want to think about romance in the air or happily-ever-after. For almost as long as she could remember, she had been one to play it safe. Her jet-setting parents had loved action and adventure—skiing in St. Moritz one day and sunbathing in the Bahamas the next. They’d let life take them wherever the wind had blown, sweeping in and out of her childhood like a hurricane.
After they died, her grandmother had provided Alexa with the stability she craved. No more wondering. No more worrying. No more whirlwind.
Not until that night almost four months ago when she’d hosted a fund-raiser for one of the many charities her grandmother supported. When she’d met the striking blue-eyed gaze of the most handsome man she’d ever seen. Her heart had stopped, her breath had caught and she’d been swept up in something beyond her control.
Even in that first electric connection, she’d known. There would be consequences. She couldn’t cast aside years of living each day with a carefully laid out plan and then expect to pick up where she left off like nothing had happened. Not when Chance McClaren had happened.
In those first few weeks following the charity auction, he’d played constantly on her mind. Laughing and teasing her thoughts as if he’d stood right beside her, whispering in her ear. After all, he had promised he’d be in touch, and Alexa had jumped at every call, scrambled for her cell phone at every text, scoured her email every few minutes over calls and texts and emails that weren’t from Chance.
By the time he did call, some five weeks later, she’d already come to a decision. What they’d had was a fling. Nothing more, and it was over. She’d sensed his surprise. No doubt there were dozens of women who would be thrilled to hear from him no matter how long it had been since he’d called. But in the end he’d agreed and abided by her wishes.
She hadn’t heard from him again and did her best not to think of him.
Alexa told herself the mental roadblock would eventually work...right up until the moment she realized she’d missed her period. She was pregnant, the father of her child a man she barely knew. A whirlwind who’d stormed in—and out—of her life with a recklessness that left her head and heart spinning.
How was she supposed to tell a man who lived out of a backpack that he was going to be a father? Alexa had rehearsed what she would say dozens of times as she made dozens of calls, trying to reach him.
And then fate seemed to take the decision out of her hands as she woke one morning to see the headline scrolling across a national news channel.
Photojournalist Chance McClaren killed in bomb attack in Kabul.
* * *
“How long have you worked here, Rory?” Griffin asked their guide as she led them back to the lobby after showing them the elegant ballroom. The hotel’s old-fashioned feel filled the room from the dark, carved check-in desk, to the wall of small cubbyholes for guest messages, to an actual phone booth and its replica of an early 1900s phone.
But like any modern hotel, the lobby was a busy spot with families coming and going, bellhops pushing packed luggage carts, and employees offering advice for things to see and do in the nearby Victorian town of Clearville.
Rory stopped to allow a chatting couple to wheel by with a stroller. And as she had for the past few months, Alexa locked in on the baby strapped inside. Her breath caught at the sight. An infant with her eyes closed, her chubby cheeks pink with sleep, her head slouched to one side. So sweet, so small...
She wrapped her arms around her waist. Before she’d gotten pregnant, she hadn’t understood that she wouldn’t need to wait for her baby to be born to feel such a deep connection with the new life inside her. She was amazed by how much she already loved the child growing in her womb. How she loved the idea of a little boy or little girl with dark hair and startling blue eyes like—
No, she wouldn’t think about the baby’s father. She wouldn’t.
She watched with a combination of anxiety and anticipation as the mother stopped for a moment to adjust the lacy pink sock barely clinging to the toes of the tiniest foot she’d ever seen.
“Well, I’ve worked here as a wedding coordinator for the past six months or so,” Rory was saying, “but my family has owned the hotel for decades. My Aunt Evelyn runs the place now, but the McClarens have—”
“What—” Alexa stopped so suddenly, Griffin almost knocked her over. “What did you say your last name was?”
“McClaren.” Rory’s blue gaze—her familiar blue gaze—swung back and forth between Alexa and Griffin. “Didn’t I say that earlier?”
“Alexa?” Griffin’s arm tightened around her shoulders as she swayed against him. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
Everything...
It wasn’t easy to spot the resemblance between masculine, rugged features and this delicately feminine woman, but Alexa must have subconsciously noticed the similarities. The rich, almost black hair, the high, sculpted cheekbones, those blue eyes...
The thick, patterned carpet swirled beneath her feet as the room spun. “I’m not feeling very well. I think I need to lie down...”
“Of course. I’ll walk you back to the suite.”
To the suite. Alexa fought a hysterical laugh. That wasn’t nearly far away enough to escape the dizzying thoughts whipping through her mind.
The McClaren family hotel... Chance’s family’s hotel?
And before she could make her escape, the hotel’s carved entry doors opened and in walked the father of her child.
At first he thought he was imagining things.
It had happened before, after the explosion. The blast that shattered his leg had also left him with a serious concussion—one that had him drifting in and out of consciousness for days. In that confused state, he’d seen Alexa at his side. Heard her voice. Smelled the honey-lilac scent of her skin.
He hadn’t stopped to think that her presence made no sense. The wealthy granddaughter of one of California’s biggest and most generous philanthropists might raise money for victims of war-torn countries, but she didn’t travel to war-torn countries.
She certainly wouldn’t have belonged in a crowded field hospital where understaffed doctors and nurses did their best to care for those injured in the series of bombings.
But he’d been so sure of her presence that he’d nearly gotten in a fight with one of the doctors once he reached semiconsciousness, unable to understand why the man refused to let him see Alexa. Why he was keeping her away when she’d been right there?
Later, as the uncertainty clouding his mind started to clear, he realized it had all been some kind of delusion. He’d been embarrassed to have been so fooled by his own mind. Unsettled that a woman he barely knew—a woman he’d spent no more than a weekend with and one who wanted nothing more to do with him—had been the person he’d reached for, clung to, even in such a confused state.
And
