biceps to his wrist, but his fingers were free and working perfectly well. He clicked the button, and the swirling screen saver on her computer monitor disappeared.

  The website she’d been looking at the night before came into view.

  His lips tightened. With one click he could have closed the website. But he hesitated.

  Hair color? Any.

  Eye color? Any.

  He frowned at the next search option. Blood type?

  “Oh, wait.” Courtney’s rushed voice came from behind him. “I forgot something. Let me just—”

  He glanced back at her. She was holding a butter knife in one hand and a piece of bread in the other. “Specimen type? What the hell kind of matchmaking site is this?”

  Her lips pressed together for a moment. “It’s not that kind of website,” she finally said. Then she sighed noisily, her hands gesturing with the knife and slice of bread. “You can see for yourself what it is.”

  He looked back at the glowing computer screen. “Yeah. I can see.” Some place called Big Sky Cryobank. “Question is, why are you looking at sperm donors?”

  Despite the rise of color in her cheeks, her chin lifted slightly. “For heaven’s sake, Mason. Why do you think?”

  He didn’t like the suspicion curling through him. It was the kind of suspicion that made a person feel nervous. Sick. “Someone wants a baby.”

  “Not someone. Me.” She moistened her lips. Her gaze was steady. Almost defiant. “I want to have a baby.”

  Confirmation didn’t make his gut settle down any. “Why?”

  She huffed. “Why not?”

  His brain felt like it had been scrambled. “You’re young! You’ve got plenty of time to find a husband.” He had to force out the words now even though he’d spent the past year and a half reminding himself of that very fact. “And then have a family.”

  She started to
fold her arms over her chest, then seemed to remember the bread and knife she was holding and stopped. “You’re sounding very old-fashioned. I don’t want a husband,” she said distinctly. “I want a baby.”

  He hadn’t thought he was particularly old-fashioned, but maybe he was when it came to some things.

  Or some people.

  “Borrow someone else’s baby for an afternoon,” he suggested rapidly. “God knows that family you’re in seems to pop ’em out regularly.”

  She looked heavenward and shook her head. “I’m not going to debate this with you.” She went back into the kitchen. “Do you want mustard on your ham sandwich?” she called out a moment later.

  He didn’t give a flip about mustard or the lack of it.

  He looked back at the computer screen and scrolled up to the top of the webpage, then to the bottom.

  Her criteria for the donor were broad.

  She didn’t seem to care about ethnic origins or ancestry or religious backgrounds. She didn’t care about physical characteristics. The only thing she had selected was that the donor have some college.

  Some.

  Not even a degree.

  The father could be any mug off the street who needed to make a few bucks by donating his genetic cocktail to a sperm bank.

  He grimaced.

  There was nothing about the situation that he liked.

  Nothing.

  “What does your family think about all this?”

  He heard the clink of a dish. Then she came into the living room and set a plate containing an enormous sandwich next to him on the desk. “They don’t know yet. I’ll get your antibiotics. You can take it after you eat that.”

  Impatience with his casts rolled through him when she turned and walked away and he wasn’t able to stop her. “Why haven’t you told them?”

  She didn’t answer until she returned with his antibiotics in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. “Because there was no reason to, yet. Do you need Tylenol?”

  “What do you plan to do? Wait until they can see you’re pregnant for themselves?”

  “No,” she said witheringly. “I saw no point in telling them until I had the means to even do it. I know my family. They know me. They’ll be supportive, just like they always are. Not that this is any of your business, anyway.” She set the pills and the water next to the plate and pulled the Tylenol bottle out of her pocket and tossed it on his lap. “Eat the sandwich and take the pills.” She turned on her heel again, only to stop. She pointed at the table. “What’d you do with the pain pills that were sitting there?”