She was determined to transform herself.

But to him? She was perfect.

After Ginger O’Leary learns she’s pregnant, it’s time for a whole new Ginger. James Gallagher’s happy to help his aunt’s new student, but after years of raising his siblings, becoming attached isn’t in the plan. Yet neither is the way his heart soars every time he and Ginger match wits. What will it take for these two opposites to realize that they’re made for each other?

MELISSA SENATE has written many novels for Mills & Boon and other publishers, including her debut, See Jane Date, which was made into a TV movie. She also wrote seven books for Mills & Boon under the pen name Meg Maxwell. Her novels have been published in over twentyfive countries. Melissa lives on the coast of Maine with her teenage son; their rescue shepherd mix, Flash; and a lap cat named Cleo. For more information, please visit her website, melissasenate.com.

Also by Melissa Senate

The Baby Switch!Detective Barelli’s Legendary TripletsWyoming Christmas SurpriseA New Leash on LoveA Cowboy in the KitchenThe Detective’s 8 lb, 10 oz SurpriseThe Cowboy’s Big Family TreeThe Cook’s Secret IngredientCharm School for CowboysSanta’s Seven-Day Baby Tutorial

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

To Keep Her Baby

Melissa Senate

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09094-0

TO KEEP HER BABY

© 2019 Melissa Senate

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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For my mother, with love.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One

“Miss O’Leary, please describe your goals if accepted as a pupil of Madame Davenport’s School of Etiquette,” Larilla Davenport said from behind her desk.

“Just look at me,” Ginger blurted out as she stood up. Her low-cut hot-pink tank top, size extra, extra small, showed the lacy tops of her leopard-print push-up bra. Babe was written in rhinestones across her ample chest. Her ruffled miniskirt, which came to an end just past her rear, was also extra small. Big was her platinum blond hair in “beachy waves” to her waist. Four-inch stilettos, a bunch of cheap bracelets and heavy makeup completed her usual daytime look.

The fiftysomething woman sitting across from her—so spiffy in an ice-blue sheath dress and matching jacket, her dark hair pulled back in one of those elegant buns at her nape—looked Ginger up and down. Yeah, she was used to that.

“My dear,” Madame Davenport said, “if you were just interested in changing your look, you could wash your face and buy a few new outfits. So why are you really interested in enrolling in my course?”

Because of last night. And this morning. Which felt like eons ago but had just been hours before. It started with the pregnancy test. The red plus sign appearing in the little window. Racing back to Walgreens for another test, which Ginger had taken in the bathroom at Busty’s, the “exotic dance saloon” where she worked as a waitress. Another plus sign. She was pregnant. Her, Ginger O’Leary. Someone’s mother?

The thought of it had knocked around in her head during her shift last night, serving the tap of the day and shots to leering customers. I’m pregnant? she’d kept thinking, setting down baskets of breaded mozzarella sticks and plates of loaded nachos on tables. Me?

Ginger O’Leary had lost her virginity at fifteen. She was now twenty-four. That was nine years of sex with guys who she’d been naive about, but she’d always been careful, keeping several boxes of condoms in her bedroom and car, and always a few packets in her purse. This time though, the condom had broken, and the man who’d had it on had muttered expletives, grabbed his clothes and run out of her apartment.

For the past year, he’d been coming into Busty’s twice a week and always left with a different waitress each time. He was one of the richies. There were the richies and the poors, per the female staff. The richies were the ones who looked—key word looked—like gentlemen who left ten-dollar tips. The poors were jerks who said stuff like “Here’s your tip—flash me and I’ll leave you a buck.” Busty’s was a real quality operation.

Anyway, Alden Arlington, the father of her baby, hadn’t come in last night but she’d seen him this morning, heading into Java Jamboree with a woman. She’d trailed him into the café and asked if she could talk to him, and he’d said, “I’m surprised you get up before noon.”

Normally she didn’t. But this wasn’t a normal day. Like she could sleep.

She told him it was super important, and finally, the woman at his table gave her a dirty look and said she’d go order their lattes and scones.

Ginger sat down in the woman’s seat. “I thought you should know I’m pregnant,” she whispered to him. “I just found out yesterday.”

“Uh, congratulations?” Alden said. God, he was good-looking. All that movie-star blond hair, the green eyes. The expensive suit. He looked like a young Brad Pitt. Of course, being gorgeous and nicely dressed didn’t make him a nice guy. He’d avoided Busty’s for a good two weeks after the broken-condom incident, then started coming back in a couple nights a week again and ignoring her, leaving with other women. Whatevs. She hadn’t been hanging her hopes on him as a boyfriend, but he didn’t have to treat her like she wasn’t worth a hello.

“It’s yours,” she said.

He laughed. “Sure it is, honey. You probably sleep with more men in a week than there are in here right now.”

Ginger actually gasped, which surprised her. She wasn’t the gasping type. People said a lot of crap to her. But she didn’t actually sleep around. She’d liked Alden, had hoped he’d notice her, and he had. Before he’d shown his true colors, she’d had all these fantasies that he’d fall for her and carry her out of Busty’s like Richard Gere had swooped Debra Winger out of the factory in that movie An Officer and a Gentleman.

“Find some idiot to pin it on,” he said. “I’m a little too smart for that.”

The woman came back to the table just then with coffee drinks and plates, and sat down on the other side of Alden, sipping her latte. “Listen to me, sweetie,” she said, staring at Ginger with ice-cold eyes. “You’re saying it’s my brother’s baby? Fine. A DNA test will prove you’re lying. On the off chance you’re not? Expect a custody battle since you’re not exactly fit to be a mother.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ginger snapped, hands on her hips.

“Look at you,” she said, waving her hand up and down.

“It’s not mine, so don’t even waste your breath on this lowlife,” Alden said to his sister, picking up his drink.

Ginger grabbed the scone and threw it at him. It hit him on his tie and bounced on the table, then landed on the floor. “Screw you.”

“That’s battery,” the sister said, pointing a manicured finger. “We could have her charged.”

Cursing herself for her temper and impulsiveness, a lick of fear traveled up her spine. She’d rushed out, practically running all the way back to Busty’s and trying to calm down in the very bathroom stall where she’d taken the pregnancy test.

“My goodness,” Larilla Davenport said, jerking Ginger out of the memory.

Had Ginger meant to say word for word what happened? Out loud? Maybe not. But hey, one thing you could say about Ginger O’Leary was that she told the truth.

Ginger sat up straight and looked Madame Davenport in the eyes. “You asked me what my goals are if I get accepted as a student here. All I want is to be a good mother to this baby.” She looked down at her still-flat belly, then shook her head at the Babe across her big chest, which was natural, by the way, and not enhanced—except by the push-up bra. “Babe is now about the baby, Madame Davenport. Not me. I’m going to be someone’s mother. I have to change—and not just how I look. Everything about me. How I talk, act, think. I need to become proper. I need to become the kind of person who doesn’t get called a lowlife, you know? Someone who doesn’t throw baked goods at people out of anger. Because Alden could take the baby away. I need to become the kind of person who won’t get her baby taken away.”

Tears poked at her eyes, and she slashed a hand underneath each. “Madame Davenport, if I’m going to raise my baby right, I need to be right. And if I ever hope to find a good man to be a father to my baby, I have to become the type of woman a good man brings home to meet the folks.”

Madame stared at her for a moment, then jotted something down in the electronic tablet on the ornate polished desk. “I see. How did you hear of my etiquette school, Ms. O’Leary?”

“Well, my boss at Busty’s is this really kick-ass lady. She pulled herself up from nothing. I asked her how she accomplished that, and she said she’d spent all her savings a few years back to go to etiquette school in Wedlock Creek. Coco told me the course teaches everything from how to act, dress, order in a restaurant, what not to say, what to say—all that. So I told her I had to quit, got in my car and drove three hours from Jackson.”

Madame Davenport smiled. “Ah, Coco. I remember her. I admired her spunk.”

Ginger too. “Problem is, I can’t exactly afford five minutes of one class, forget about the three-week session.” Ginger had $212 to her name. She glanced around at the office, full of antiques and oil paintings on the walls. The beautiful Queen Anne–style house was like a castle—surely Madame Davenport needed another cleaning person or prep cook. “I’ll do any job in exchange for the etiquette course. Anything. I’ll scrub all the toilets till they sparkle.”

Madame Davenport eyed Ginger and snapped the cover of the tablet closed. “My dear, you will not scrub anything but yourself into the person you want to be. You are hereby enrolled in the three-week session that starts tomorrow. On scholarship.”

For the second time ever, Ginger O’Leary gasped.

* * *

Have a few moments to help with a new pupil assessment?

James Gallagher read the text from his godmother and groaned. He used to help out at Larilla’s etiquette school quite a bit, playing the role of “upstanding young man in the community” so that Larilla could assess how students acted around the opposite sex and practice their newfound skills in conversation. Larilla had a list of men of all ages who loved helping out at the school, but all her favorites must be unavailable today.

The last time he helped with an assessment was last year, in the final days of Ava Guthrie’s course. He’d watched Ava transform from a “country girl,” as she’d called herself, into a “lady,” and he’d given her top scores in the final assessment. She’d hooked him, hadn’t she? A “well-educated businessman,” twenty-eight-year-old James Gallagher was one of Wedlock Creek’s “hottest catches,” per a ridiculous article in the Wedlock Creek Gazette that his sisters loved to tease him about. Last year, he’d even been thinking about getting himself removed from the eligible-bachelor list because he’d found his Ms. Right.

But Ava Guthrie had played him for the fool he was. After she’d gotten what she wanted—to be the kind of woman who’d attract a man like him—the grifter had gone for the kill, leaving town and taking James’s ability to trust. She’d sped off in the shiny new Fiat he’d bought her. Like an idiot.

After that fiasco, his godmother had kindly stopped asking him to help. Larilla knew he’d do anything for her, just as she would do anything for him. His parents and grandparents on both sides were long gone, and Larilla was all he had left of his mother’s side of the family. On his dad’s side he had the five half siblings he’d raised since his father’s and stepmother’s deaths seven years ago. Larilla had always been his rock. If she asked a favor, he was damn well going to grant it. Besides, a month and a week from now, he’d be in Paris, France, the start of his long-awaited summer sabbatical trip around the world. He wouldn’t be able to help Larilla with anything, and he owed her.

Be right over, he typed back.

Wonderful! We’re in the dining room.

It was just after six, but Larilla structured her course so that she met with a few students individually throughout the day and held group sessions twice daily. She always assessed new students over a private meal so that she could see how they conducted themselves at the table.

Larilla’s home, which housed the etiquette school, was just a few minutes’ drive from his place. He left his room, the converted attic bedroom, and headed down the steep steps of the big house his father had bought when he’d married James’s stepmother twenty-two years ago. None of his siblings were home, no surprise there. The quints were twenty-one now, and two—his brothers—had left town for their dream jobs, one involving a prosperous ranch and the other as a sous chef in a five-star hotel in Cheyenne. Two of his sisters worked as assistants to Larilla, wanting to learn the business, which pleased his godmother to no end, and then there was Josie, who was generally responsible for his carrying three rolls of Tums wherever he went. “You are responsible for your reaction to me, James, so don’t blame the heartburn on me!” Josie had bellowed a time or two.

He passed his dad and stepmother’s old master bedroom in the huge house. None of the Gallagher siblings had felt right about moving in there, including him. They used it as a family room so that they’d always feel their dad and Kerry with them when they were watching movies or TV, or having family meetings about who the slob who couldn’t cap the toothpaste or wipe up the spills on the kitchen counter was.

James couldn’t believe it had been seven years since he’d lost his parents. Or that he’d actually done it—seen the siblings through the throes of raging adolescence at thirteen to twenty-one-year-olds living their lives. He’d put his own life on hold to raise them, but come a month from now, James was hitting the road—the skies, actually—for a global summer trip of no responsibility to anyone but himself. He’d eat the best pasta in the universe in Italy. Amazing bread and cheese in France. Paella, a favorite of his, in Spain. Sushi and real ramen in Japan. He’d go on safari in Africa. Swim the coral reefs in Australia. He’d even try to learn to meditate in India, not that he could imagine relaxing to that degree.

He was going to see the world—without a care. He. Could. Not. Wait.

He drove over to Larilla’s blush-colored Queen Anne, the sight of which never failed to make him smile. With its three-story octagonal tower and ornate wraparound veranda, the house looked like an etiquette school. A sign noting Madame Davenport’s School of Etiquette hung from the side of the porch, where Larilla’s Persian cat, Esme, lay curled in a padded rocker in a patch of sunshine.

Once inside the gorgeously decorated home, which always struck him as “cozy museum,” he headed to the dining room, where he found Larilla seated at the head of the table, a young woman to her left. The platinum blonde looked like an extra from that movie Working Girl with Melanie Griffith and Harrison Ford—lots of skin, makeup and hair. They’d clearly just finished dinner, since there were serving dishes and plates on the table.

As he entered the room, the blonde let out an impressive wolf whistle and checked him out from head to toe and back up again.

Larilla jotted something down in the electronic tablet she carried everywhere.

“That’s probably the kind of thing I shouldn’t do anymore,” the blonde said to Larilla. “It’s not ladylike or whatever, right?”

“My dear,” Larilla began in that slight drawl of hers, “men have been catcalling women since the dawn of time. When I was in my late forties, a man walked past me on Main Street and said, ‘Hey, hot stuff.’ Boy, did he end up regretting that.”

The young woman’s eyes widened—in a gleeful way. “Whatja do?”

Larilla took a sip of her tea. “I bored him for a good fifteen minutes in the middle of the sidewalk on why it was inappropriate to comment on my appearance—anyone’s appearance, except perhaps to note that someone looked lovely today. Boring someone to death is an effective deterrent, I’ve noticed.”

“Kinda weird for me to tell this dude he looks lovely today,” the blonde said, raking her hazel eyes over him again.

“In that case, you simply ogle on the down low and keep mum,” Larilla explained with a wink.

The blonde beamed, and Larilla patted her hand.

At least he understood why his godmother had asked for his help when she knew he was still bitter as hell about what happened the last time he had anything to do with an etiquette student. The platinum blonde would probably need three courses before she’d graduate, and by then, James would be in Europe, on a gondola in Venice. This was one student who wouldn’t get to him.

Larilla turned to him. “James, I’m pleased to introduce my newest pupil, Ginger O’Leary. Ginger, my godson, James Gallagher.”

“Man, your eyes are blue,” Ginger said to him. “Guys get the best eyelashes too, am I right? I have to buy a new tube of mascara, like, every two weeks to keep up. Lahl!”

“Lahl?” James repeated. Was that a brand of mascara?

Ginger gaped at him as though he was nuts. “Lahl. El-oh-el. Get it?”

El-oh-el? What? Oh, he thought. LOL. “You mean the text acronym. Wait, so you were LOLing at your own joke? Larilla, write down that. Infraction of the worst degree.”

Ginger looked worried for a second, then stared at him to see if he was kidding. Which he was. He kept his poker face, and she waved her hand in the air. “Oh God, if that’s my biggest crime, I’m doing all right.”

Larilla smiled. “Well, James, thank you very much. I have what I need. And, Ginger, I’ll see you at 9:00 a.m. sharp for our first session.”

Ginger suddenly put her hands on her stomach, and her eyes widened.

Why was she doing that? He stepped a bit closer. “Are you all right? Dinner didn’t agree with you?”

“Are you kidding?” she said on a breath. “Filet mignon with roast potatoes always agrees with me. Like I ever have that.”

“Then what’s wrong?” he asked.

Ginger bit her lip and looked from him to Larilla and back to him. “I just felt that weird tightening sensation in my belly again. According to Dr. Google, it’s normal when you’re pregnant.”

“Pregnant?” He stared from Ginger to Larilla.

“Ginger is in the family way,” Larilla said. “She’s due in December.”

“If I counted right,” Ginger added. “I’ve never been great at math.”

“What did the doctor tell you?” he asked.

“What doctor? I just found out I was pregnant two days ago.”

“I’ll ask around for recommendations for an ob-gyn,” Larilla said. “You’ll need a checkup and prenatal vitamins.”

Now it was becoming even clearer why Larilla would call him to help assess. Not only was Ginger the furthest thing from his type, not that he had one, but she was pregnant.

He was leaving town to get away from “fatherhood.” The last thing he’d ever walk toward was more of that responsibility.

In fact, he felt a little better that now he could help out Larilla with this pupil. Buffalo would fly before James Gallagher fell for Ginger O’Leary.

Chapter Two

You’ve got to be kidding me, Ginger thought, eyeing the packet of homework that Madame Davenport had assigned the three new students as they were dismissed from the group class the next afternoon. Ginger had barely managed to graduate from high school—though she did always get As in history—because she hated homework. Homework had reminded her of school, which had reminded her of how she was treated there. Let’s just say her name and nasty sayings were always written on the bathroom walls, even when half of it wasn’t true. Boys had claimed she’d done all kinds of sex acts, and girls had scrawled that she had every disease there was. For the record, the only disease Ginger had ever had was the mumps in third grade.

The morning class at Madame Davenport’s School of Etiquette had been on “comportment,” which Ginger had learned was a big word for behavior. How to act. How to be. The three new students had to stand up and share why they were taking the course, and Ginger had been honest again. Her fellow students had immediately warmed to her, which was rare in her world. One, a petite redhead named Karly, told her she should have thrown the scone at her baby daddy’s nose and broken it. The other, Sandrine, a dental hygienist with great teeth, was madly in love with her boss, who had a specific type—Ginger had learned what a debutante was—and Sandrine wanted to become it.

“Comportment means that one doesn’t throw baked goods at others,” Ginger had said with her nose in the air.

They’d all burst out laughing, except Madame Davenport, who’d said, “One most certainly does not.” But Madame had a twinkle in her eye, as always.

Crazy. Sometimes women took to Ginger and sometimes they didn’t. She was glad her teacher and classmates seemed to like her because she liked them. Being liked was nice.

For homework, she had to write a one-page essay on the five no-no’s of first meetings and why “one did not discuss these five topics”: money, sex, politics, religion and appearance. Per Madame, one could pay a compliment but not be critical of how someone was dressed or their shape.

Madame Davenport wanted the students to look the part of the people they wanted to become, so a shopping trip was on the schedule. Madame had already taken Karly, whose goal for the course was to get promoted to assistant editor of the Wedlock Creek Gazette, where she was the assistant to two editors. You have to dress for the job you want, not the job you have, Karly had said she’d read in Glamour magazine, and Madame Davenport agreed. Karly had returned from their trip to a boutique wearing a pantsuit that managed to be professional looking but not stuffy.

Now it was Ginger’s turn. She wanted to look like a mother, but did she even know what mothers looked like? None of her friends back in Jackson had kids. And her hours had always meant she slept during the day and worked till the wee hours, so she wasn’t exactly running into the stroller set. Madame Davenport had told her not to worry; they would look at magazines and the clothes in the boutique and try on different looks until Ginger liked what she saw.

Madame Davenport made it all sound so easy, which was why Ginger already adored her.

She made sure she was three minutes early for the 1:00 p.m. shopping trip, but when she came downstairs from her room—which was awesome, by the way—Madame was nowhere to be seen. One o’clock came and went. No Madame Davenport. And according to their private lesson this morning, being on time was paramount—a new word for Ginger.

Then suddenly the front door opened and there he was.

Serious hawtness in the flesh. James Gallagher. Whoo, someone bring me a fan. He wasn’t in a suit today, probably because it was Sunday. He wore a long-sleeved button-down shirt and dark jeans, and she could barely drag her gaze off his biceps. My oh my, was he built. Look up, Ging, she told herself, treated to those blue eyes and sooty dark lashes, strong brows to match his straight nose. And those lips. Ooh, those lips.

One doesn’t comment on appearance except to pay a compliment... “Looking fine, Gallagher,” she said, practically licking her lips.

He chuckled, surprise in his expression. Come on, the man was super hot. Surely he knew. Hot men always did. Then again, he was sort of “buttoned-up,” and those types tended not to know they were total Hemsworths.

“Did Larilla get in touch with you?” he asked. “She texted me that she wasn’t feeling well and asked if I’d accompany you on the shopping trip. Normally one of my sisters would, but they’re out of town until tonight visiting my brother at the ranch he works on.”

“You’re up on the ‘mom’ look?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I used to help out Larilla a lot,” he said. “I know all the ‘looks’—the mom, VP, meeting the wealthy parents, be taken more seriously and every other look the students are trying to achieve.”

She shrugged. “Huh. Well, in that case, hot stuff, let’s go.” He turned to open the door, letting her walk through first, naturally. “Am I supposed to take your arm? They do that in movies.”

“Moms don’t have to take arms. They have their hands full, literally and figuratively.”

She tilted her head. “Say what?”

“No need to take my arm. We’re not headed into the opera or a ball.”

“Oh.” But what if I want to? she almost said.

They headed down the sidewalk, passing big, beautiful houses like the etiquette school. Ginger could see Main Street up ahead. The Wedlock Creek Library was visible from where they were, and she could smell yummy bakery scents coming from the café she’d stopped in yesterday. She’d walked around for about an hour after being accepted into the school. She’d have explored more, but she got quickly tired of the gapes from strangers. They’re boobs, people! she wanted to shout. Big whoop! She could blend in more easily in Jackson. Here in this small town, she stood out big-time.

James walked beside her, and Ginger could also smell his yummy scent, something spicy and soapy and masculine. “So Larilla says the objective is for you to look like you could go from playground to PTA meeting. Quite a difference from this look.”

“Right?” she said, glancing down at her metallic silver leggings, belted tunic that didn’t quite cover her tush and showed off her cleavage, and strappy sandals that wrapped around her ankles. Her toenails were each painted a different color. “Although yesterday, when I was walking around town, a little girl told me she liked my toes. So maybe I get to keep my fun toenails.” She lifted her foot and gave it a wiggle. “You got kids?”

“Me?” He shook his head. “No, ma’am. I’d say anything to do with marriage and children is about ten years off in the distance when I’ve finally done everything I’ve wanted to do the past seven years.”

“What have you been doing instead?”

“Raising my orphaned quintuplet half siblings,” he said. “I took them in when they were thirteen and I was twenty-one, fresh out of college.”

She hadn’t been expecting that. Sowing the ole wild oats was what she’d thought would come tumbling out of his mouth. Not that she thought all men were hound dogs. She just personally hadn’t met one who wasn’t. Then again, her circle didn’t exactly include quality men. “Wait a minute. Did you say quintuplets? Huh. That couldn’t have been easy. They must have been walking, talking hormones.”

He laughed. “They were. I almost went bankrupt keeping them on Clearasil.”

She liked the sound of his laughter. “I guess I got lucky there. I’ve never had a zit in my life.”

“Not one?”

“Nope. I take after my mother and grandmother. Amazing skin genes. They’re both gone now. Crazy that my mom will never meet my baby. Or vice versa, you know?”

He glanced at her and nodded. “Ten years from now or so, when I finally have a child, I’ll feel that same way, I’m sure.”

“You’re really stuck on the ten years thing, aren’t you? Ever heard of an oops?”

“I’ve heard of oops,” he said. “I’ll just make sure it doesn’t happen to me.”

“Condoms break, you know,” she said, looking down.

He eyed her and nodded. “Stuff happens. It’s the one thing I know for sure.”

She lifted her chin, shaking off thoughts of Alden and condoms. “It’s weird knowing my mom isn’t on the earth anymore. I’d say the same for my dad, but I never knew him. What’s also weird? Picking out a dad for my baby without knowing what a good dad would be like. I mean, I only know from TV shows.”

“Picking out a dad?” he repeated.

“That’s part of why I’m taking your godmother’s etiquette course. To look the part so I can attract a good man to be a dad to my kid.”

He stared at her hard for a moment.

“Why are you looking at me like I grew another boob?” she asked. “I’ll be looking for a guy like you. You know—quality.”

“I could be a real jerk for all you know,” he said. “Step one to finding a good man? Fixing your good-guy radar. Trust no one on first glance. Make no assumptions.”

“That’s silly. People make assumptions about me based on how I look.”

“Touché,” he said. “But I’ll bet a lot of those assumptions are wrong.”

She tilted her head and looked at him. “They are. Like being hot and having big hair means I’m not going to be a great mom. Because I will be.”

He glanced at her again, and she wondered what was going through his mind.

“Hot mama!” a man’s voice called out as they turned onto Main Street.

Ginger glanced around for who catcalled her. Main Street was bustling with people, but there—she saw him, some jerk in a cowboy hat staring at her chest and wriggling his eyebrows at her. “Up yours!” she shouted back and flipped the guy the bird as she and James kept walking.

James shook his head. “Neanderthal. Who catcalls a woman—and when she’s with a man? I could be your husband for all he knows. So rude.”

Ginger laughed. Like, really laughed. Stopped-and-doubled-over-for-a-second laughed.

“What is so funny?” he muttered.

“That anyone would think I’m your wife. That we’re together. Come on. I’d believe you’d date a woman who’d wear these sandals maybe, but that’s about it.”

He eyed the sparkly silver leggings and the practically see-through flowy tunic in black-and-white leopard print, but didn’t agree or disagree. She wondered what his type was.

“Oh, we’re here,” he said, pointing at Best Dressed Boutique between the town florist and a hair salon. At the door, he turned to her. “Just curious. Why do you dress so...flashy?”

Flashy. She supposed that was a nice way of putting it. “I just always have since middle school. The shorter and tighter, the sparklier and shinier, the better. Plus you have to admit I have a slammin’ bod. Why not show it off while I’m young?”

Was James Gallagher blushing? He was.

“Well then, why change your style?” he asked. “What are we doing here?”

“Because if I don’t change the way I look and my big mouth and flipping the bird even when it’s deserved, that jerk Alden might come take my baby. The baby he says can’t even be his, even though he’s the only man I’ve been with in six months. And if I don’t look right, like the kind of woman a guy like you would date, I’ll never find a good man for my baby. I’m done with jerks and three-night stands. D-O-N-E.”

She didn’t want to get all riled up before the big shopping trip, so to end the conversation she pulled open the door to the boutique and walked inside. And immediately got flashed a dirty look by a saleswoman. She also caught the brunette nudging the other saleswoman in the ribs. Beyotch!

“May I help you?” asked the brunette. Ginger studied her for a second. The saleswoman’s expression barely hid her judgy disdain. Her makeup was understated, hair pulled back in a model-like ponytail and she wore a black pantsuit with black patent heels. Ginger hated that she had to admit the beyotch looked good. Elegant. And elegant was always good.

James came in behind her and smiled at the woman. “Hi, Kristen. Nice to see you.”

The saleswoman looked from James to Ginger and understanding dawned. Ginger was clearly “one of those” from the etiquette school. No mistaking her for his woman in this boutique.

She wasn’t sure why, but her usual take-me-as-I-am-or-talk-to-the-hand went poof. She felt...exposed, maybe. And she didn’t like it.

It’s a process, she reminded herself, thinking of something Larilla Davenport had said this morning. And it’s not going to be easy.

Not much was.

James sat on the tufted velvet chaise in the changing area while Ginger was in one of the dressing rooms with two armloads of clothes the saleswomen had selected for her. He couldn’t stop thinking about what Ginger had said.

Because if I don’t change the way I look and my big mouth and flipping the bird even when it’s deserved, that jerk Alden might come take my baby. The baby he says can’t even be his, even though he’s the only man I’ve been with in six months.

She wanted to look more presentable for her baby’s sake. To keep her baby. Of all the students his godmother had had over the years, he didn’t ever remember meeting someone in Ginger’s shoes. He’d help her best he could.

The door to Ginger’s dressing room opened and she stepped out. Were it not for her big blond hair and makeup, he’d never have recognized her. She wore a tailored white button-down shirt and khaki pants, neither tight nor loose, and red leather flats.

“The shoes add a delightful pop of color,” the saleswoman said with a nod, looking at Ginger’s reflection in the full-length three-way mirror.

Ginger was canting her head to the left and right, biting her lip, frowning as she turned this way and that as she checked herself out.

“I’d say this look would go from PTA meeting to playground to coffee with a gal pal,” the other saleswoman said. “And the shoes are on sale this week only!”

Ginger stared at herself. “I don’t know...”

“Oh! I know what’s wrong!” the brunette said. “Come with me!”

“Uh, where?” Ginger asked, following the woman to a back corridor.

Five minutes later, the brunette returned with Ginger trailing behind her. At least, James thought it was Ginger. She had on the white shirt, khaki pants and red flats, but her face was scrubbed free of makeup, and her hair had been pulled back into a low ponytail, the long fluff of it cascading down the center of her back.

The gum was gone too.

“Who is this?” Ginger asked, eyeing her reflection.

“This is the new you!” the brunette said. “You look great. You look like every woman walking down Main Street.”

Ginger stared at herself, her expression no less than glum. “I guess.”

“Can’t be easy changing up your whole style in ten minutes,” James said.

Ginger’s eyes darted to his. “How do you think I look?”

“Like every woman walking down Main Street,” he said with a nod at the saleswoman. But that didn’t seem right in Ginger’s case. Not at all.

And weird as it was, he kind of missed her regular style. The glittery eyelids. The red lipstick. The flash and sparkle. This new Ginger was...not her. But then again, that was the point, right? She needed to look momish for a very good reason. This wasn’t a makeover. It was an intervention.

“I have an idea,” the saleswoman said. “This outfit is pretty standard. You can’t go wrong owning these pieces. But you’re not going to get used to looking completely different immediately. So why not buy it and walk around town and see for yourself how you’re regarded? And how it feels to have everyone’s unspoken approval. You’ll be back buying out the place.”

Ginger glanced at herself in the mirror again, then at the saleswoman. “I’m sorry, but there’s no way I can go out in public looking like this.”

James smiled. Score one for Ginger. She had moxie, that was for sure.

The saleswoman frowned. Hard. “Hello. You said you wanted to look like a mom. Now you do.”

“Can’t moms have a little pizzazz?” Ginger asked.

“Duh, the pop of red,” the other saleswoman added, pointing at Ginger’s feet.

“What do you think, James?” Ginger asked, turning to face him directly.

Three sets of eyes stared at him. “I think there’s probably a happy medium. That’s what I think.”

“What does that mean?” Ginger asked.

“It means this may not be the right clothing boutique for you,” James said. “Go change and we’ll check out the other shop in town.”

“Jazzy’s?” the brunette saleswoman said. “Hardly mom focused. I always see your sisters going into that shop and what are they, twenty-one?”

“Well, Ginger should explore all options before deciding on a look,” he pointed out.

“Yeah, she should,” Ginger added, seeming very relieved as she dashed back into the dressing room. She popped her head back out. “And I’m only twenty-four,” she said before darting back in.

Twenty-four. She was so young. With so much on her plate.

He thought back to when he was twenty-one and got the news that his father and stepmother had died in the car accident. Having to tell his siblings. Moving into the big house on Sycamore Street, his life’s plans changed in an instant from going for his MBA to being a father figure to five grieving thirteen-year-olds. He knew about having a lot on the plate. And his heart went out to her. James hadn’t been alone in the world like she was. He had Larilla and his siblings, even if most of the time the Gallagher Five had driven him batty.

He wouldn’t have survived any of it without Larilla’s guidance and babysitting help. She’d been his mother’s best friend and couldn’t stand his father, who’d been something of a playboy until he’d fallen hard for Kerry, and the quints had come along. But when his siblings had been orphaned, Larilla had always treated them with the utmost kindness and generosity.

At least Ginger had Larilla in her corner for the next three weeks. Everyone needs a Larilla.

Ginger came out of the dressing room in her regular clothes but she looked half-dressed, and it took him a moment to realize why. The lack of makeup. With her hair pulled back, it was very clear how naturally pretty she was.

“I feel so naked,” she said, popping a fresh stick of gum in her mouth.

“Don’t you always?” he asked, eyeing her skimpy outfit as he escorted her to the door.

She gave him a playful shove. “I meant because I’m not wearing any makeup. I love makeup. Have I ever left my house without my red lipstick on? I honestly don’t think so. Even to run out for an iced coffee.”

“A red lip for daytime is a bit much,” the brunette opined as James pulled open the door.

Ginger turned to her. “Honestly, miss, you’re a bit much.”

The saleswoman threw her a “how dare you” look and turned on her heel, and they left the store.

“Gonna rat me out to Madame Davenport for being rude?” Ginger asked as they headed back toward the school.

James smiled. “Is it rude to put a rude person in her place?”

“I knew I liked you,” she said, beaming at him. She linked her arm around his, and he stiffened.

She dropped her own arm. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to get too friendly. Not proper,” she added in an upper-crust accent.

“You just startled me,” he explained. “Let’s just say a woman hasn’t taken my arm in over a year. I’m taking a much-needed break from relationships.”

“Got your heart busted?” she asked.

“Heart, pride, my trust—all of it. I’m sure you’ve been there.”

“Actually,” she said, “I’ve never been in love. I’ve liked, I’ve seriously lusted, but loved? To the point my heart broke? Nope.”

He stared at her. “You’re lucky.”

“Lucky? I used to think something was wrong with me for not getting what all those sad songs on the radio were about. Then again, it’s not like I’d really meet the man of my dreams in Busty’s.”

“Busty’s?” he repeated.

“The exotic dance saloon I used to waitress in. That’s where I met Alden, my baby’s father. I liked him and was attracted to him, but I certainly wasn’t in love.”

“You clearly have a hell of a lot better radar for jerks than I do,” he said. “I walked right into a trap.” For a moment he wondered how they’d gotten on this subject, why in the world he was talking about his past with this woman. Ginger was practically a stranger. But for an almost stranger, she was so easy to talk to.

“Well, Alden wasn’t looking to trap me. Just get into my pants. I should have seen that coming a mile away. Big dope,” she added, conking herself on the forehead with her palm.

“I still call dibs on worse romantic past.”

She laughed, and then her smile faded. “Well, I’d still like to know what it’s like to feel so much for someone your heart could burst with it—in a good way or a bad way. You know?”

He glanced at her. “I guess. Once burned, twice shy is my new motto.”

“I don’t know, cowboy. You can’t resist the siren call of attraction.”

He pictured himself on a horse, wearing a Stetson. Riding off into the sunset alone. “Oh trust me, I most definitely will.”

He was about to change the subject to something a lot less personal when he noticed that the guy walking down the sidewalk toward them was about to smash into a fire hydrant because his eyes were on Ginger’s chest and not where he was going. “Hot, hot, hot,” the idiot said before he crashed. “Ow!” he yelped.

“I get that a lot,” she said. “Especially at the beach. Lots of guys trip on their leering faces.”

He could only imagine how itty-bitty Ginger’s bikini would be. And made out of string, most likely.

“There’s Jazzy’s,” he said, pointing across the street, grateful for the image change in his mind of Ginger in that string bikini. “I think this shop will be more your speed but still accomplish what you want.”

“Perf,” she said as they headed over.

This store had a completely different vibe. The clothes were less classic, more contemporary. And the employees were a lot friendlier. Fifteen minutes later, Ginger’s arms were loaded with items to try on. James waited on the love seat in the dressing area, flipping through a People magazine.

“Ooh, me likey!” he heard from the vicinity of her room.

He smiled. Had he ever met anyone who said me likey? He didn’t think so.

Ginger burst out of the room, all smiles, and he put the magazine back on the side table. “How much do I love this jacket? This much!” she said, spreading her arms wide.

He had to admit, she looked amazing. The blazer was a pale pink, and there was something slightly iridescent about it. It nipped in at her waist and fitted her perfectly. Under it she wore a white shirt with a band of silky ruffles down the V-neck, no cleavage in sight. A pair of skinny jeans that molded to her “slammin’ bod” but weren’t too tight, and flat silver sandals finished the outfit.

“You look great!” he said. “Wow.”

“Right?” she asked, beaming, turning this way and that in the three-way mirror in the dressing area. “But do I look like a mom? I kind of feel like I just look...nice.”

“Nice is good to shoot for,” he said. “Larilla would approve, for sure.”

“Yeah?” she asked, looking at her reflection. “I never want to take off this jacket. And it doesn’t even have rhinestones. I could stare at myself in this mirror all day.”

He had to admit, it was nice to see the sparkle back in her eyes. “You’ve got a bunch more to try on. And I’ll have to get to my office in about thirty minutes.”

“Back in a flash,” she said, zipping into the dressing room with a big smile.

Why did he have to like that smile so much?

Fifteen minutes later, she had three outfits, two dresses and three pairs of shoes. Larilla didn’t have an account here, so he would need to pay. His godmother would reimburse him—the wealthy businesswoman insisted on comping a week’s worth of new clothes for all of her students—but walking up to the checkout with his credit card sent a jolt of acid to his gut, reminding him of Ava and her betrayal.

Careful, he reminded himself. You don’t know Ginger O’Leary or what she’s capable of. You never know what someone is capable of.

“Mama got some pretty new clothes!” Ginger said, seemingly to her belly, one hand on her stomach.

He instantly relaxed. Ginger was pregnant. Pregnant. If there was anything that would keep him running for the hills, it was that. After seven years of “parenthood” times five, he was ready for croissants and good coffee in Paris, and the white sand and turquoise waters of Bali. Not a baby. So he really had nothing to worry about in terms of becoming attracted—or attached—to Ginger O’Leary.

Phew.

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