Chapter 4
Luke
“Drink this.” I hand her a bottle of Sprite I bought from a vending machine back by the entrance. “Also nabbed you some soda crackers from the snack bar.”
“Thank you.” Her hand shakes a little as she accepts my meager offering. We’re in the cab of my truck with the rain lightly pelting my cracked windshield. “Nabbed as in stole?”
“Yes, Hazel.” For fuck’s sake. “I held the clerk at gunpoint and demanded saltines.”
“Sorry.”
Sighing, I hold out the small vinyl trash can I keep in my truck. She hesitates, then primly deposits the napkin she just used to wipe her mouth.
“Keep it.” I place the trash can on her lap. “In case you puke again.”
“Thank you.”
“And don’t worry. I bought the soda and the crackers with my own funds. Just six easy payments and you’ll own them outright.”
“I’m sorry, okay? Really, really sorry.” She sounds so pitiful I let up on her.
“It’s fine. Drink your soda. It’ll settle your stomach.”
I expect her to argue, but she doesn’t. Just lifts the green plastic container to her lips, sipping it slowly and swallowing.
As she lowers the bottle, she winces. “I really didn’t mean that as a jab at your finances.
I know you’re paid fairly. And you’re one of the few Spencer Development employees utilizing our charitable donation matching program. ”
Of course she looked into my payroll. But she sounds impressed, so I decide not to make a big deal of it. “I’ve done the maximum pre-tax donation each month I’ve worked there.”
“I know,” she replies. “You donate to Kayley’s Foundation. They mentor teens headed down a bad path.”
“Kayley was the girl killed in the road racing incident.”
I can’t tell if she remembers I told her this back in the boardroom. She looks out the window, eyes glued to the spot where she just lost her lunch. “I’m so embarrassed.”
“About puking?” I hand her another packet of saltines. “Pregnant ladies puke. It happens.”
“I meant how I blathered on about sandcastles and charitable donations when everyone else was having a conversation about sperm.” With a grimace, she sips some more soda. “How did I miss that?”
“Beats me.”
“I don’t think my brain is firing on all cylinders.”
“Give yourself a break, Haze. They seemed charmed.”
“They seemed disgusted.” She rips into a packet of crackers. “Thanks for the diversion, though.”
“Diversion?”
“Your cover-up. That crazy story about donating sperm? I think they bought it.”
“Uh… They bought it because it’s the truth.”
Hazel blinks up at me. “What?”
“I mean, yeah.” Is this a problem? “Wasn’t easy landing a regular job right out of prison. Even with the sentence reduction, there’s still a felony on my record, so I had to get creative.”
“Sperm banks accept donations from felons?”
That’s either judgement or shock in her voice, but my hackles go up just the same. “Only obscenely attractive felons.”
“I can’t tell if you’re messing with me right now, but I’m not in the mood.”
“Hand to God.” I reach over and swipe one of her crackers, crunching it loudly to spite her. “Not messing with you, babe.”
“Don’t call me babe.”
“Not messing with you, toots.” I savor the bright flash of fire in her eyes. “Your whole family knows about it. We discussed sperm donation over dinner while talking about Peter and Lucy’s secondary infertility struggles.”
“Great,” Hazel mutters, nibbling a cracker. “It’s refreshing to know you’re so sharing with your semen.”
“I’m an open book.” I can’t resist taking a jab. “And hey, you didn’t even have to hit a clinic to get some of my grade A baby batter. You’re welcome, babe.”
“I’m not your babe.” Hazel grits her teeth. “The sperm people know about your criminal history?”
It’s like she’s trying to catch me in a lie.
“Yes, Hazel. The fertility clinic where I donate is aware of my record.” I can’t resist adding this next part.
“Turns out there’s a high demand for the DNA of a drug-free, ridiculously healthy, six-three adult male with blue eyes, an IQ of 140, and no family history of disease or dysfunction.
” I watch her face closely as my words sink in. “Don’t look so shocked.”
“I’m not.” She so clearly is, it’s absurd. “If you don’t know your father, how are you certain there’s no family disease or dysfunction?”
“My mother had copies of some of his old medical records.” Something I hoped might help track him down, but nope. Another dead end.
Hazel’s still reeling from the sperm donor thing. “I just—I’ve never met anyone who’s donated sperm.”
“Families are made in all kinds of ways.”
“So you might have children out there somewhere?”
“I don’t think of it that way, no.” I’m not sure why, but creating life with Hazel feels different from some clinical procedure in a lab. “But yes, the last time I donated, the clinic said several couples requested me based on my profile.”
“I’m sorry, I’m not judging. And I’m really not surprised there’d be such a demand for your…” She trails off, blushing, so I fill in the blank.
“Sperm, jizz, love juice, man milk, cock gravy?”
“You’re disgusting.”
Why is her look of dismay such a turn-on? “You didn’t seem to think I was so disgusting when you were begging me to—”
“Can we not do this right now?” She looks vaguely green, and since my shoes are still damp from the soaking she gave them, I decide to let it drop.
She must be thinking along the same lines I am. Glancing at my feet, she makes a face. “Sorry again about your shoes.”
“You say that a lot, don’t you?”
Her eyebrows go up. “Apologize for puking on people’s footwear?”
“You say you’re sorry a lot.” I survey her face, enjoying the angles and planes. Our kids will be lucky to get her DNA. “Don’t you get tired of apologizing?”
“Maybe there’s a lot to apologize for.”
“I think you should break the habit.” Like I’m in a position to make life suggestions. “Here’s an idea—every time you say ‘sorry,’ I get an extra vote on the names.”
“For the babies?” She shoots me a dubious look. “I didn’t know we were voting.”
“You thought you’d decide on your own?” Figures.
“No, I guess—I don’t know. Maybe you name one and I name one?”
That makes me snort. “That’s how we’d end up with twins named Beatrix and Clover.”
“Clover?” She scrunches her nose. “Are you naming a girl or a golden retriever?”
“Are you saying you actually like Beatrix?”
“I had a great-aunt named Beatrix.”
“I rest my case.”
Hazel scoffs. “I prefer classic names like Charlotte or Emma or Elizabeth or Victoria or—”
“And I like nature-inspired names.” I don’t actually hate most of the names she just listed, but it’s the point of the thing. “Lily or Poppy or Fern or Violet.”
Hazel sighs. “This was much easier when I thought I’d be doing it on my own.”
“Sorry to crimp your style by inserting my penis and opinions into things.”
Her cheeks fill with color. “I’m an only child. I’m not used to sharing.”
“I kinda got that.”
“Sor—” She winces again, then changes the subject. “Are you driving straight back to Cherry Blossom Lake?”
“I’m staying here tonight.”
Hazel blinks. “Here?”
“Not in my truck.” Never mind that I sometimes do that. “Probably with a buddy. My business in Salem isn’t until tomorrow.”
“Oh.” She nibbles another saltine. “Meeting with a parole officer or something?”
“No.” I can’t be offended by the guess, since she’s not so far off the mark. “My lawyer successfully argued the sentence was excessive and got me cleared for time served.”
“So no parole obligations?”
“No parole obligations.” I’m annoyed she keeps harping on this. “What, you just automatically assume the only business an ex-con would have near Salem has something to do with parole?”
“Sor—” She stops with a frown. “That’s on me. Seems like the only time I come to this part of the state is to visit my father or meet with his lawyers or attend some kind of court hearing. I’ve come to dread the Willamette Valley as one big prison-related road trip.”
Now it’s my turn to feel bad. “That sounds heavy.”
“It can be.” She toys with the top of her soda. “Knowing you’re staying over makes me feel worse about your shoes. I don’t suppose you brought an extra pair for your meeting?”
“’Fraid not.”
“Please, let me buy you some new ones. I’m staying downtown at The Grand, and there’s tons of great shopping nearby. You can clean up in my suite if you want. It’s the least I can do after throwing up on you and…well…” She nibbles her lip again. “Being sort of a bitch to you.”
I should probably argue that last point. “You don’t need to buy me shoes, but I wouldn’t mind cleaning up. Can’t go to my buddy’s place until after five, so it’d be great to grab a shower.”
“Shower.” Pink fills her cheeks, like maybe she’s remembering our last shower interlude. “Right, yes—okay. Do you want to follow me there?” Her face goes another shade pinker. “To the hotel. Not to the shower. I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant. Yeah, that’s fine.” I know where The Grand is, but arriving together makes sense. “All right.”
“Great.”
“Good.”
“That’s the plan then.”
“Yep.” I wait for another two beats. “Hazel?”
“Yes?”
“You’ll need to get out of my truck first.”
“What?” Squeezing her eyes shut, she gives a soft growl of frustration. “I seriously hate my brain right now.”
“I don’t.” With her eyes pinched shut, she looks like a flustered angel. Brushing a shock of dark hair off her face, I murmur the words I’m pretty sure she needs to hear. “You don’t always have to be perfect, you know.”
Her eyes flutter open, wide and unsure. Holding her gaze, I stroke my thumb over her cheekbone. Her lips part a little, but she doesn’t respond. The fierce urge to kiss her floods every part of me, and it’s all I can do not to lunge for her mouth.
Blinking, she shakes herself out of a daze. She lurches away, grabbing the door handle. “I have to go.”
Tumbling out, she slams the door shut and sprints for her car like I’m chasing her.
Like it’s blowing her mind, the thought of not being perfect.