The Daddy Plan

“Sam, I’m so happy you agreed to do this. Thank you.”

His eyes were intent on hers and she felt the heat between them. The cold day didn’t seem to touch her at all while she was enfolded in Sam’s arms.

And when he bent his head, when his lips settled on hers almost possessively, she’d never been warmer in her entire life.

As quickly as they’d come together, he broke away.

“I shouldn’t have done that again,” he muttered.

“We got caught up in the moment. No harm done.”

He looked so relieved she wanted to cry. “Yeah, I guess we did. It’s not as if—” He stopped. “We want to keep this simple.”

“Right. You’re still on the rebound. And the last thing I need right now is an involvement with a man when all I want to do is have a baby and raise it on my own terms.”

His eyes narrowed. “Not altogether on your own terms.”

Karen Rose Smith, an award-winning and bestselling author, has seen more than sixty novels of her published since 1991. Living in Pennsylvania with her husband—who was her college sweetheart—and their two cats, she has been writing full-time since the start of her career. Lately, in addition to writing, she has been crafting jewellery with her husband. She finds designing necklaces and bracelets relaxing enough to let her mind weave plots while she’s beading! Readers can receive updates on Karen’s latest releases and write to her through her website at www.karenrosesmith.com, or at PO Box 1545, Hanover, PA 17331, USA.

For all animal lovers, especially the veterinarians and their staff who care for our pets.

“Will you donate your sperm so I can have a baby?” Corrie Edwards asked her boss.

At his family’s cabin in Minnesota’s snowy woods, Sam Barclay didn’t know whether to laugh out loud or head to the lake for ice-fishing.

Six weeks ago, he’d driven to the cabin to escape the holidays, take a vacation from his veterinary practice, forget his broken engagement and get a perspective on his life.

“You are kidding, right?” His veterinary assistant didn’t understand how much the question unsettled him. He’d called off his wedding because his fiancée had hidden her abortion from him.

“I’m serious, Sam,” Corrie answered with a determined look. “I didn’t drive four hours in this weather without a good reason.”

She was still dressed in her yellow parka, snowflakes melting in her curly red-brown hair. He and his partner had hired her three years ago as a veterinary assistant after they’d bought the clinic.

Studying the brightness of her blue eyes, the dance of freckles across her nose, he felt a tightening in his gut he didn’t want to recognize. This was Corrie for heck’s sake! He was her boss. They talked about animals, the weather and life in Rapid Creek. They’d never had a “personal” conversation.

But you shared, one out-of-this-world, earthshaking kiss, a nudging voice inside his head reminded him.

That had been two years ago…before Alicia.

“Take off your coat and tell me what this is all about. I’ll make a pot of coffee.”

As Corrie slipped off her parka and hung it over a straight-backed chair, Sam noticed the way her blue sweater fell over her breasts, how the fabric hung free of her very slim waist. Her legs were long in her stretch leggings and high boots.

Desire kicked him and forced him to concentrate on making coffee in the galley kitchen. Still, he was aware of Corrie gravitating toward Patches. His brown-and-black mutt had the distinguishing attributes of a Labrador, but about ten other breeds mixed in, too. Jasper, a small buff-colored cocker spaniel who trailed into the cabin with Corrie, had settled down in Patches’s big bed. His dog didn’t seem to mind. Patches flopped down in front of Corrie, thrilled to have her scratch his ears.

For some insane reason, Sam suddenly wondered what Corrie’s touch might feel like—

He swore.

“Something wrong?” she asked, glancing toward him. The cabin was too small to hide a sound or much of anything else.

As her eyes roamed over his face, dropped to his flannel shirt and jeans, he had the feeling she was sizing him up…or else his genes?

He felt heat crawl up under his scruffy week-old beard. “Nothing’s wrong. The coffee will be ready in a few minutes.”

As he lowered himself beside her on the sofa, he felt her tense, saw her shoulders square a bit, her chin go up as if she were ready for a fight or an argument.

Corrie, a fighter?

It was as if her question had unlocked a box that he’d always designated for steady, melt-into-the-background Corrie Edwards and someone else had popped out.

Gently, he asked, “So you want to be a mother?”

When she looked at him, her eyes were shiny with emotion. “I’ve always wanted to be a mother. I’ve just never met the right man. I don’t think I ever will. I’m not getting any younger.”

His protest came easily. “You’re only thirty-three.” A year older than he was.

“Thirty-three might be young as far as the rest of my lifetime goes, but in child-bearing years—” She shook her head. “I have a classmate in Minneapolis who’s thirtyeight. She got pregnant and was doing just fine, then all of a sudden she developed preeclampsia. She almost died. I have another friend in St. Paul who’s thirty-five. She just had her first baby. Her daughter is six months old, but she never imagined raising her would be so difficult—that she wouldn’t have the energy she used to have. She’s so exhausted day after day.”