“Won’t have time. I asked. He has to finish your kitchen by next Friday and return to his previously scheduled jobs.”
She cradled her lower belly. “There’s no rush. We don’t know if there is a baby yet.”
“There’s no need to drag our feet. If we convert the front room into the nursery, we can work on the third floor together and get it right—the way we did with the rest of the house.”
His words called to the primitive, nest-building part of her. “I’ll have time to work upstairs until the bookings start coming in.”
“You’ll have bookings beginning next weekend.”
Once more his words sent her reeling. “I won’t have the permits.”
“The first job is a small one. No permit required. You can work from my kitchen or the client’s. Call Gretchen today and find out what she needs.”
“Who’s Gretchen?”
He strode into the bathroom, calling over his shoulder, “A friend.”
Something in his tone made the hairs on her nape rise. She followed him and caught his gaze in the mirror. “A girlfriend?”
His expression blanked and his hands flexed around his toothbrush. “She’s a woman with connections who can give you the exposure you need to get your name out there.”
His avoidance of an answer told her what she needed to know. A swarm of something ugly and uncomfortable buzzed inside her. She wasn’t jealous. She was just…unsettled at the realization that once she left, there would be other women in Flynn’s life. In her baby’s life. Somehow that just hadn’t been considered when she’d agreed to this deal.
The mirror reflected their nude bodies back at her, making her feel even more exposed. “Does she know we’re still married?”
“That’s irrelevant.”
“Is it?” Was this Gretchen person his lover?
“Renee, don’t make a big deal out of nothing.”
She had no right to protest. And why was she standing here arguing when she needed to get ready? “I’m going to shower.”
He captured her hand, his palm warm against hers. “You can shower here. With me.”
Her breath hitched. If she stayed, any showering would be done after they made love again. His erection made that clear. Shared showers—with her arms braced against the tile, her legs splayed and Flynn taking her from behind, with his wet, soapy hands caressing her br**sts—used to be one of her favorite ways to start the day. But not today.
She yanked free. “Flynn, don’t make this into something it’s not.”
“And that is?”
“A real reconciliation. I am not sharing your bedroom or your bathroom.”
“That’s what you say, but this—” he flicked a fingertip over an erect nipple “—this says you want to.”
An arrow of desire hit the bull’s-eye. Turning on her heel, she retreated to the only sanctuary she had in this house—the guest room—and closed the door behind her. She sagged against the panel.
She’d been jealous twice now.
Being possessive was not the way to keep her distance. For all intents and purposes Flynn was merely her sperm donor by orthodox means. Nothing more.
And she wanted it that way.
The other woman could have him.
“But not until after I’m finished with him,” she groused as she marched toward her bathroom.
The idea of him climbing from another woman’s bed and into hers repulsed her. But that had absolutely nothing to do with her heart. Her only concern was her health, she assured herself. She didn’t want Flynn giving her or her baby something contagious.
Renee couldn’t sleep. She stared at the shadows dancing on her bedroom ceiling Friday night and willed the tension to ease from her overwrought body, but her mind kept racing with thoughts of the baby, her business, Flynn.
Especially Flynn. And the way he made her feel. How could he still get to her after all this time and all the heartache she’d endured at his hands?
She rolled over and fluffed her pillow. The clock inched toward midnight, then past it. This was how the trouble had started last time. Her drinking had begun with a simple nighttime glass of wine to help her unwind while waiting for Flynn to come home. Then it had progressed to a second glass to help her get to sleep.
She wasn’t going to fall into the same trap this time. If she couldn’t sleep she would find something constructive to do. But what? Play with recipes? No. Banging around the kitchen might wake Flynn. Exercise? No. That would work her up, rather than wind her down. She could paint the basement. She’d bought everything she needed this afternoon.
Decision made, she rolled out of bed, pulled on a pair of old jeans shorts and a T-shirt. She didn’t bother with a bra. No one would see. Then she pulled her hair into a scrunchie and eased open her door. Only the sounds of the old house settling broke the silence. Good. Keeping an eye on the open door to Flynn’s darkened bedroom, she crept down the stairs without turning on any lights, avoiding the third tread that squeaked. Being familiar with the house had its advantages.
When she reached the basement she sighed in relief at arriving undetected, then hustled to the supplies in the corner. She opened and stirred the paint while debating her options.
Tonight she needed monotonous, easy work. She’d save cutting in along the wood trim for tomorrow when her mind and her hands were steadier. After pouring the thick liquid into the tray, she coated the roller and then reached for the nearest wall. The sticky smacking sound of the paint rolling over drywall filled her with satisfaction, and the repetitive motion soothed her and allowed her mind to wander.
Marking her territory had always been important to her. Throughout her childhood and her early teens she and her mother had moved often, as her mom followed the jobs and earned her reputation as a temperamental but gifted chef. When Renee had turned thirteen, Lorraine had decided having a teenage daughter around made her look old and sent Renee to live with Emma. Renee had been thrilled at the prospect of putting down roots, but at the same time apprehensive about changing schools again.
Granny had made a party of it by inviting over the neighbors’ teenagers to help paint Renee’s bedroom, providing Renee with instant friends and a place to call home. That’s why painting Flynn’s Victorian had been so significant. Painting her space made her feel like she belonged and might not leave.
Wrong.
Bad memory. Tension returned to her muscles. She stepped back to study the ten-foot square she’d covered with French Vanilla paint.
“Good color,” Flynn said behind her.
She jumped, almost dropping the roller, and turned. Flynn wore his boxer shorts and nothing else. “What are you doing up?”
He strolled closer, stepping from the shadowy area at the base of the stairs and into the brightly lit room that would become Renee’s kitchen. The basement was cool, and his n**ples tightened into tiny points. “I could ask you the same.”
She shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep. I decided to put my surplus energy to work.”
“Good idea.” He crossed to the pile of supplies.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting a brush.”
No, no, no. “Flynn, it’s one o’clock in the morning. Go back to bed.”
“I will if you will.”
If she quit now and retreated to her room, she’d only go back to tossing and turning and worrying.
“Could you at least put on some clothes?” How would she concentrate with all that taut golden skin, those washboard abs and ropy muscles on display?
“Not tonight. I’ll have to search for clothing I don’t mind getting paint on.”
“But—”
“I’ve painted in less, Renee. So have you.”
Memories hit her like a runaway trolley car. More than once she and Flynn had draped a sheet over the windows and painted in the nude. They’d had some of their happiest and most passionate moments speckled with paint.
“I’ll cut in,” he said as he filled a small bucket with the creamy hue.
She couldn’t stop him from helping, but she didn’t have to watch him. She turned her back on him, refilled her roller and resumed her task. Struggling to maintain her focus, she covered another square yard, and then Flynn parked the stepladder beside her and climbed, putting his bare, hair-dusted muscular thighs and firm derriere directly in her line of vision.
She closed her eyes and took a fortifying breath. It was going to be a long night, and sleep…well, it wasn’t going to make an appearance anytime soon.
Flynn flexed and stretched in her peripheral vision as he painted along the ceiling. She angled her body away from him, but the smooth ripple of his muscled shoulders and arms pulled her gaze back again and again. Arousal smoldered in her middle. How had they ever managed to get any work done before?
For almost an hour they painted side by side with only the hiss of the brush and the roller breaking the silence. It felt good, like the old days, when simply being in the same room had been enough to keep a smile on her face.
“What made you decide to have a baby now?” Flynn asked after they’d relocated the drop cloth and other paraphernalia to the second wall.
She stalled by refilling the paint tray and then her roller. “CGC is successful. I have time to focus on other things.”
“But the real reason is…?”
She should have known she couldn’t fool him. “What makes you think there’s more to my decision than that?”
“Is something wrong physically to make your clock start ticking with such urgency that you were willing to pick a stranger out of a catalog to father your baby? We both know how unsettled you were not knowing anything about your father.”
The concern in his voice touched her. “I’m in perfect health. I wouldn’t have a child if I didn’t plan to be around to care for it. But I’m tired of coming home to an empty house. With Granny gone…” Loss squeezed her throat, choking off her words. She waited until she had control of her emotions before continuing. “I always wanted a family. Waiting for Mr. Right isn’t working, and I refuse to settle for Mr. Right Now.”
Wasn’t that exactly what she’d agreed to with Flynn? The only difference was she knew he’d be a good father. “And my assistant’s daughter started school. Tamara used to bring Angel to work every day. I loved playing with her, and I miss her.”
“I missed you after you left.”
Surprise snatched her breath. She lowered the roller. “I’m surprised you even noticed I was gone.”
His blue eyes locked on hers. “I noticed.”
“You didn’t come after me. You didn’t even call.” She winced. She hadn’t meant to let that slip.
“Your note said, and I quote, ‘Please don’t contact me.’ I had my pride. And frankly, I was angry.”
“Why?”
“Because I expected you to stick it out, ‘for better or for worse,’ and help me through the rough patch.”
Guilt burned in her belly. She wanted to take him in her arms and assure him he hadn’t been the problem. But she couldn’t. “You left me first, Flynn. Even though we still shared the same address, you abandoned the job you adored and me.”