Pregnant By Mr Wrong

Dear Aunt Bossy,

It’s no secret that my world turned upside down when I learned an impulsive night of passion left me pregnant. And the dad? He’s the devil-may-care brother of my former fiancé. He’s a heartbreaker of a man who swept me off my feet—again—before he learned I was in the family way. But our romantic reunion might not have been as unplanned as I thought.

Aunt Bossy, I don’t want a man who’s with me just because he feels it’s his duty. I want him to be as smitten with me as he is with the idea of becoming a father. As head over heels with me as I am with him...

“It’s a vanilla milk shake.”

“You made me a milk shake?” She couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice as she reached out to take it from him, careful not to let their fingers touch in the exchange.

He cocked his head to one side and smiled that toe- curling grin. “Well, you said you didn’t want coffee. I couldn’t find the ingredients for hot chocolate and you don’t like tea, but of course you had ice cream.”

“You remembered I don’t like tea?” The surprises just kept coming.

He nodded, his gaze trained on hers. “Of course. We’re friends, aren’t we? Friends remember each other’s likes and dislikes.”

She swallowed. Friends? Was that what they were? Friends with benefits? Friends who accidentally made a mistake and slept together? Friends who just happened to have conceived a baby?

* * *

The Mckinnels of Jewell Rock: There’s no formula for finding true love!

Pregnant by Mr Wrong

Rachael Johns

www.millsandboon.co.uk

RACHAEL JOHNS is an English teacher by trade, a mum 24/7, a chronic arachnophobe and a writer the rest of the time. She rarely sleeps and never irons. A lover of romance and women’s fiction, Rachael loves nothing more than sitting in bed with her laptop and electric blanket and imagining her own stories. Rachael has finaled in a num­ber of competitions, including the Australian Romance Readers Awards—Jilted, her first rural romance, won Favourite Contemporary Romance in 2012. She was voted in the top ten of Booktopia’s Australia’s Favourite Author poll in 2013. Rachael lives in the West Australian hills with her hyperactive husband, three mostly gorgeous heroes in training, two fat cats, a cantankerous bird and a very badly behaved dog. Rachael loves to hear from readers and can be contacted via her website, www.rachaeljohns.com. She is also on Facebook and Twitter.

To Scarlet Wilson, Helen Lacey,

Fiona Lowe, Melissa James and Leah Ashton

for holding my hand as I wrote this book!

Love you all for all your various help.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Prologue

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

Copyright

Prologue

As Bailey Sawyer stepped into the warehouse at McKinnel’s Distillery, goose bumps painted her arms and her stomach twisted as if doing some elaborate macramé. She glanced around the quiet space, looking and listening for signs of Quinn.

This had always been her favorite part of the distillery. Its walls were lined with new American oak barrels, stacked up one on top of another, almost up to the high ceiling, and there were rows upon rows of barrels down the middle as well, all printed with the famous McKinnel’s logo on the end. The thick wooden floorboards almost matched the color of the barrels and the scent of whiskey at various stages of the aging process blended together in the air.

She inhaled deeply, experiencing a heady rush as memories of this place washed over her. She’d been coming to the distillery for as long as she could remember. McKinnel’s Distillery, a local institution, had become famous for creating one of America’s best boutique whiskeys long before boutique distilleries, breweries and wineries were all the rage. As a child and teenager, she’d hung out here because her mother was best friends with Nora McKinnel. Bailey and the seven McKinnel kids had spent many a day running rampant through the warehouse, chasing each other, playing hide-and-go-seek, making mischief and memories. It had been better than a playground.

For the past five years, she’d been a regular guest due to the fact she’d been dating and then (briefly) engaged to Nora’s oldest son, Callum. Their moms had been ecstatic about the union, then dumbfounded and devastated when Bailey had ended it a couple of weeks ago.

But they didn’t know the half of it.

The macramé in her stomach tightened as she stepped farther into the building, her knee-high boots echoing as they struck the floor. Today, the familiar scent and the innocent childhood memories didn’t calm her. Instead, guilt warred with desire as she called out “Quinn” (before she lost her nerve) and remembered the last time she was in here with him. Although it was late November, the day after Thanksgiving, and the air in here was even cooler than the temperature outside, her whole body, from her fingernails right down to her tippy-toes, heated at the recollection.

She hadn’t been cold that night a few weeks ago, either. Quinn’s hot bare skin against her own had provided more warmth than an electric blanket, and however wrong it may be, she hadn’t been able to get him out of her head since.

“What are you doing here?” Quinn stepped out from behind a row of barrels, jolting her thoughts and almost scaring her half to death.

Her heart quivered at his less than enthusiastic greeting, but her hormones jumped up and down in excitement at being so close to him again. He wore only jeans ripped at the knees and a black T-shirt, indicating he’d been doing some physical labor before her arrival. She licked her lips, garnering the courage to speak, the wisdom to know what exactly to say, and tried not to stare at the way his lovely arm muscles peeked out from the sleeves of his T-shirt. He was ripped—that was for sure.

“I thought we should talk about, you know, what happened...” She didn’t need to finish her sentence. It didn’t take a genius to work out what she was referring to.

Quinn let out an irritated sigh and ran a hand through his thick dirty-blond hair. Despite his obvious annoyance at her presence, Bailey’s fingers twitched as she remembered how it had felt when she’d knotted her hands at the back of his head while he’d thrust into her. Her cheeks flamed.

“What’s there to talk about?” he asked.

“Well...” she began, swallowing, “I can’t stop thinking about what we did that night and wondering what it meant. You and I, we...”

He held up a hand as if scared she might try to come nearer to him. “It meant nothing, Bailey.”

“Nothing? We slept together.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “We had sex. That’s all it was. It shouldn’t have happened. But it did. End of story. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do.”

He gestured toward the door, dismissing her as if she were nothing more than a pesky child. Her cheeks burned, but it was a different kind of heat than before, and inside her organs felt as if they’d turned to ice. What had she been expecting? That Quinn would decorate the warehouse with balloons and crack open a bottle of expensive champagne on her return? That maybe they’d repeat their shenanigans of that fateful night?

As if. A few weeks ago, she’d been engaged to his brother. Yesterday, when she and her parents had stopped by Nora’s place to wish their old friends a Happy Thanksgiving, it hadn’t been the awkwardness between her and Callum that got to her, but the way Quinn had barely met her eye. Except for one question about how she knew the woman Callum had brought as his date, Quinn had barely spoken to her. And that hurt more than she’d imagined it ever could.

Was this the way things would always be between them from now on? Perhaps it would be easy if she could just walk away from the McKinnels, once and for all, but due to the friendship of their moms and the small size of Jewell Rock, that was unlikely. She could always move to Bend, the nearby town where she worked at one of the best hotels. It might only be a short drive away, but Bend was like a metropolis compared to small-town Jewell Rock, and she and Quinn would be far less likely to run into each other.

The problem was, she’d realized over the last few painful weeks, she didn’t want to walk away from Quinn McKinnel. What had happened between them against a whiskey barrel had been explosive. Mind-blowing. Frenzied. Until then, she honestly hadn’t understood all the hype about sex.

It was the thought of never experiencing that kind of sex again that had compelled her to swallow her fear and doubts and come here to face him today. To find out if he’d felt it, too. That earth-shattering, soul-changing connection, that shift inside when they’d climaxed together and she’d opened her eyes and seen him looking right into hers.

But now, looking into his eyes for one final moment, Bailey could see it had meant nothing at all to Quinn. It was clear that she was just another notch on his bedpost (or rather his whiskey barrel), and even if he wasn’t such a jerk, the idea of them together was laughable. Unable to stand another moment in his presence, she turned and fled in the direction he’d pointed. She’d never felt more mortified in her life. And if she never saw Quinn McKinnel again, it would be too soon.

Chapter One

Dear Aunt Bossy:

Although I’ve been reading your sage advice for years, this is the first time I’ve ever had reason to write to you myself. And I must admit, I’m terribly ashamed to have to do so, but I’m in a quandary and I need your wisdom.

I’ve always been a hardworking and sensible woman who prides herself on being organized, planning ahead and making good choices. Until about two months ago, I was with a wonderful man—he was kind, dependable and hardworking—but then I lost my head. I slept with someone I shouldn’t have—a sexy devil-may-care playboy who hasn’t had a steady girlfriend in as long as I can remember. And I’ve known him all my life. Please don’t think too badly of me, I already hate myself enough and the first thing I did was end my relationship.

But, as if my one-night severe lapse of judgment wasn’t bad enough, somehow, despite using protection, I’m pregnant and I don’t know what to do about it. Oh, I’m keeping the baby, don’t get me wrong. Getting rid of it is not an option. Having a baby might not have been on my immediate agenda, but it was in my five-year plan. Granted I was hoping to be in love and married, but I can’t wait to be a mom. What I’m undecided about is whether or not to tell my baby’s father.

He’s not the type to marry me out of a sense of obligation (at least I don’t think so, and I wouldn’t say yes, even if he proposed such a ridiculous arrangement), but I’m worried about him being an unsettling influence in my baby’s life.

What do you think, Bossy? To tell him or not to tell him? That is my question.

Yours sincerely,

Pregnant with Mr. Wrong

Her heart beating like a brass band, Bailey read her letter over once more, glanced around the office to make sure she was alone and then pressed Print. Her stomach churning, she hurried over to the printer, snatched the piece of paper off as it shot out, and then quickly folded it up and shoved it into an envelope. With a deep breath, she took the envelope back to her desk, picked up her pen and scrawled the address of the Bulletin on the front. Snail mail was anonymous in a way email never truly was.

She couldn’t believe her life had come to this—asking some faceless advice columnist for help—but she’d known about her pregnancy for almost a month now and was still no closer to coming to a decision about what to tell (or not to tell) Quinn.

In a cruel twist of fate, she’d discovered she was having his baby the day she had been supposed to be marrying Callum. Thank all the stars in the sky she’d broken that engagement a month before or this situation could be worse and even more complicated than it already was. Everyone had thought her crazy, breaking up with the oldest McKinnel brother, but they’d lost their spark—if it had ever been there in the first place—and Callum was more in love with his work at the family distillery than he’d ever been with her. He’d also met Chelsea and they were already engaged—that fact only reinforced Bailey’s belief that she’d made the right decision.

But it hadn’t done much for her ego. Why hadn’t Callum been as head-over-heels crazy for her? Was there something wrong with her or did she just have zero talent at choosing the right guy? Either way, it didn’t make her current situation any better.

Four weeks ago, when she’d first seen the two little blue lines on the pregnancy test stick, she’d gone through a roller coaster of emotions.

Shock—that fireworks hadn’t been the only thing she and Quinn had created that night.

Denial—that one night, one time, when they’d used a condom, could actually result in this. Five more pregnancy tests later, she’d had to concede it had.

Terror—that she didn’t know the first thing about babies. Or motherhood.

Acceptance—that whether she was ready or not, whether Quinn was father material or not, this was real. In eight months’ time, she’d be a mom.

Excitement—that in eight months’ time, her life would change irrevocably for the better, because she’d be a mom.

And then confusion—because...well...Quinn.

If she were honest with herself, she’d had a crush on him years ago in high school—back then pretty much every girl her age in Jewell Rock had crushed on Quinn McKinnel. He’d been that guy; he skipped classes, took girls down to the lake at night to make out, drove way too fast, stayed out too late and came to school hungover. He’d been like Danny in Grease and every girl in their year had been desperate to play Sandy. He’d dated almost every one of those girls in their final year at school. At least, it had felt like that to Bailey when she’d been standing on the sidelines watching, wishing and hoping he’d notice her.

And he hadn’t slowed down any since.

But Bailey had grown up, and she knew that although Quinn might be charming and good in bed—heck, yeah, he was good in bed—he wasn’t the type of guy she should fall in love with. She’d almost forgotten that in the aftermath of the best sex of her life, but he’d set her straight and made it more than clear. He was way too much like her father for that to be a smart idea. And the last thing she wanted for her son or daughter was an unreliable dad like she’d had. It was this fear that wreaked havoc within—ethically, she knew it was wrong to keep the baby from Quinn, but her mama bear instincts had kicked in and she wanted more for her child than she’d had. She wanted stability and love without question, without obligation—the kind of love her stepfather, Reginald, had given her and her mother, the kind of love her younger brother and sister had been born to.

She pressed her hand against her stomach, something she’d been doing a lot these last few weeks, and closed her eyes, trying to imagine the tiny life inside. A site on the internet told her the baby was about the size of a lentil, but that its sex-defining parts were beginning to develop. Would it be a girl or a boy? Would it have dark hair and a pale complexion, like her, or dirty-blond hair and big brown eyes you could get lost in, like Quinn?

Her tummy still flat, Bailey was struggling to get her head around the fact that she was growing a real live human inside her, but she knew she was on borrowed time. Within a matter of months, she’d need a new wardrobe and would no longer be able to conceal her secret from the world.

If she decided not to tell Quinn, then she would have to come up with another story, because otherwise people would assume the baby was Callum’s. And while he was without a doubt better father material than Quinn and would not hesitate to stand by her and their child, it wasn’t his. Due to the timing of her cycle and the fact they’d drifted apart before the breakup, she knew this to be true. Thank God.

Oh, why did life have to get so complicated?

Of course, she knew the answer to that question, also. Even after their awkward meeting, Quinn had made no effort to contact her or apologize for his behavior.

Dammit, Bailey, why didn’t you just get drunk or go buy a puppy or something? Wasn’t that what normal people did when they were unhappy?

As a tear sneaked down her cheek, she once again contemplated the possibility of leaving town. Of starting afresh, someplace far away from Jewell Rock and Bend, someplace that wasn’t populated with McKinnels. That could be the answer, but, in addition to all her reasons for wanting to remain in Jewell Rock, she’d definitely need the assistance of her family. Only what would her mom and stepdad think of this situation? They’d be so disappointed in her, and her mom was sure to tell her best friend, Nora.

No doubt both their families would weigh in on the situation, offering suggestions and eventually support—but also a sweet dosage of judgment at the fact she’d been so stupid.

And there she went again. Problems and scenarios going round and round inside her head, intensifying her morning (or rather all-day) sickness but not making anything clearer. That was why she needed the advice of Aunt Bossy. Decision made, she shoved the envelope into her purse, switched off the lights in the office, as she was the last to leave, and then headed outside into the cool January evening to her car.

* * *

Quinn poured himself a measure of his family’s finest bourbon, grabbed the large yellow envelope he’d collected from the post office today, then took it and his drink across to the couch. He dumped the envelope on the coffee table, picked up his television remote with his free hand and aimed it at his big-screen TV. As the picture came to life and the sounds of tonight’s basketball game filled the room, he sat down and leaned back into the couch, taking a long sip of his drink.

Ah. His family might drive him insane sometimes—arguing about what was best for their little empire—but there was no doubt about it, they knew how to make good whiskey.

It was Friday night, and while usually he’d be out on the town with the guys, carousing or actually at a game, he hadn’t been in the mood for either of those options tonight. At the ripe old age of twenty-seven, maybe he was getting old.

Shaking out the contents of the package, he picked up the first letter and started to read about a woman who felt like she was playing second fiddle in her husband’s life to her mother-in-law.

Marriage—how many letters about marriage problems did he receive? Those and neighborhood disputes were biggies. And while he might not have any professional qualifications to fix such issues, he had an innate talent for telling things how they were, and this woman needed to take her husband’s balls in hand and give him an ultimatum.

He chuckled, looking forward to writing that letter. What had started as a dare six years ago when his friend from school was interning at the paper had become a large, important part of Quinn’s life. No one, aside from his friend, who had since moved on to a much bigger newspaper in Seattle, knew that he was the writer behind the popular Aunt Bossy column. All his exchanges with the local paper were anonymous and that was the way he intended it to stay. He could just imagine the ribbing he’d get if his older brothers ever found out about his secret side business, not to mention what women might think of it, but strangely he enjoyed this gig and felt like in some bizarre way he was doing good in the world.

He took another swig of his bourbon and picked up the next letter. He was halfway through reading about a woman who found herself unexpectedly pregnant, when something about the wording gave him pause. He went back a few lines and read it again.

I slept with someone I shouldn’t have—a sexy devil-may-care playboy who hasn’t had a steady girlfriend in as long as I can remember. And I’ve known him all my life.

No. It couldn’t be. He chuckled out loud at the absurdity of his thought, tossed the letter aside, took a sip of his drink and began to read the next one. But he read the first sentence about five times before he tossed it aside and went back to Pregnant with Mr. Wrong.

The paper starting to shake in his hand and his heart beating a mile a minute, Quinn read her letter again, over and over, and the more times he read it, the more he began to feel as if he knew the writer. Personally. Intimately.

His gut tightened as he thought back to that night in the warehouse when he and Bailey had consummated a relationship that wasn’t meant to be. Although Pregnant with Mr. Wrong didn’t go so far as to say she’d been engaged to the “good” brother, her descriptions of what happened fit his and Bailey’s situation to a T. Was the devil-may-care brother with commitment issues him or was he being paranoid?

He wasn’t offended by this label, as some might be—such an accusation would be true and he had good reasons for the way he was—but if it was him, there was a much bigger issue in play.

Bailey was pregnant. With his baby. He was going to be a dad. Something he had never planned on being.

His rib cage squeezing in around his heart, Quinn picked up his glass again and downed the rest of the contents. If he wasn’t in such a state of shock, he’d have gotten up and walked the short distance necessary to refill it, but his brain was too full with this news to send such messages to his legs.

A baby. He and Bailey had made a baby.

Or had they? How could she be certain it was his? How could he be so certain this letter was from her? They’d had sex one time—granted it had been more explosive than anything he’d experienced before—but they’d used a condom. It hadn’t broken, and he was pretty damn sure it hadn’t been out-of-date. Didn’t most people take months to get pregnant, even when they were actively trying?

This question was quickly forgotten as more of the letter sank in. In his heart of hearts he knew the letter was from her, which meant Bailey believed the baby was his and she wasn’t sure whether she should tell him or not. His fist tightened around his glass and he hurled it across the room. It smashed against the wall, scattering glass all over the carpet. Now he had a mess in his house to clean up as well as a mess in his life.

But who the hell did Bailey think she was, even contemplating keeping him in the dark?

She might be the incubator, but if he was the sperm donor, as she appeared to believe, no way was she going to cut him out of their baby’s life. So what if he prided himself on being the life of the party? So what if he didn’t believe in the institution of marriage? So what if he’d made a decision long ago that commitment to a woman wasn’t for him? That didn’t mean he would shirk his responsibilities and it wasn’t her right to decide he would. He thought of his brother Lachlan’s ex-wife, who had walked away from her son—he would never, could never, do that, and it riled him that had he not read this letter, Bailey might have made that decision for him.