Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
GIA
O ne Week Later
The bus lurches to a stop, and I grip my swollen belly as the baby decides this is the perfect moment to practice his soccer kicks. Six months pregnant and running for my life wasn't exactly in my life plan, but here we are.
"Crimson Hollow," the driver calls out, his voice gravelly from too many cigarettes. "End of the line."
I struggle to my feet, my lower back screaming in protest. The other three passengers don't even look up as I gather my single duffel bag and the manila envelope that contains everything I need for my new life. Including the address of one Rosco Kane, the father of my baby.
If he doesn't slam the door in my face first.
The October air hits me like a slap when I step off the bus.
It's colder here in the mountains than it was in Vancouver, and my thin jacket does nothing to block the wind that whips through the valley.
Around me, Crimson Hollow spreads out like something from a postcard.
Quaint shops line the main street, mountain peaks rise on all sides, and everything looks so normal I almost cry.
Normal. Safe. Far away from Zack and his threats and his goddamn lawyers who think they can take my baby just because he's rich and connected.
Even though the baby isn't his. A fact I've been trying to prove for three months while he uses his family's money and influence to make my life a living hell.
I check the address on the crumpled paper one more time. 1247 Timber Ridge Road. The taxi driver at the station quoted me sixty dollars to get there, money I don't have. Looks like I'm walking.
The duffel bag cuts into my shoulder as I trudge up the winding mountain road.
My feet, already swollen from the long bus ride, ache in my worn sneakers.
But I keep walking because the alternative is going back to Vancouver, and that's not happening.
Not when Zack made it clear he'd rather see me dead than raise "his" child.
Even though I know exactly whose child this is. Even though I've thought about Rosco every single day for six months, wondering if I'd ever see him again.
Timber Ridge Road stretches higher into the mountains, past modest homes and sprawling cabins tucked between towering pines. The numbers climb slowly. 1201, 1215, 1223. Almost there.
My heart pounds harder with each step, and not just from the altitude. What am I going to say? Hi, remember that night in New York? Surprise, you're going to be a father and my psycho ex is trying to kill me?
Yeah, that'll go over well.
But I'm out of options. When I saw Rosco Kane's profile on Signed, Sealed, Hitched, it felt like a sign from the universe.
Not just because he was looking for a practical arrangement that could solve my custody problem, but because it was him.
The man from the Marriott hotel bar who made me feel safe and cherished and beautiful for one perfect night.
The man I've been half in love with and searching for six months.
1247 appears on a carved wooden sign beside a gravel driveway that disappears up the hill between massive pine trees. My stomach clenches, and not from another baby kick. This is it. The moment that determines whether I have a future or end up sleeping under a bridge somewhere.
I trudge up the driveway, gravel crunching under my feet. The trees part to reveal a log cabin that looks like it belongs in a magazine. Two stories, wraparound porch, picture windows that probably offer amazing mountain views. Smoke curls from the stone chimney, and warm light glows from inside.
It's beautiful. It's peaceful. It's everything I dreamed about during those long, terrifying nights in Vancouver when I wondered if Zack would make good on his threats.
A massive pickup truck sits in the driveway, mud splattered and work worn. Tools and equipment fill the bed, along with what looks like a chainsaw and safety gear. This definitely belongs to a man who works with his hands.
Just like he told me that night in New York.
I climb the porch steps, each one requiring more effort than it should. The baby has been especially active today, like he knows something big is happening. Or maybe he's just as nervous as I am about meeting his father.
My hand shakes as I reach for the doorbell, but before I can press it, footsteps thunder inside. Heavy boots on hardwood floors, moving fast like someone's in a hurry.
The door swings open, and I forget how to breathe.
It's him. Six months later, but definitely him. The same dark eyes that seemed to see straight through me in that hotel bar. The same strong jaw and full lips that I've dreamed about kissing again. The same powerful build that made me feel small and protected in his arms.
He's more sexy than I remembered, if that's even possible.
Flannel shirt rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair.
Jeans that hug his thick thighs. Work boots that have seen serious use.
And his face... those cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, the beard that tickled my skin when he kissed my neck.
This man could have any woman he wanted. Why the hell would he need a mail order bride service?
Unless he's been looking for someone specific too.
"Can I help you?" His voice is deep, rough around the edges, with just a hint of wariness. The same voice that whispered my name in the darkness six months ago.
I open my mouth to explain, but no words come out. How do you tell the man you've thought about every day for six months that you're carrying his baby and hoping he'll save your life?
His gaze drops to my belly, and I watch his expression shift from confusion to shock then back again. He doesn’t even remember me.
"You're pregnant."
"Very observant." The sarcasm slips out before I can stop it, a defense mechanism left over from too many years of dealing with men who thought they could intimidate me. I take a deep breath and meet his eyes. "Are you Rosco Kane from the Signed, Sealed, Hitched website?"
"Yeah, but I think there's been some kind of mistake. I just applied for that service last week. They haven't even gotten back to me yet."
Relief and terror war in my chest. He did apply. That means this could actually work. But he's not expecting me, which means I'm about to blindside him with the most complicated situation of his life.
"There's no mistake. I'm Gia Moreau, and we need to talk." I pause, gathering courage for what comes next. "About New York. About the Marriott hotel bar six months ago. About what happened between us."
His face goes completely still, eyes widening as recognition dawns. The coffee mug in his hand slips, hitting the porch with a crash that echoes through the mountain air.
"Holy shit. You're..." He stares at me like I'm a ghost, like I'm something he conjured from his dreams. "It's you."
"It's me."
"But how did you..." He looks from my face to my belly and back again, his mind clearly racing. "The baby. Six months. Is it..."
"Yours? Yes." The word comes out steady, certain. "The baby is yours, Rosco."
He grips the doorframe, knuckles white with tension. "Fuck. Gia. I've thought about you every day since that night. Every. Single. Day."
"So have I." Tears threaten, but I blink them back. "I never thought I'd see you again. When I found your profile on that website, it felt like fate."
"You were looking for a mail order husband?"
"I was looking for you." The truth slips out raw and honest. "I need help, Rosco. I need protection. But more than that, I needed to find you. To tell you about the baby. To see if what we had was real or just..." I gesture helplessly.
"It was real." He steps back, gesturing for me to come inside. "Jesus, Gia, come in. Sit down. You shouldn't be standing around in the cold."
I haul my duffel bag over the threshold and immediately feel overwhelmed by the warmth and coziness of his home. Leather furniture arranged around a massive stone fireplace. Exposed beam ceilings. And a kitchen that actually looks used, unlike the sterile showplace Zack kept.
It smells like coffee and wood smoke and something indefinably masculine that makes my hormones sit up and take notice. The same scent that clung to his skin when I woke up in his arms that morning in New York.
"Would you like some coffee? Water?" Rosco hovers near the kitchen, clearly unsure how to handle an unexpected pregnant woman in his living room. An unexpected pregnant woman carrying his child.
"Water would be great. And maybe we could sit down? It's been a long day."
He brings me a glass of ice water and settles into the chair across from the couch, maintaining careful distance. Smart man. I probably look like a disaster, all travel rumpled and emotional.
"So," he says, those dark eyes studying my face. "Want to explain what's going on? Because I'm pretty sure their process doesn't involve women showing up unannounced on my doorstep. Especially women I've been dreaming about for six months."
Heat floods my cheeks at his admission. He's been dreaming about me too.
"You're right, it doesn't. But I saw your profile before you officially applied, and I need to make you a proposition."
His eyebrows rise. "I'm listening."
"I need a husband. Temporarily. Just long enough to prove to the courts that I can provide a stable home environment for our baby."
"Our baby." He says the words like he's testing them out, and something warm and fierce flashes in his expression. "And why would you need to prove that?"
This is the hard part. The part where most men would run screaming. "Because my ex is trying to take custody, claiming I'm an unfit mother. He has money, lawyers, connections. I have nothing except the knowledge that he's dangerous and our child deserves better."
"Is this the same asshole from before?"