raise for the Parkers. Which was why she next ate a snack-sized bag of minicarrots, followed by apple juice and cheddar cheese cubes.
All of which should have filled her but didn’t.
What was she really craving?
One of those cinnamon rolls Rowdy said his mom made.
Covering suddenly flushed cheeks, Tiffany rested her forehead against the cool laminate top of her desk. Given the fact that according to WebMD, the average cost of childbirth in America was $9,600—an uncomplicated C-section was a whopping $15,800—she had no option other than to give her son up for adoption so his new parents could pay. Pearl offered to mortgage her home to keep her great-grandson in the family, but Tiffany could no more let her do that than she could afford health insurance—she knew she’d owe a hefty penalty come tax time for not finding coverage, but she’d worry about that next April.
What Rowdy proposed sounded crazy. Maybe if he’d presented his proposition in a more reasonable manner, she might have considered it.
All she had to do to keep her baby was marry his father, and voilà—her every financial problem would vanish. Only it wouldn’t be quite that easy. Rowdy wasn’t going to make her his bride for nothing, and not to be a drama queen, but she’d already learned the price for marriage was her soul.
“Uh-oh...”
“That about sums up my morning.” Rowdy shut the back door on nasty blowing snow, wishing he were back on a beach—or, shoot, even a desert would be preferable to this.
“I take it she didn’t accept your proposal? Told you so. You should’ve taken a ring.” Patsy Jones lounged in the kitchen’s usually sun-flooded window seat, wearing the Hello Kitty grown-up footy pj’s his dad had bought her last Christmas. Maybe it was best he hadn’t brought Tiffany today?
“Best as I could tell, her refusal had nothing to do with a ring.” He hung his hat and coat on the rack beside the door, then went straight to the oven, only to find it empty. “Thought you were making cinnamon rolls?”
“I was, but in the book I’m reading, Jack just got chased by a bear and Marcy has his gun.”
Shaking his head, Rowdy settled for heating up a can of SpaghettiOs, then asked, “Where are Dad and Carl?”
“They called a while ago. Found a momma determined to have her calf in this storm. They’re staying out there to make sure she’s okay.”
“Cool.” Only it wasn’t. He was used to having every minute of his days filled with action, and out here, seemed like everyone had something to do but him. He’d planned on having the mother of his child here to at least hash out plans.
He was running out of time. He needed to get back on base, and their baby wasn’t going to wait for Tiffany to make a decision. “I’ll be in my room.”
“Why? Don’t tell me you’re giving up?”
He sighed. “No way, but there’s not a whole lot else I can do today. Since my ambush didn’t work, I need to come up with a better plan of attack.”
“How about if you don’t treat this like one of your military missions but like a man asking a woman to marry him for the sake of their child? Did you tell Tiffany how sweet you can be if you set your mind to it?”
“I told her I was good-looking.”
“Good grief, Rowdy. No wonder she’s confused.”
“More like pissed. From what I can gather, this isn’t her first rodeo, and she’s been burned before.”
His mom paled. “You mean she already has a child?”
“No. I meant her previous relationships went sour, so now she’s one of those man-hater types.”
Frowning, she noted, “I’m not sure what that means.”
“You know—like the last guy she was with was an ass, so now she hates all men.”
“That can’t be true.” She winced at his foul language, then rested her book on the nearest pillow. The kitchen was yellow, and by yellow, Rowdy meant every last thing save for the oak kitchen table and white marble counters was the color of a damned lemon. Her pillowed window seat was no exception. “Did you tell her you’re not like that and wouldn’t hurt her?”
“Sure, but by not contacting her until this late in the game, I pretty much already have hurt her. If only I’d have been here from day one of her pregnancy, you know?”
“That’s a given. But it’s not like you were off with another woman. Did you explain how your phone fell down a well?”
He snorted. “To Tiffany that was the equivalent of telling her my dog ate my homework. She’s not buying it.”
“Want me to talk to her? Vouch for you?” Yes. Initially, that had been exactly what he wanted. But now he wasn’t sure bringing his mom into this mess would help.
“Thanks, but no.” He arched his head back, slicing his fingers through his buzzed hair. “The last thing I want is for you to interfere.”
She waved off his concern and ducked her head back behind her book.
In his room, Rowdy used the remote to click on the TV and flip through channels, but then he realized the TV no longer had a satellite connection—just an ancient VCR and a stack of his mom’s workout and chick-flick tapes.
His desk had been replaced by a treadmill, and against the wall where his bed used to be now sat a sewing/craft station and a brass daybed with a freakin’ yellow floral spread. His formerly blue walls had been painted yellow and his bikini pinups no doubt burned.
Outside, the storm raged on.
He felt restless and in a perfect world would have saddled his paint, Lucky, to go help his dad and brother. But the odds of finding them in this whiteout were slim to none, which landed him stuck in his yellow cage.
Needing a male perspective, he called Logan. The team was off for another week. Knowing his friend, he was either sleeping, playing PS4 or deep into strip beach bingo with some hottie he’d picked up at Tipsea’s, the local SEAL hangout.
“Dude.” Logan answered after the third ring. “I was just on a Yuengling and chip run for a ‘Call of Duty’ marathon—saw a pregnant chick at Food Lion and thought of you. How’s it going?”
“Tiff’s last words to me were Get out.” What Rowdy wouldn’t give for just one of their fave local beers.
“Damn. You’ve always got game. If you’re not getting action with your own baby momma, there’s no hope for the rest of us schmucks.”
“Ha ha.” Rowdy walked to the room’s picture window and pressed his forehead to the cool glass. “What should I do?”
“All women are suckers for presents. I say buy her a bunch of flowers and
