“That’s what I said.”
“Not exactly.”
“You like to have the last word, don’t you?”
“I’m a woman, Mr. Montgomery.”
“I did notice that, Miss Valentine.” He watched her cheeks blossom with pink. “And while I am but a humble man—” he ignored her soft snort “—I’m a determined one. Our paths will cross again, Emma. And again. Until I have your agreement that becoming my pretend wife benefits everyone.”
Her mouth moved, but no words emerged. He smiled and stepped out into the hall. “I’ll see you and Chandler later.”
The door swished closed, but he heard her honeyed voice in the moment just before it did. “Good gravy.”
He pushed his hands into his pockets and thought about the woman on the other side. She was perfect for his needs. He just needed to remember that his needs were strictly business. That her curvy body, from slender neck to trim ankles, was off-limits.
All he needed was a pretend wife. He’d keep his hands to himself. He’d keep his thoughts strictly on sewing up every last detail of acquiring Payton Cummings’s company.
So that when the day arrived that he dismantled every facet of that damned company, he’d have the personal satisfaction of knowing there wasn’t one thing Payton Cummings, Sr., could do about it.
Kyle let out a long breath and went in search of a flower shop.
Chapter Two
“Okay, Emma, this one is what we’ll use to file for Chandler’s birth certificate. Fill in the blanks, sign and leave it in the folder with the others. The state will send you the certificate once it’s recorded. You can leave the folder with the nurse when you’re released. Okay?”
Emma nodded and waited until the brisk I’m-from-Records-honey woman left. Then Emma looked down at the form and nibbled the inside of her lip. She’d been completing and signing forms for the past ten minutes. Financial forms, affirming that she didn’t have medical insurance and including a payment agreement that would take every cent of the pay she earned from her part-time teaching job for the next few years. Medical-information forms regarding the aftermath of childbirth. Even forms to purchase sets of newborn photos.
She’d ordered one eight-by-ten and six wallet-size ones simply because she hadn’t been able to resist the first photo of Chandler, his little fists pressed against his round cheeks and a snug blue cap covering his thatch of dark brown hair. But even the photos were an extravagance these days. Signing all those financial forms had brought home with a thump the responsibilities she had to shoulder. Alone.
Which brought her right back to the birth certificate information. She rolled the pen between her fingers, looking at the empty boxes. Mother’s maiden name. Location and date of mother’s birth. Father’s name.
The tip of her pen hovered over that last box. Father. It took much more than biology to make a father. It took love and commitment and dedication.
Yet all she had was betrayal and lies and a twelve-page legal document sitting in the closet of her apartment.
She drew in a breath and let it out slowly. Then she deliberately slashed a line through the father box before completing the rest, and placed the form, along with the others, inside the folder.
She looked at her watch and hoped the nurse came by soon with her release. She didn’t believe for one minute that Kyle Montgomery would be returning as he’d said that morning. Why would he?
He had money. He had incredible looks. He could find a make-believe wife wherever he wanted, making it worthwhile for some other woman. Personally Emma had had enough of rich men who thought they could either buy her presence or buy her absence.
The only man she was interested in was the tiny one sleeping in his carrier right beside her.
She looked down at Chandler, feeling tears threaten. Tears of gratitude for his sweet perfection she could happily shed. But tears filled with worry and fear about the days ahead, of managing, getting by—those tears she refused to indulge.
She was twenty-six years old. When her mama was that age, she had five kids. All daughters. Another year and she had six. The year after that, Hattie Valentine had stopped having babies, because her husband went off one night and didn’t come back.
A soft knock on the door caught her attention, and she pushed to her feet, tugging the hem of her cotton maternity top over her hips. Nell Hastings smiled and pushed the door wide until it stayed open on its own. “I’ve got your ride here, Emma.” She patted the bright blue wheelchair, her eyes twinkling. “Is that all your stuff in that bag?”
She didn’t wait for an answer, but tucked the handles of the big plastic sack that held bottles of water, formula samples and diapers over the back of the wheelchair.
Emma handed the motherly nurse the folder of paperwork and sat in the chair, holding Chandler in his carrier on her lap as Nell pushed her to the sidewalk outside the small hospital. Emma could see her orange car in the parking lot. She swallowed, thinking it was stupid to feel nervous about leaving the hospital. She could do this. She looked down at her sleeping son. She would do this. She climbed out of the wheelchair. It wasn’t as if she had no friends to support her decisions. To laugh with. To cry with. She just didn’t have a husband. And she’d turned down the offers of a ride home from the hospital. She’d start out as she intended to continue. Depending on herself.
“Emma, you and Chandler are going to be just fine. But you get nervous about anything, you just call. Okay?”
“Thanks, Nell. When I’m back at work, I’ll treat you to pie and coffee.”
The nurse patted her ample hips. “I don’t need pie, but I’ll take you up on that.” She helped Emma with the plastic bag and overnight case before turning the wheelchair around and heading back inside.
“We can do this, right, Chandler?” With the plastic sack slung over one shoulder, the strap of her overnight bag over the other and Chandler’s carrier cradled between her arms, Emma slowly headed toward her car.
When she reached it, she had to set everything down on the ground, though, because her keys were buried somewhere in the overnight bag. Chandler was starting to stir, and she moved his carrier onto the hood of her car, humming to him while she dug blindly through her bag.
“Looks like you could use an extra hand.”
Emma gasped, automatically closing her arm over the carrier. She looked across the hood of her ancient car to the gleaming late-model sports car against which Kyle Montgomery leaned lazily. Her heart was thudding only because he’d startled her, she assured herself.
“My two hands are quite sufficient,” she said, flushing when the words came out sounding breathless. She swept her hand once more through the interior of her case searching, searching.
He tilted his head slightly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Emma swallowed and pulled the case in front of her, pushing aside the clothing she’d worn to the hospital in her search. She was certain she’d dumped the keys in the bottom of the case.
“You’re
