situation was different. He was already committed to making a life with Lacey. He had been from the moment he’d learned that she carried his child. If Lacey thought herself in love with him—whatever the hell that really meant—it could only work in his favor.
A lightness seemed to move through him. A feeling of rightness, of ease.
And of power, too.
She loved him.
He knew now, with absolute certainty, that she would say yes to him. She had that wild streak. And she was willful. She might not be the wife that Jenna would have been. But she would be his in a way that Jenna never had.
She was already his.
Because she loved him. Lacey Bravo loved him.
He hadn’t realized that doubt had been eating at him, eroding his self-confidence, setting his nerves on edge. He hadn’t realized it until now, when doubt was gone.
He turned back to the table, a grin pulling at his mouth—and found six pairs of eyes focused on him. Even the baby was watching him.
“That girl’s a pistol,” Edna muttered under her breath.
“She’s independent,” said Tess warmly, speaking right up in Lacey’s defense. “I admire independence.”
Edna gave Tess a fond smile. “Of course you do. So do I. But the fact remains. She needs a husband.”
Zach Bravo was still staring at Logan. “You’re here to marry her,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
Logan felt satisfaction, to have it out in the open, to be able to answer simply, “I am.”
Zach nodded. “Better not waste any time about it. That baby is likely to show up any minute now.”
Chapter Four
It was barely eight-thirty when they got back to the cabin.
Logan suggested that they sit outside for a while and watch the sun set behind the mountains.
Lacey vetoed that idea. “I’m tired,” she said.
It was a lie. She wasn’t tired. She simply had to get away from him. Having him so near, having to be so very careful, was making her crazy.
She was no good at carefulness. She had never taught herself how to hide what was in her heart. She wore her emotions on the surface. And she liked it that way, felt comfortable in her own skin because she could always be honest about what was going on inside her. And it translated into her work, gave her a freedom to create whatever came to her, to follow her own ideas wherever they wanted to take her.
But she couldn’t afford to let her emotions show now. If she did, Logan would only use her poor heart against her. Her love would become his ally in his relentless quest to do the right thing—the Logan Severance version of the right thing, which included marrying the mother of his child whether he loved her or not.
She had to watch herself every minute. And still, she kept messing up, kept slipping into ridiculous moments of pure adoration. Kept snapping to attention to find herself staring at him dreamy-eyed, mooning over him as he slept, caressing the side of his face at the dinner table while Zach and his family looked on.
He was watching her strangely now, one corner of that sexy mouth tipped up, a musing, thoroughly nerve-racking look in his eyes. “Tired? You? The original night owl?”
He had her dead to rights, of course. Even far advanced in pregnancy, Lacey Bravo was a night owl. She went to bed late and if she got up by noon, she felt she’d started the day good and early.
She stuck with her lie. “Tonight, I am tired. I’m taking a shower and I’m going to bed.”
Of course, once she got there, she knew she wasn’t going to be able to sleep.
She decided to do a few exercises. She practiced her Kegels—contracting and relaxing the muscles she would use in childbirth. She sat up and rolled her neck and did a few simple stretches. She got on her hands and knees and flexed her back, then relaxed it, remaining aware of her breathing the whole time.
When she ran out of exercises, she tried to concentrate on a novel, sitting up among the pillows, the book propped on her big stomach. But her attention wandered. The baby seemed restless. The little sweetheart kept surprising her with nudges and pokes. And her back was aching. It was hard to get comfortable.
She heard Logan go out to the bathroom, heard the water pipes sighing as he took his shower. When he came back in, she heard him moving around in the main room and wondered just what he was doing out there.
Then she heard the click as he turned off the light over the table. The springs of the daybed creaked. And then silence.
From outside, faintly, came the far-off howling of lonely coyotes and the hooting of an owl. But there was no sound at all from the main room. She continued her attempt at reading until ten, then gave up and turned off her own light.
As the hours crawled by and she couldn’t sleep, she silently called Logan Severance a hundred nasty names. She practiced more Kegels—hundreds of them. She sat up and rolled her neck, stretched her arms, closed her eyes, breathed slowly and evenly in and out, seeking relaxation and inner peace.
Hah.
By midnight, her poor bladder could no longer be denied. She pulled on her robe and tiptoed out to the back door. With agonizing care, she turned the latch, then tried to pull the door open slowly enough that the old hinges wouldn’t creak.
They didn’t. Or if they did, it was just barely.
Still, he heard them. “Lacey?” His voice was thick with the groggy remnants of sleep.
If she hadn’t loved him so blasted much, she could have hated him for that, for his ability to drop right off to sleep while she lay staring wide-eyed into the shadows, counting her Kegels—not to mention the seconds, the minutes, the hours.
He sat up. She could see the shape of him, outlined in the moonlight that streamed in, pale and silvery, through the window above the daybed. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She pushed the door open the rest of the way and lumbered out into the night.
When she came back, the light was on and he was standing by the rocker, wearing a pair of navy blue sweats and nothing else that she could detect. He had his bare arms folded over his chest.
“Are you in labor?”
She let loose an unladylike grunt. “Is that an accusation?”
He dropped his arms. Lord, that chest of his was beautiful. Planes and angles, power and the readiness for motion. Da Vinci would have drooled. “Come on, Lace. Are you having contractions? That’s all I want to know.”
“No.” She gathered her robe closer around the barrel of her belly. “I am not having contractions. And honestly, there is no need to ask me that. I can assure you, when I am in labor, I will have no hesitation at all about sharing the news with you.”
“Believe
