Chapter One

"More plane! More plane!"

I stare at the blond-haired demon standing at my feet, his little arms raised, those big brown eyes imploring.

"Come on, kiddo. How can you want more? In the last hour, we've pretty much flown to New York and back. And boy are my arms tired." I whip out the punch line with a wacky grin, only in this case, it's true.

Little David blinks those eyes at me, but it's the trembling lower lip that reels me in. And in that moment, I know he's going to grow up to get anything he wants. Starting, apparently, now.

Without warning, I swoop down to snag him around the waist. He squeals and giggles as I go round and round in a wild circle, probably making both of us dizzy, while he blows raspberries in a two-year-old's attempt to sound like a plane.

At least this is making up for skipping my morning workout. The one at the gym, anyway. I toss a sultry smile over David's head as Ryan steps into our living room, then leans casually against the archway that divides the living area from the dining room. The light from behind him gives his chestnut hair even more of a reddish hue, and his cornflower-blue eyes sweep over me as I continue to spin the little imp. And with each rotation, Ryan's eyes find mine, his mouth curving more and more into a teasing half-smile.

I know every line and angle of his chiseled face. Which means I know that he's thinking exactly the same thing that I am—if it weren't for the kid in my arms, we could be repeating this morning's workout right then.

And that's reason number five-hundred and seventy-six on my list of why it's too soon to be a parent.

"You're a natural," Ryan says as I lower David to the ground, then point him toward the television, where a DVD of Backyardigans—courtesy of Nikki's extensive kid-vid collection— is already playing.

As David succumbs to the lure of the television, I cross my arms and face my husband. "Why are you insulting me after we had such a nice wake-up call this morning?"

"Wake-up booty call?"

"Ryan!" I jerk my head toward David.

"Pretty sure I haven't scarred him for life." He starts across the living room toward me. "And it wasn't an insult."

"I'm many things, but a natural at childcare, I'm not."

"Quick study, then," he amends, and I can't counter that. I may not be a mother, but there are enough kids in my life that I've learned the basics. Like making sure to tire them out before nap and bedtime. And to never underestimate the power of that most ultimate of all babysitters—the television.

"It's easy to earn an A when you're not living the final exam," I say as I move into his outstretched arms. He draws me closer, and I tilt my head to look up at him, studying his face.

"Would it be so bad?"

"I don't know. But what does it matter? We're aunt and uncle to a whole gaggle of kids, which means we have the luxury of giving them back when they get on our nerves."

"Definitely a perk," he says. "But what if we couldn't give them back? Would that be so terrible?"

I'm not crazy about the turn the conversation has taken, but I only realize that I've taken a step back when he tightens his arms to pull me back into place.

"Jamie." His voice is low. Tender. "Would it?"

This time when I step back, he releases me, and for a moment, I see a flicker of frustration play across his chiseled face. I shrug. "I'm not saying kids aren't fun to have around, but we aren't even close to ready. Not for having one twenty-four seven."

"Aren't we?"

We've had this conversation a number of times, the topic floating into our marriage here and there like shiny soap bubbles dancing in the air. Fun to look at, but nothing serious. And so very easy to pop.

Today, his voice doesn't float.

I turn away, my attention on David, as if I'm thinking hard about Ryan's words. I'm not. Instead, I'm regretting telling Emery that I could babysit.

Emery Newton is a single mom who works as the assistant to Eli Jones, an Oscar-winning actor turned hotel magnate who lives two houses down the beach from me and Ryan. Eli's been out of the country for a few months, so Emery and her son moved in so that she could house-sit.

When she called last night to ask if I could watch David while she went on a breakfast-to-dinner date, I said I'd be happy to oblige. I hope she's already hot and heavy with the guy, because I've only been at this for two hours, and I'm already exhausted. If I'm going to suffer through babysitting, I want it to be for something with more pizazz than a lazy brunch and a stroll through the surf.

"Kids sleep, too, you know," Ryan says, interrupting my thoughts.

"That's a myth."

"No, it's true. I saw a sleeping toddler once. I'm pretty sure it was the top story on the news."

I hit him with my best deadpan stare. "You're not as adorable as you think you are."

"Oh, but I am," he says, his expression pure sin.

The den is right off the kitchen, and I grab my mug off the side table and head that direction, direly in need of more caffeine. Ryan follows, and once we both have our refills, we sit at the island where we have a view of David's back and the cartoon characters dancing on the screen.

"As for adorable…you have to admit the kid's got it going on."

I sip my coffee, then swivel on the stool to face my husband directly. "We're not ready."

I watch his face—a face I know so damn well. He wants to argue. That's obvious enough. But what's also painfully, screamingly obvious is that this conversation is different from all the others.

We're no longer tossing around those shiny soap bubbles we can pop and forget. The mantra I'd taken so much comfort in—we're not ready—has become a total fallacy, and now I'm left with my uterus hanging out there.

Because Ryan is ready.

He has been, I think, for a very long time.

Well, shit.

I take a long slug of coffee, hoping that will make my brain cells process all of this faster. Then I wave my hand as if clearing the air of our entire conversation. "I have a toddler to entertain. And you, mister, need to get to work."

I start to slide off the stool, but he puts his hand on my thigh. There's barely any pressure at all, but it's enough to keep me firmly in place. "Ryan—"

"We have to talk about this sometime."

"Clearly. But it doesn't have to be now."

"Kitten."

That's all he says. Just that one word. But it's enough to make me snap. "No. We do not have to talk about this now. I'm not even sure I can think about it now." I've dropped my voice, as if this conversation might somehow scar our very pre-pubescent house guest.

"My career's just now taking off," I continue. "And once filming begins on Dead Certain things are going to get even more crazy."

"Jamie—"

I slide off the stool and put up my hand as if that will block whatever he's going to say. Somehow, magically, it does.

"Please, just hear me. I can't do my job and be pregnant. And not just because a baby bump isn't part of the character descriptions. I mean, I saw how exhausted Nikki was with every one of her kids. Are you really ready for our sex life to come to a screeching halt?"

I can't even remember a weekend when we haven't made love. Hell, I'm not sure I can remember a Thursday.

Sex may not be the defining quality of our marriage, but like every relationship counselor says, it's good for a couple to share a hobby. And stamp collecting just doesn't do it for me.

There's both amusement and heat in his eyes when he says, "Do you really think our sex life will ever come to a screeching halt?"

Dear god, I hope not.

I cross my arms and try to stare him down. "Babies are exhausting. Toddlers, too. Maybe when the kid starts school we'll have time to squeeze in a fast fuck, but—"

"When you're right, you're right," he says, shaking his head in what is clearly only mock agreement. "It's a damn shame that Nikki and Damien have three kids. I'm pretty sure they haven't had sex in years and years."

He has me there. "Nikki's always been more organized than me."

His mouth twitches. "If it comes down to it, we'll get a Day Planner just for sex."

"I hate you. You know that, right?"

He twines his fingers with mine. "You love me."

"Fine. You're right. I hate myself. For loving you."

He lifts our joined hands and kisses mine. Then he brushes a strand of hair off my forehead, his touch so sweet and tender it's almost erotic. "Kitten, what are you scared of?"

"I'm not scared." More like terrified. "And I don't want to give up my career now that it's finally taken off. You know how long I've worked for this."

"I do. And I also know this isn't the eighteen hundreds. It's not even the nineteen-fifties."

I yank my hands free. "Don't you dare patronize me. Not unless you've figured out how to be the one who carries another human inside you for nine months."

That gorgeous face goes perfectly flat, every emotion hidden under the surface. Except not from me. I know him well enough to see the sliver of hurt dimming those usually vibrant blue eyes.

I exhale, annoyed. But with myself, not him. "I'm sorry. Really. You're not that guy, and we both know it. I'm just—"

"Scared," he says. "I get it. But, Kitten, I don't think there's a parent out there who hasn't been at least a little scared." He holds out both hands again, and I take them, then move closer so that he's sitting on the stool and I'm standing between his legs, his thighs holding me in place. We're at an angle, so I only have to turn my head a little to see that David's now plopped on the floor, his entire upper body wriggling in time with the silly song.

I turn back to Ryan. "I'm not saying no, I promise. I'm just saying no to right now. Can you live with that?" I hope he can, because I can't live without Ryan. If he says no, I'll surely cave, and a year from now we'll have a baby.

And even though I love him, I'll resent him for the rest of my life. I'll hate myself for it—and maybe he won't even know. But that's what will happen. And little by little, it will poison everything.

"You're thinking too loud."

I smile up at him. "Bad habit."

He slides off the stool, then cups his hands on my ass to pull me close. "Kiss me."

I tilt my head. "Kiss and make up? I don't think that was actually a fight."

"Oh, Kitten, believe me. If you don't kiss me, there will definitely be a fight."

I hold back a laugh, but my whole body is tingling from the scent of him. From the pressure of his body against mine. I slide my arms around his neck and rise up to claim his mouth. It's both soft and hard, and the moment his fingers twine in my hair and his tongue finds mine, that tingle turns into a torrent. A wild wave of need so intense that I really, really wish that it was bedtime or nap time or any sort of away time for the kiddo.

But no. His mom won't be back for hours, and that means I have to wait to get what I want. Ryan knows it, too, and when he gently pushes back, a wave of desperation crashes over me, and I have to fight the urge to draw him close, strip him bare, and scar the kid for life.

As if he knows what I'm thinking—and considering this is Ryan, he probably does—he chuckles softly. I feel the low rumble in his chest more than I hear it. Our eyes meet for a moment, then he eases behind me and rests his hands on my shoulders, the brush of his thumbs on the back of my neck sending shivers up my spine.

His breath tickles my ear as he leans close, and I freeze when he whispers, "I want one, Kitten. Not today. Not next week. But one of these days you need to stop being scared."

I stay frozen, expecting him to walk on. To say something else. To do anything but what he's doing, which is standing behind me, his palm now resting lightly on my shoulder.

It's like a reverse staring contest, but it's one I'm determined to win.

And as David stands up, then plops down on his bottom, then laughs his little head off before doing it all over again, Ryan bends over and kisses my head. Then he walks away from me, crossing the room to grab David and swing him up into the air, sending the little demon into peals of joyous laughter.