LITMIR.BIZ

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sat up straighter, feeling rejuvenated and more confident as an idea formed in her mind. Maybe there was something to this hope chest magic after all. Grammy had always been modern. Maybe it was time she stepped into the twenty-first century herself. Women didn’t have to have husbands to have a child. She could have one by herself. She had a decent job running the bookstore, she was responsible, healthy, and she would love the baby unconditionally.

      She’d taken care of Suzanne after their mother had died, so she knew she would make a good mother.

      Yes, she was going to believe in herself, just the way Grammy Rose had suggested.

      She’d have a baby on her own.

      There was just one little problem—she needed sperm to get pregnant.

      A headache pinched at her as she struggled over what to do. She could visit a sperm clinic and have in vitro fertilization.

      Too impersonal. She’d never be able to go through with it. And she couldn’t possibly tell her baby that she’d bought the sperm from a stranger, that she knew nothing of his father but what she’d learned from a computer file.

      What about asking someone she knew to be a donor?

      Jerry’s enthusiastic face sprang to mind, but a shudder gripped her.

      The dark-haired baby from her dreams haunted her mind.

      Grammy had said to follow her dreams. Maybe the dream had been an omen.

      And in her dream the baby had been Thomas’s baby.

      Maybe the dream meant that she was supposed to have Thomas’s baby!

      He was smart, intelligent, good-looking. If he donated sperm to father her child, she would know that the baby would be healthy, and she could assure her child that he or she had a great father. But how would she approach Thomas?

      Should she try to seduce him?

      Nervous laughter tickled her insides. She could barely talk to Thomas without making a fool of herself.

      And asking him to sleep with her would be wa-a-ay too personal.

      Although the mere thought sent a million delicious sensations curling in her belly.

      Maybe…no, she couldn’t.

      But she could ask him to make a little personal donation. After all, he was an OB-GYN. He probably dealt with single women wanting babies all the time. He’d even commented that he admired single mothers. And the fact that he was an OB-GYN might prove to be a blessing. He probably already knew doctors who could perform the procedure, and she wouldn’t have to seek help from virtual strangers.

      She’d keep the arrangement simple, too. Once she was pregnant, he wouldn’t be obligated or need to have any personal contact with her at all.

      She twisted the sheets in her hands, her stomach convulsing in a thousand knots. Now she just had to summon up enough courage to discuss the baby plan with him. And she would, she promised herself, right after she phoned her insurance company to take care of paying for the damages to his wrecked car.

      A wistful sigh escaped her, a twinge of sadness following. She wasn’t settling for less than her dream, she assured herself as she climbed from bed and headed to the shower. She was simply facing reality. If she couldn’t have Thomas, she could at least have his child. That would be enough.

      A moment of trepidation hit her as she turned on the spray of water. What would Thomas think of the idea?

      Chapter Four

      In the early-morning sunlight the idea of asking Thomas Emerson to father her baby didn’t seem quite so wonderful. In fact, the more Rebecca thought about asking him to help her with the baby plan, the more nauseous she became. By the time she’d walked the two blocks to the bookstore, her legs felt like rubber bands, and she suspected that if she actually ran into Thomas or even saw him on the street, she’d lose the muffin she’d finally managed to down for breakfast.

      Why couldn’t she be more like Suzanne?

      Disgusted with herself, Rebecca rushed toward the Book Nook to open up. Maybe she’d talk to Mimi today and ask for some advice. Or she could browse the shelves for some good self-help books. Something on bolstering courage and acting with confidence. Or one on not acting like an idiot in front of men.

      Could there possibly be a miracle book on talking without tripping over your tongue? Or flirting for the fainthearted?

      Just as she reached the awning, she spotted Thomas driving by in a lemon-yellow Mustang convertible, obviously one of her uncle Wiley’s loaners. A cold breeze suddenly stirred, sending leaves fluttering and her loose black skirt flying up around her legs. She tried to grab the billowing fabric, but it swirled up around her waist.

      Nerves bunched in her stomach, and Rebecca panicked. Like a fool she swung around, ducked inside the door, crouched against a stack of magazines and pretended she hadn’t seen him.

      THOMAS FROWNED. He could have sworn Rebecca had seen him, but she’d ducked inside the bookstore as if she wanted to avoid him. Why?

      After all, she’d left that hurried message on his answering machine saying she’d contacted her insurance company and her agent had assured her his car would be taken care of. He’d run from the shower, dripping wet, to reach the phone, but she’d babbled the message in seconds and hung up as if she was afraid she might actually have to talk to him. He’d simply wanted to assure her that he received the message.

      Why was she avoiding him? Did she think he was a big ogre?

      It wasn’t as if he’d never been rejected before. He had. Dozens of times. Mostly because he’d always been Mr. Nice Guy, every girl’s best friend or brother figure, and women liked the bad-boy types. Except, in this little town, the women had been especially friendly.

      Of course, here pickings were slim. Half the towns-people had never left Sugar Hill. The half who’d stayed had married each other in high school and were now in the throes of mortgage payments, pregnancy, diapers, babies and small-town life with its lack of arts and entertainment. Either that or they were entrenched in divorce. Both comprised the population of his patients.

      He wasn’t sure which were more dangerous, the frustrated housewives, divorcées or hopeful singles faced with choosing mates from the same male pool they’d known since grade school. The limits of the small-town life.

      Hormones and husband hunting were running rampant.

      He waved to several patrons, chuckling at the raised eyebrows when they saw him driving the lemon-yellow car. Wiley Hartwell was a character, his used-car business a perfect extension of the outlandish man himself. What kind of man was his brother Bert?

      From what he’d heard, he couldn’t imagine the two men being at all similar.

      Just like Rebecca and that sister of hers. Suzanne. The pretty brunette at the wedding.

      Though Suzanne had a great pair of legs and would turn any man’s head, something about Rebecca stayed with him.

      Her innocence. She possessed a genuine sweetness that had been missing in most of the women he’d dated the past few years.

      He ran a hand over his face, reminding himself not to start caring about her as he pulled into the clinic drive. He would be leaving soon. No time for attachments.

      Taking a quick look at the Victorian house Hannah Hartwell had rented to house her practice, he couldn’t help but mentally compare the old-fashioned structure to the modern women’s center in Atlanta. Painted a pale yellow, the white gingerbread trim gave the Sugar Hill office a picturesque look, something his patients had commented on more than once. Patients claimed the building had a calming effect. Yet the cutting-edge technology and latest medical equipment and techniques in the modern facility in Atlanta were comforting in a different way. Medicine was about saving lives and the latest in technology, not hominess.

      He

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