Baby by Design

weren’t for the popcorn popper of genetic unrest going off in her chest, life would be perfect. She snatched the bag of pillows and wondered again if she shouldn’t try to find her biological parents in hopes of calming her restlessness.

A rumble followed by two clangs attracted her attention, and Trish pushed aside sheer curtains for a look outside before opening the front door. A white delivery truck emblazoned with the turquoise-and-black emblem of Trish DeVign Interior Design backed into the governor’s driveway, stopping several feet from the front of her car. She stepped onto the stoop as Angie hopped down from the passenger seat.

“Delivery,” Angie said, stomping her jeans down her legs and then adjusting the cuffs over the tops of her work boots.

Trish appreciated the juxtaposition of traits that made up her best friend. There wasn’t a man in the business as skilled with a circular saw and wood as Angie Corcarelli, but when the girl shed the jeans and boots and slipped into something sleek, she was a knockout. The problem was Angie would just as soon knock out a suitor than flirt with him.

“Hey there,” Trish called, stifling a laugh.

“Hey. You look happy despite two huge project deadlines. What gives? Wait. Don’t tell me you’re going out with Jackson again.” Angie wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “Seriously. Don’t tell me that. He was a stiff.”

“I’m not going out with Jackson again.”

“Are you telling me that ’cause I told you to tell me that or are you serious?” She ripped a rubber band off her wrist and stretched her arms behind her head to make a ponytail out of her ebony hair.

“I’m serious.” Trish heard the cargo door roll up, and she walked toward the back of the truck, eager for a glimpse at the goods.

“Then why were you smiling?”

“No real reason. I’d been talking to my mother, which so did not make me smile and…”

Tony jumped off the tailgate.

Gone was the $800 suit, and in its place was his “uniform” of black T-shirt and threadbare jeans, both of which clung to his well-sculptured body like frosting to cake. Yum.

“Hey, Boss Lady. I got something for ya.” He grinned. “Where do ya want it?”

A million indecent answers jockeyed for space in Trish’s head.

“Where do you think she wants two wingchairs, jackass?” Angie jumped onto the tailgate and released the ramp lock. “Move so we can get this done. I have better things to do than play delivery girl.”

Tony shook his head. “You’re lucky years of abuse from you Corcarelli women have worn me down. I take orders so well I don’t even argue.” Rather than walk up the ramp, he pressed his palms to the tailgate and with a flex of his glorious forearms and biceps, lifted himself into the truck.

Trish held in a whimper and distracted herself with Angie and Tony’s bickering. She’d known them long enough to know it was all in fun. Sure, they grated on each other’s nerves, but when it came down to it, they loved each other, because they were made of the same parts. She suspected love like that felt different than any love she’d ever known.

“Watch your step, Ange. Slow and easy,” Tony called.

As they maneuvered down the ramp, Trish tried to focus on the black plastic covering the furniture, hoping for a peek at what was underneath. But as Tony passed, she noticed what was underneath his shirt sleeve instead.

Tattooed Italian words circled his lean, chiseled bicep. Each letter rode the swell of muscles as he hoisted the chair. She wondered what the words meant, and she stared harder, trying to pronounce them in her head, only to find herself wondering what it would feel like to have those muscles contracting beneath her hand.

“The door,” Angie yelled.

Crap. “Yep.” Trish scrambled ahead of them to open the front door.

Angie brushed by first. Then Tony, and as he did, he looked at Trish and smiled. “You’re gonna like what you see.”

Trish watched him walk down the hall, his blue jeans slinging low across his hips. Yeah, she liked what she saw—a lot more than she should. Talk about a waste of time. The man was nowhere near father material. If she wanted to have fun and forget about her little lists and ticking biological clock, then Tony was her man, but…

“Are you waiting for a big reveal?” Angie called from the other room. “Get in here.”

Trish blinked, realizing she was still standing in the foyer, door open wide along with her mouth. “I’m coming,” she said, rushing down the hall, shaking her head.

She’d always been hyper-focused on her goals and single-minded when it came to achieving them, but this recent uptick in time spent dwelling on children was taking its toll. She didn’t need to be worried about babies and baby daddies. She needed to be worried about finishing the Jorgen’s home before they returned from Sweden, and finding a replacement date for her cousin’s wedding. She could be happy without a baby. She was happy without a baby.

Get a grip, she thought as she turned the corner and walked into the living room. But any chance of that evaporated when she saw Tony sitting cross-legged in the wingchair.

“So?” He grinned, propping his elbows on the shimmering, striped fabric, showing off the large star and vines tattooed on the underside of his forearm. “You like?”

God, she smiled, because there was something about the man that made her giddy. Aside from the beautiful face and delicious body, there was this aura that drew her in and wrapped her up in a blanket of happiness she wished she could take with her wherever she went.

The chair was nice, too.

“Hurry up. Let’s get the other one.” Angie clomped out of the room.

Tony stood, still smiling, and turned to the chair. “Personally, I think it’s some of my best work.”

“Me too.” Trish stood beside him, breathing in warm air with a hint of woodsy cologne. She imagined sweat from the labor diluted the scent, and she wondered what he smelled like the night of Nonna’s party, when he was impeccably dressed. She snapped her head to look at him, imagining him in that suit again. “Would you…?” But her mouth slammed shut before the rest of the stupid idea escaped.

“Would I what?” One eyebrow raised in her direction.

Now she’d done it. The scattered matter she called a brain had finally made a fatal mistake. Taking Tony Corcarelli—no matter how good he looked in a suit—to her cousin’s wedding was not a practical idea. And yet, as he stood there, smiling down at her with a gleam of mischief in his eye, she couldn’t help but think he was just what she needed, a break from this exhausting pursuit of pregnancy. She deserved that once in a while. Didn’t she?

“Holy hell!” Angie’s voice echoed through the house. “A little help out here.”

Trish shook away the heady thoughts and turned, walking toward the door. “Never mind, let’s help her before she blows. I can’t have her blowing. We have twenty eight-panel doors to hang over at Meyer’s.”

* * *

Tony followed Trish into the hallway, watching her dirty blonde hair swoosh between her shoulder blades. The minute his brain registered the dirty in blonde, his gaze dropped to her ass, swinging against the fabric of her mid-thigh sweater. Her uptight posture and coordinated clothing made him smile, because over the last two years he’d learned he had a knack for flustering her. If she were anyone other than his sister’s best friend and the woman who contracted his upholstery work, he’d have flustered her good and hard a long time ago.

“Tony, you’re screwing with my schedule.” Angie stood on the tailgate, one hand on her hip, the other hand wrapped around her phone. “And now you’re going to have to wait fifty-three seconds.”

“For what?”

“Sh.” Angie raised the phone to her face. “No way. Mother f…” Her fingers flew across the screen. “Come on. Come on. Come on.” She tapped her foot so hard against the bottom of the truck, the metal rattled. “Nope.” Her fingers raced again. “Ha! Yes. Yes. Yes! Ten, nine, eight. Crap.” Again with the typing until finally, with a fist pump, she leaped off the tailgate and landed in the driveway. “I won!”

“What?” Trish asked.

“You’re looking at the proud owner of a 1948 Cadillac convertible.”

“Sweet.” If there was one thing Tony and Angie agreed upon, it was the value of a sick set of wheels.