Nausea swirled through her belly, but she forced herself to chew slowly, to swallow an entire glass of water when she was done.
Two and a half months. She should be past the morning sickness any day now. That’s what the book said, the dog-eared volume that she kept on her coffee table like a family Bible.
She shrugged and reached for the stack of papers beside her computer. Bills. Fortunately, she kept her checkbook on paper. No chance for her ancient computer to ruin them.
Not that the curling slips of paper offered any great comfort. At least she’d managed to send her rent check on time. She glanced at the air conditioner that chugged along in the kitchen window of her tiny basement apartment. Her landlord covered utilities. No need to worry about electricity or water.
Student loans, though, were another matter. She’d sent off a tiny payment, along with a note explaining that she’d send more, as soon as she was able.
Like that was going to happen anytime soon. Expenses related to the baby had barely begun, and Sloane was already overwhelmed. Soon, she was going to have to buy some new clothes. She wasn’t showing yet, but it was only a matter of weeks. Her jeans were already snug in the waistband, and she’d left the button unfastened as she worked at her kitchen table.
She’d have to get some decent groceries, too, as soon as she could keep down more than crackers and ramen noodles. For now, she had to hope that her expensive prenatal vitamins were doing their job. She glared at the white bottle on the counter.
And she’d have to scrape together money for a doctor.
She’d fit in her first prenatal visit just before her insurance ran out. Two months had gone by, though, two visits that she owed herself, owed her baby. She tried to believe that she could wait until she had a new job, until she was insured, but as every day passed without her landing a new position, she became more and more afraid.
She rubbed her fingers across the thin fabric of her T-shirt, letting them curl over the tiny life that lurked inside. Would she have handled things differently with AFAA, if she’d known that she was pregnant?
Her cheeks flushed as she remembered taking the subway home from the Eastern that morning after the auction. She had tottered down the steps to her apartment, her feet pinched in unaccustomed high heels. Despite her exhaustion, despite the awkwardness of slipping out of the hotel suite unseen and unheard, despite the heart-catching memories from the night before that kept drowning her, she’d caught herself with a goofy smile on her face. She had sung out loud in the shower as she got ready for work. Silly songs. Love songs.
Oh, she knew that Ethan Hartwell didn’t love her. He couldn’t love her. He was famous and rich and the toast of the gossiping town.
But there had been something in his eyes when he’d come to stand beside her at the bar, where she’d granted herself a well-deserved break after managing the most successful fundraising auction in AFAA history. There’d been something in the set of his jaw as he gestured for the bartender to make her another vodka gimlet. Something in the curve of his lips as they bantered, as she flirted.
As she flirted…
Sloane sighed, remembering how easily the words had come to her, as if she were blessed by some daring goddess of romance. For once in her life, it had been simple to talk to a man, to tease him, to taunt. A little amazed, she’d watched Ethan lean close to her. She’d lowered her voice, bit her lip, dipped her head. When he’d settled a finger on her chin, raising her face to his, she’d felt the promise radiating from his hand. She’d registered the heat that had cascaded over her body in a sudden, astonishing wave.
She’d tasted whiskey on his lips, smoky liquor that swirled through the clean citrus tang of her own drink. Without conscious thought, she’d drunk in more of the flavor of his cocktail, of him. The touch of his tongue on hers had sent an electric tingle down her spine, and she’d shuddered, grateful for his firm hand on the small of her back, steadying her, drawing her closer.
One hour, another drink and much banter later, he’d turned away to the bartender, said something that she couldn’t quite catch. She’d seen the flash of a silver credit card pass between the men, and minutes later, the exchange of a plastic room key.
Another kiss had sealed his invitation, that one rocketing across the tender velvet of her mouth, curling through her belly, trembling into the vulnerable flesh behind her knees. She’d found some witty words to reply, and then she was grateful for the fiery hand that he cupped against her nape, for the scorching iron of his body next to hers as he led the way across the bar, to the elevator, to the penthouse suite that he had so effortlessly secured.
His ease had given her the confidence to do all the things she wanted to do. She didn’t need to wonder if she should say this, if she should do that. Instead, she’d trusted herself. She’d trusted him. For one perfect night, she was more comfortable than she’d ever been with a man. It was more than just the sex, more than the amazing things he made her body feel. They had actually talked, hour after hour, lying next to each other in the dark, sharing stories of their very different pasts. Everything just felt…right.
In the morning, though, she’d snuck out before he was awake. That’s what women did—at least according to movies, according to the newspapers, to the tabloids that feasted on men like Bachelor of the Year Ethan Hart-well. She’d snuck out, gone home to shower, made it in to the office no more than thirty minutes late.
Thirty minutes that her boss had spent waiting for her. Thirty minutes that he’d spent building a furious argument.
Didn’t Sloane know that AFAA had an image to uphold? AFAA project coordinators could not fraternize with prominent playboy bachelors in public bars where donors—discerning donors, conservative donors—could see them. AFAA project coordinators certainly could not slink off with their conquests, leaving nothing to the imagination about their destination. AFAA project coordinators could never threaten the long-term success of an organization as traditional and staid and sedate as the foundation—not when offended donors threatened to rescind their pledged funds because of the immoral behavior of AFAA staff.
AFAA project coordinators could be replaced without a second’s hesitation.
Even now, weeks later, Sloane grimaced at the memory.
Before she could collect her notes and head to the library with its working computer terminal, her doorbell rang, making her jump in surprise. She never had visitors. When she looked through the peephole, she nearly sank to the floor in disbelief.
Ethan Hartwell. As if she had summoned him with her recollection of that one night.
That was absurd, though. She’d thought about that night almost nonstop since March. Mere thought had never brought Ethan to her door before.
Heart pounding, she ran her fingers through her hair. Thank goodness she’d taken a shower that morning, brushed her teeth, even remembered to floss. She glanced down at her trim navy T-shirt, took a second to fiddle with the button on her jeans, sucking in her breath to camouflage her incipient baby bump. He couldn’t tell, could he? Not yet. No one could, she reasoned with herself.
The doorbell rang again, long and insistent. She set her jaw against the demand. What did Ethan Hartwell want with her? Why had he come now? She thought about not answering, about letting him go away. He could phone her, if he really needed her. Her number was listed.
But then, she remembered his hazel eyes, the ones
