Impossible (Romance on the Go Book 0) Read online

  EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ®

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2018 Allyson Young

  ISBN: 978-1-77339-636-1

  Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

  Editor: Audrey Bobak

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  IMPOSSIBLE

  Romance on the Go ®

  Allyson Young

  Copyright © 2018

  Chapter One

  Elliot Godwin was heading out when she pulled up in front of his house, and the sight of her car tripped a switch he’d thought long shut off and taped over. Hope. A wretched emotion that buoyed the senses and left a person gutted when dashed.

  Had she returned? His thoughts flashed to the feelers he’d put out, thinking he’d go to her, just to see if what they’d had—so briefly—was what he thought it could be. Maybe it was time he accepted he was as vulnerable to hope as the next person—for the first time in forever. And maybe this was something else altogether.

  Ambivalence washed over him, and a protective part surged to slam the connection down as he tried to watch her emerge from the vehicle with clinical detachment. Sure, he appreciated women, all shapes and sizes, forms and textures—and Celeste Hill was a fine package. He even liked her past the curves and lovely face, for her clever brain and ambition and something undefinable.

  His chest tightened and then eased, like the shifting of breaking ice as he reminded himself their … connection was superficial, like all his other connections, and she’d hared off to that new job. Yet here she was…

  Standing in the entryway, tossing his keys in tiny, jingling increments, he tracked her graceful movements up the path to the house and told himself he merely wondered what the hell she wanted. Instead of hustling to meet her, maybe enveloping her in his arms. Fucking conflicted and he hated it.

  “Elliot.” She stopped at the bottom step and peered up into his face, a tentative smile lifting the corners of her mouth. So not the woman he remembered despite all that glorious hair gathered up and restrained in a casual knot on the back of her head, a few blonde tendrils floating free to caress her jawline. Not this tentative sprite. None of that simmering attraction … and yet there was…

  He searched deeper behind her eyes for something to fan that wretched emotion and saw none. His chest constricted tightly. “Hello, Celeste. How are you?”

  “Good.” One hand drifted up to rest fingertips on the banister and his attention cranked up a notch. Not at the small, competent appendage with the neatly cropped nails, nothing to impede her hammering the keys, but at the fine tremble he picked up on.

  Wary, because he was attuned to all tiny nuances since childhood—the better to stay out in front of … anything, let alone the disaster of his marriage, his tone was dismissive when he said, “I thought you were in Manhattan. The job lose its appeal?”

  “No, I… Can I come in?”

  Had her creamy skin held such pale undertones before? He didn’t recall the smudges under her eyes, either. He supposed she’d been burning the candle at both ends, as ambitious as he, and fought concern. When she refused to meet his stare, still no welcome or pleasure evident on either her face or in her demeanor, he quit wondering. Whatever her return meant, it wasn’t about a reconciliation. He couldn’t afford to let the carefully patched-up cracks show again. He couldn’t let himself see her as any different than any of his other women, not now.

  But she pressed that delectable bottom lip between her little white teeth and he detected another slight tremble—there. The mouth he’d—

  With a blink, he stepped off that path and ran blindly away. “I’m busy, Celeste. Maybe tomorrow?”

  “I…” Her breasts heaved with the deep breath she took and he allowed himself a quick glance, his hands tingling before he folded his fingers in to refrain from reaching out.

  “Look, I’m home tomorrow afternoon.” It crossed his mind to figure in some afternoon delight before dismissing the thought. He didn’t do repeats, not when the woman left first. The only woman who’d left first, the one he hadn’t let go. And there was his asshole persona, come to save his pride. “About three?”

  She wavered, her sherry-brown eyes blinking wide before the thicket of dark lashes veiled them, but not before he saw a suspicious telltale of moisture. What the fuck? His defenses melted away. “Celeste?”

  “Sorry. I’ll just say it. It’s not like there’s anything to talk about. I thought I’d do what you’re supposed to do when it involves someone else. I’m pregnant.”

  A void opened up, somewhere between his reality and her statement. He felt himself falling toward it, toward her, before his innate common sense kicked in, and with it a knife edge of agony that gutted him. He spoke past the wounding shards. “Not possible.”

  A slender shoulder lifted. “Condoms aren’t infallible.”

  Fuck, she was going to make him say it. “I use those to protect against disease.”

  She flinched at his harsh, implacable tone even as the implication set in. He witnessed it, the rapid fluttering of lashes, a certain paleness before she straightened and stood tall. “Good to know, Elliot. But it doesn’t change the fact you made a baby in me.”

  Expecting shock, maybe even a hint of compassion, he scoffed, hiding his pain. Did she want to bluff? “We had one time. And still impossible.”

  “I remember three times, and most definitely possible. I’m seven weeks along.”

  Not bothering to run his mental calendar—he knew when they’d been together—he told himself it was normal to recall the date. One didn’t fight remembering an amazing event and a certain nostalgia, although he’d been well on his way to convincing himself she hadn’t made a different impression than all the other women he’d fucked. He had. Definitely. So, he chose silence, staring her down, and saw the moment when she accepted her fate.

  “I’ve done the right thing,” she said, her tone steady, if with a hint of hurt. “And … and no one will know from me who … who fathered the baby.”

  As she turned in place, he made the offer, telling himself it was out of charity, and not in response to that subtle hint of blackmail, not because his gut was churning. “If you’re short of cash…”

  Her head swiveled on that long, graceful neck, baring the throat that had lovingly squeezed his cock. “Money?”

  Ah, he’d coined it. Relief and a tearing disappointment swamped him, squeezing his chest and making him cruel. “For a termination—if that’s where you’re going with this.” He couldn’t imagine it, but then he’d never have dreamed she’d pull this on him. Another man’s child? “You can’t think I’d support you otherwise.”

  Features etched in stone, her eyes hardened to a glittering topaz, disputing any sense of her earlier fragility. “Fuck you, Godwin.”

  She struck off, back toward her car, her faint scent, light and floral, wafting to his nostrils. Despite the circumstances, that olfactory memory made him hard and he shifted against it.

  He stared after her, marking the square set of her shoulders, the sweet roll of her hips no amount of indignation could mask. He worked diligently at not thinking about what she’d shared moments before. The brilliant teal driver’s door shut firmly and quietly behind her, the starter rasping over before s
he pulled away from the curb. No spray of gravel or spinning tires.

  He’d admired that about her, the ability to contain herself. Though when she loosened up and gave over—fuck. He wasn’t going there.

  As the blot of color on wheels disappeared around the corner, he considered why she’d really come. If it wasn’t for money, then what? He didn’t let his mind take even a slight poke at the thought of a child.

  Deciding it was a mystery he could live without solving, he put her out of his head and dragged out his phone. Hitting his contact list, he spoke with his client’s assistant, assuring her he’d be there within fifteen minutes.

  ****

  It took nearly half the drive toward the small house where her best friend lived for the roiling pain to melt the icy reserve she’d assumed when he’d spoken of an abortion. Tears filled her eyes and spilled over, tracking down her face to drip off her chin, a torrent of salt and moisture.

  Blinking rapidly to even see the road, she swallowed a chest-squeezing sob and grimaced at the discomfort. All she’d need now was to vomit, add her nauseated, empty belly to the scope of things.

  She hadn’t known exactly what to expect by telling him about their child. Her brain had conjured up scenarios whereby he’d balk and hedge because of the shock and then offer support. Not that she needed any, but it was a palatable choice and one that would give her the opportunity to refuse.

  At no time did she consider him offering marriage, nor any form of cohabitation. She thought she knew him well enough for that, a solitary, independent individual who liked women but only on his terms. As she’d liked men… Rejection and abandonment tended to leave lasting scars and impact most all relationships—like recognized like. Trust was near impossible for people like them. She didn’t have to know his history in detail to recognize that fact.

  But she thought the news might crack open the reserve in the man she intuited that sheltered behind the mask, to a softer, caring side that might view progeny as welcome, and allow for some involvement in the child’s life.

  A chuff of sour laughter spilled past her lips, unfortunately paving the way for that scalding sob, and she lost the battle of any pretense toward continuing control. Gripping the wheel harder, she swerved onto a convenient shoulder, two wheels up on the grassy verge, and fumbled the shifter into park.

  Knowing the majority of her response was hormone-fueled did nothing to mitigate the meltdown. How hard had she held herself against the news until now, sharing with no one but him? Forgoing the acceptance and excitement of her friends and family… Doing the right thing, notifying the father first. She sobbed and choked until she thought her throat would tear and her lungs collapse, her cheeks raw with the deluge. Her baby… She pressed a hand against her abdomen, whispering a heartfelt reassurance. Not about you, sweetheart. I love you.

  It felt like hours but was, in reality, a few short minutes before she wrestled back her composure, albeit as a soggy wreck of exhaustion.

  Impossible. She’d sorted out the reasoning—and ensuing rejection—behind his flat comment in short order. But it wasn’t impossible. He was capable regardless of what he believed. The tiny seed in her belly was living proof.

  But it didn’t matter. He thought she’d come to him, pregnant with another man’s child, to cadge… She couldn’t bear to think of what he thought of her. His opinion didn’t matter either. Asshole.

  Fumbling for a wad of tissues, she mopped up what remained of her makeup and took a shuddering breath, pushing any thought of Elliot Godwin from her head.

  A tap on the window drew a muffled shriek as she started, turning to stare at his unwelcome bulk hunched over her little car, his handsome face only inches away. His silvery eyes were narrowed, cold and impenetrable, not at all like the turbulent wash of emotion when he’d been as deep inside her as any man could be in a woman. Planting their child.

  As emotionally drained as she was, she couldn’t help the faint shiver of that arousing memory before dispatching it. Stupid hormones.

  She eased the window down a notch. “What?”

  His gaze took in her face and she knew what he saw. She never cried prettily, but then she rarely cried. Make that never. Tears were for the weak. He would know that.

  “Are you all right?”

  Like he cared. She was a slut, remember? Well, maybe not—Elliot didn’t judge, at least about consenting adults sexing things up. So, what then? What was a woman called who tried to stick a guy with a kid that wasn’t his? Something far worse in his eyes, for sure.

  “I’m fine.” She whirred the window back up and threw the vehicle into gear.

  With cautious regard to his proximity, she drove forward and then guided the car back onto the pavement, ignoring his tall form in the mirror.

  Veronica wasn’t expecting her until tonight—Celeste smiled bitterly at her own self-deception. She’d expected better of the asshole, more time with him, a little discussion, even if she’d fooled herself into not thinking it. But her friend secreted a key and that would give her time to get settled, cleaned up, and to start dinner. Hide the ridiculous reaction the father of her child had elicited before she shared the news once again.

  Aware a large, black SUV trailed her for the remainder of the drive, she studiously pretended it wasn’t there while plotting how to ditch him if he chose to make another inquiry. She wouldn’t give a murderer the time of day, no matter he’d merely offered to pay for the deed.

  The tension mounted as the minutes ticked by, the two vehicles sailing along the relatively empty streets, catching the lights in convoy. She timed the next one better, slowing as the hand sign flashed to solid, and then hustling through the intersection to leave him at the red.

  Luck continued to be with her, and she wheeled into Ronnie’s driveway, pulling to the back around the slight curve. When there was no sign of him, she shut off the car, her hands shaking and the urge to nap overwhelming. The engine ticked as it cooled and she drew on the kernel of rage for strength, throwing open the door.

  Fetching her overnight bag from the back seat, she made her way up the path to the rear porch and then ran a finger along the painted trim beneath the window. A key hung from the tiny hook, and, despite its rusted appearance, let her into her friend’s home. A huge gust of relief sighed from her lungs as she dropped her purse and case and locked the door securely. She’d take that nap and face life when she woke.

  ****

  Goddamn it. She’d ditched him, adroitly. And a few passes up and down these side streets hadn’t offered a glimpse of her distinctive car. He’d told himself to let it go, let her go, he had a client waiting, but her face behind the window…

  Okay, so he’d followed her out of concern. He could admit that, unable to leave it—her—alone. Emotions he didn’t ascribe to pushed him, and seeing her so emotional…

  He checked one more block before conceding defeat. She might not have stopped at one of these places at all, continued through, and he was going to be really late. Putting a lid on his thoughts and feelings, he reluctantly drove away, knowing it would haunt him.

  He called the client again.

  “Mr. Godwin?” The assistant purred his name and he recalled a tall blonde with avarice in her eyes, if with stupendous breasts.

  “I’m stuck in traffic.” A stupid thing to say because how busy did the city actually get? “An accident.” He allowed that could be true. Celeste had looked like a train wreck, her lovely face swollen and tear-stained, anguish written large in her eyes and in the strain of her full mouth. Impossible.

  “Mr. Chance will be here another hour.”

  “I’ll be there within half of that.”

  Chapter Two

  “So, knocked up, huh?” Ronnie’s eyes snapped with excitement even as her hands clutched Celeste’s tightly. “I would never have thought it. Ever.”

  Neither would Celeste. A child had never been in her plans, not any of them. “One of those accidents, girlfriend. A combination of bad t
iming, faulty condoms, and my oral birth control undermined by antibiotics.”

  Plus really determined sperm. Take that, asshole. And now you’ll never know. Because surely, being sterile had some kind of effect on a guy’s sense of self. She took that back. Elliot had no self-esteem issues. A person had to be touch with their damaged side to have any.

  “But you’re good with it.” Her friend squeezed her hand.

  “I am.” Curious, how the moment that innocuous paper strip showed the plus sign she’d been overcome with such a sense of joy rooted in a certain, deep, and all-encompassing calm. Elliot’s response aside, nothing had shaken that.

  “Are you and the father… I mean, you can’t be too far along, so, is it like, marriage?”

  She huffed a laugh. “No. Definitely not. I might have surprised myself with this total acceptance of having a baby, but marriage isn’t in my future.”

  “Oh, so he’s okay with that?”

  She’d given a little thought to that sticky issue, what she’d tell people, reluctant to foist a lie on her friends and family, so stuck as close to the truth as possible. “He doesn’t want anything to do with … us.”

  Wow, that pinched. Though, in actuality, he didn’t want anything to do with her, because in his mind there was no us. That felt a little better. Maybe.

  Ronnie released her hand and slapped the table. “That’s bullshit. What’re the laws in New York State about child support? Jeez, is this the Dark Ages? Doesn’t he know it takes two?”

  Celeste hadn’t thought quite this far ahead, although she should have. But she’d woken only a few minutes before her friend came through the door. She blinked against the sly little voice telling her the truth. You thought you could tell everyone, once you’d told Elliot. You thought he’d embrace you, both of you, and telling people would be cliché. Boy, she was thick, and a real romantic. Who knew? Had she been fooling herself all these years?