The Bad Boy's Baby (Hope Springs) Read Online Free Page B

“To living in the moment.”
    Cam grinned. “I’ll definitely drink to that.” He clinked his cup against hers and they downed the shots.
    As soon as she blinked the stinging tears from her eyes, she leaned toward him, one arm on the bar, and flirted like she’d never flirted before. She couldn’t remember how many shots had followed. Only that she’d laughed a lot, and then Cam said something about getting out of there, taking her hand instead of waiting for an answer, and she’d blindly followed.
    Once they’d reached the nearly empty parking lot, he slid an arm around her waist, pulled her to him, and kissed her. The alcohol haze lifted a bit, every inch of her body coming alive as he worked magic with his lips, the soft brush of them followed by the stubble on his chin.
    She threw herself fully into the kiss, wrapping her arms around him and rolling her tongue over his. Somewhere along the way, they’d ended up in his truck. She protested his driving, because obviously they were way too drunk, and he’d tossed the keys to the floor, saying he didn’t plan on going anywhere for a while. Then he brushed his fingertips across her collarbone, eliciting a shiver and spreading goose bumps across her skin.
    Another protest about making out in the truck was on the tip of her tongue, but they were in the back corner, where the tree branches hung down and created fair cover, and his windows were tinted black.
    Then he kissed her again, like it was the end of the world and he planned on making every last second count.
    Parts of the night were so fuzzy and parts were so sharp.
    She distinctly remembered his ripped torso and running her fingers across his pecs and abs, awed at the way the muscles dipped and curved. She’d also traced the tattoo on his chest, although she couldn’t recall what it was now, only that it stood out from the ones on his arms. She definitely remembered when he’d slid his hands up her thighs. She even remembered the sex that followed, blips of kisses and his name on her lips. But she couldn’t for the life of her remember the condom, although she’d sworn he’d pulled one out at one point.
    With that last memory—or missing memory, as it were—her eyes popped open and she was transported from his truck and the past into her messy living room, the TV currently playing a show no one was watching.
    He said he didn’t want a kid—he couldn’t have been any clearer about it.
    Still, right after she found out she was pregnant, she’d googled how to find military members’ email addresses. One site said there was a standard format for the army using the first name and last name, but that if there were more than one person with the same name, there’d be numbers added. Hoping he was the only one with the name, she’d sent an email to test the waters that said, “Hi, this is Emma Walker from Hope Springs. Are you the Cameron Brantley from there?”
    But it’d bounced back, message undeliverable, and without knowing things like his unit or regiment, finding his real email address without involving a lot of people—including contacting the Department of Defense—was impossible.
    For a couple of months, she’d left it alone. But halfway through her pregnancy, when everyone was asking about the father and she’d blurted out he didn’t want to be involved so please stop asking, she’d experienced another bout of guilt, even as she’d told herself it was true.
    So she’d sucked it up and decided to ask his father, despite being scared of the guy. A bad reputation was one thing, but she’d witnessed a few of Rod Brantley’s drunken disturbances firsthand. She went into his auto repair shop, thinking it’d be a safe place to approach him. He was yelling at one of his employees about a mistake he’d made on a car, his face red with anger, and she’d panicked and fled.
    Then she asked herself why she was trying so hard to contact a guy who didn’t want a kid in the first place.
    It