A Mother's Secrets (Parent Portal 4)

Why those possible shots brought it all home to him, he didn’t know. Maybe it was the reality of having seen the baby inside of her. The concrete proof that there was more than just a flat stomach going on in Christine’s midsection.

The almost panicked way she’d left the doctor’s office...

As soon as he was back in town, he went straight to her office. Told she was at the racquetball court, he drove there.

He texted her. Let her know he was outside. Would have left immediately if she’d asked him to do so. When she sent back You up for a game instead, he quickly grabbed his bag out of the back of his vehicle and headed inside to the locker room.

The silver shorts and black T-shirt were clean. He changed out the contents of the bag every night—part of his bedtime ritual. He was at the door to her court in five. Planning to go easy on her—and his baby—he hoped to find a way to apologize for his lack of more thorough emotional forethought where their situ

ation was concerned. And to talk to her about the injections.

Just because he took things calmly didn’t mean others were capable of the same. It had taken Emily a long time to help him see that one can’t choose which emotions to feel.

How one deals with those emotions is their choice.

The first sight of Christine in black spandex shorts and a purple, close-fitting T-shirt sent a slew of feelings raging right down to his crotch.

He knew what to do with them. Wasn’t sure telling them to be gone was enough. Ignoring them helped. Nothing really worked.

He still wanted her.

“You serve,” she said, tossing him the little rubber ball and grabbing an extra paddle out of a bright yellow duffel bag in the back corner.

He did. Lightly. Barely giving effort to his movement.

And was promptly scored upon.

So noted. He’d give his attempt a bit more oomph. Racquetball required finesse. And physical effort. But not the strength he used to serve an ace out on the tennis court.

By the fourth serve, he was using every bit of strength he used when he was playing to win on the tennis court. Neither of them had said a word, other than to announce score. Christine didn’t run all over the room. For the most part, she hardly moved, other than with her upper body. She just commanded the room from where she stood. Knew exactly how and where to place the ball, with how much punch, in order to make it hardest for him to return.

She didn’t move, but she had him running all over.

By the second game, he’d caught on. Paid attention to strategy. Power. Placement. He still lost, but this game was a lot closer.

And then, when he was gearing up for the best three out of five, she stopped. “That’s it for me,” she said. “I’m giving myself an easy hour or a hard half hour,” she said. “I’m not going to overdo it.” Hardly sweating, she approached him, took his racquet and grinned at him. “I’m pregnant, you know.”

His penis hardened at the sight of that grin. Thank God for loose T-shirts. And the support of boxer briefs.

As her gaze met his, he grew serious. “I wanted to see you, to let you know, seriously, that I don’t just expect you to do the injections as a precaution. Obviously, if the baby’s life is seriously at risk, I’ll ask for them, but your comfort, both emotionally and physically, are equally important, Christine. You’re a person, not a machine. You matter, and your well-being counts as much as anyone’s.”

He’d repeated the words in his brain all the way home from the university. By the time he’d given them voice, they sounded rehearsed. Not sincere.

The whole point in seeing her, rather than calling, was so that she could see how much he meant what he said.

“It’s all in the contract, Jamie,” she told him, sandwiching his racquet together with hers and putting them, and the ball, in her bag—her backside in full view as she bent over.

Wrong of him to notice. He cleared his throat. Turned a bit. “I’m not talking about the contract,” he said. “I’m talking about two people, you and me. And I’m telling you, I’m not going to hold you to sentences in a contract that give me the right to decide matters like these—choices that don’t affect your health, but could affect the baby’s. The injections won’t affect your health, according to Dr. Adams, but they’ll affect your physical comfort. I’m telling you that we will consider together whether or not you do them.”

Turning, her bag strap on her shoulder, with one foot propped up behind her, she leaned against the wall. Her short dark hair was mussed, looked windblown and far too sexy.

It also made him want to wrap his arms around her and protect her from anything in the world that might cause her pain.

Like what—he was some he-man of old and she was a damsel in distress? The idea almost made him laugh inside. He’d never been one of those guys that had to prove their masculinity by thinking there were others who were weaker than him. And Christine would never resemble a damsel in distress. Or any other kind of person who couldn’t take care of herself just fine.

“I appreciate your consideration,” she said, after watching him for a moment. “It’s nice,” she said. “Really nice. And noted.”

He heard a “but” coming and waited for it.