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Marlowe stood in the bedroom after he closed the door behind him and sighed as she shook her head. She didn’t want to be beholden to Bowie, didn’t want him making any sacrifices for her.
And yet...
And yet the very fact that Bowie was doing all this created warm and fuzzy feelings inside her.
Feelings she admitted to herself that she had never experienced before. Oh, she’d had her share of boyfriends, and she’d had flings. But none of those boyfriends or the flings could have been termed to be the least bit serious. They certainly never even once came before her job. That was a contest that had never taken place.
None of her so-called relationships ever lasted, and she had never felt as if she was missing anything whenever those relationships had run their exceedingly short courses and quietly faded into history.
She certainly had never, ever felt as if she was falling for someone...
Marlowe blinked as the words startled her, popping up in her head completely unbidden—like a comet streaking across the sky.
She wasn’t falling for him; she was just tired, Marlowe told herself.
Tired and imagining things.
Still, she had to admit that part of her stomach’s rebellious upheaval was due to something other than strictly this so-called morning sickness that Bowie claimed to be such an expert about.
Falling for Bowie, she thought as she sank down on the bed.
Her.
With him.
No way.
That had to be some sort of a mistake, right? Of course right, she told herself.
Even so, the very idea seemed to waft through her brain, teasing her, whispering insane words.
Would it be so very wrong if you were right about that?
“Damn it, Marlowe, you’re just overtired. Get some sleep!” she ordered herself.
That turned out to be a great deal easier said than done.
But somewhere along the line, with all that tossing and turning she did, she must have fallen asleep. Because sometime i
n the morning she found herself being teased awake by the scent of eggs frying and something she identified as bacon after a moment.
For a split second, the scent was tempting.
And then her stomach kicked in, rebelling and reminding her that food and she were not friends right now.
Instead of going out to the kitchen, she found herself communing with the commode again.
Finished being sick, she got back up on her shaky legs. That made twice in less than twelve hours, she thought wearily.
Marlowe went out of the bathroom and sat down on the edge of the rumpled bed, waiting for her stomach to settle down.
“We’re not off to an auspicious start, you and I, baby,” she murmured under her breath, addressing the tiny being within her body.
And that was the moment she suddenly knew—knew that she was going to have this child, keep it and be a mother. As good a mother as humanly possible.
Nothing else seemed remotely imaginable.
Marlowe knew her decision would probably infuriate her father. He undoubtedly expected her to sweep what he viewed, at best, as an “unfortunate circumstance” out of her life. After all, this baby was half Robertson, and Coltons wanted to have nothing to do with Robertsons. Payne had said that so many times over the years that she had lost count.
