The Cowboy Seal's Jingle Bell Baby. Laura Altom Marie

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      “Tiff?”

      “What happened to you thinking I’m lying about you being my baby’s father? Plus, I don’t even know your full name.”

      “Sorry. Now that I’ve seen you, I remember how we both went more than a little crazy that night. As for my name, it’s Rowdy Jones. Right there on your appointment sheet.” He nodded to the memo on her desk. Mr. Jones. He hadn’t lied about his name?

      “Show me your ID.”

      He shook his head at the imposition but did as she asked.

      Sure enough, unless he’d spent a fortune on a fake, that was his real name. He stood six-two, weighed 220 and was even an organ donor.

      “Now that you know I’m official, ready to meet my folks?”

      She lurched when the baby gave an extra-hard shove to her appendix.

      “Whoa...” Rowdy stared at her enormous belly. “Was that our little guy?”

      She had a spiteful retort on the tip of her tongue about the baby technically no longer belonging to either of them, but Tiffany instead nodded.

      “Mind if I...you know...” He hovered his hand above her bump.

      “Knock yourself out.”

      When he touched her, all sense of logic short-circuited.

      His fingers were big and warm and reminded her of that night when they’d both been very naughty, yet that poor behavior had felt so very good. She hadn’t been with another man since.

      The sad truth was that she hadn’t wanted to.

      This guy—the one she’d been reunited with for all of fifteen minutes—was already making her head swim with all manner of delicious possibilities for a brighter, better life.

      But she didn’t have just herself to consider. Even if she did, she had to remember men were the enemy—on all fronts. Her dad had been a ticking time bomb for a decade before exploding her and her mother’s lives. Then there was her ex, Crawford. Just when she’d needed him most, he’d emotionally shredded her heart. He hadn’t even had the cojones to tell her in person that he wanted a divorce. He’d had some random court-appointed suit show up at their Dallas home to serve papers. She’d tried calling him, certain there had been a mistake, but his secretary had told her Crawford was no longer accepting her calls and that the house, the furnishings, her jewelry and a sizable chunk of cash were hers free and clear.

      The only stipulation?

      Crawford William Ridgemont IV wanted his precious, unsoiled family name back.

      Devastated didn’t begin to describe how she’d felt. She’d given him what he wanted, then proceeded to sell the house and everything in it to help pay Big Daddy’s legal fees.

      The baby kicked again—jolting her from the past and right back into her confusing present.

      “Damn...” Rowdy whistled. “He’s a tough little guy. We’ll need to start thinking of names. My mom’s already got a half dozen, but what would you think about John Wayne—of course, as a tribute to the legend.”

      “John Wayne Jones? Really?” Tiffany pushed her wheeled desk chair back so abruptly that Rowdy, who still had his hand pressed to her belly, lost his balance and fell onto his knees.

      “Hell, woman.” He rubbed his lower back. “What’s your problem? A little advance notice of your move might’ve been nice.”

      “So would returning my call.”

      He groaned. “Are we back to that? I already told you about my phone and the well.”

      “Look,” she said as she examined her sadly painted pink nails. “There’s much more going on here than you could possibly understand. It’s complicated.” All her life, she’d had a private manicurist, and she still hadn’t mastered the art of doing it herself. But she was trying—just like she was giving all she had to this real estate job. All she’d need was one good commission to build her savings and ensure Gigi and Pearl would be comfortable and warm for at least a few months if that was how long it took for her to make her next sale. “All my life, I’ve depended on men, and they’ve always, always let me down. Now the only person I trust with my well-being is me.” She hugged her belly. “Don’t think for one hot second I wouldn’t love being a stay-at-home mom, but I’ve been down that road and discovered the hard way that it’s a dead end.”

      “So you don’t want to get married?” Was it her imagination, or did he look relieved?

      “Excuse me?”

      “I’m cool with you being a single mom. I mean, I’ll always be there for you whenever I’m in the States and I plan to support my kid whether we marry or not, but it might be best if we don’t tempt fate by—How do I put this in a delicate manner?” There he went again with his maddeningly sexy grin. “Let’s just say it probably wouldn’t be in either of our best interests to go at it quite to that degree again.”

      “Get out.” She pointed toward her closed office door.

      “Aw, now, don’t go getting your pretty pink panties in a wad—I wasn’t complaining. I just—”

      She stood. “I don’t care what you meant. And for the record, Mr. Jones, my panties are black—like a black widow spider. After she mates, she kills.” Tiffany had once heard the line in a movie and thought it made for a great dramatic effect. She tried crossing her arms to further emphasize she meant business, but of course, they landed too high on the baby to be comfortable or sufficiently menacing. Still, no way was she giving in now. “Get out.”

      “Miss Tiffany, you are one helluva special snowflake.” After a good long chuckle, he pushed himself to his feet, retrieved his hat, then followed her orders. “Want your door open or closed?”

      “Closed.”

      “I’ll be in touch.”

      Only after she was once again alone did Tiffany collapse back into her desk chair. During previous catastrophes, she might have indulged in a nice long cry, then soaked in a bubble bath with plenty of champagne and imported chocolates.

      Now? Her only option was to pull out the big guns.

      With an extra-hard tug, her bottom desk drawer popped open to reveal one of her favorite wedding gifts—a Baccarat crystal candy dish from Crawford’s Aunt Cookie. Since they’d been married two years before their divorce, Tiffany got to keep all the gifts. She’d sold the vast majority but kept a cherished few. After all, now that she’d reached rock bottom, she needed to remember what awaited her back at the top.

      Smiling, she reached into the bowl for one—okay, make that four—fun-sized Snickers.

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