Author's Note-This is a new story that I am starting and this will be one
that I will finish. So please enjoy and don't forget to leave a comment
[review] in the end. It will be greatly appreciated. If you get confused or
have any questions let me know. Oh yes, one more thing, if you believe I
need to have my work checked and you want to be a beta reader for me please
leave a comment in the end with your email address or email me about it.
Thank You.
The Bachelor's Baby
Prologue
Trunks Briefs couldn't take his eyes off her. She had arrived late for the christening, caught in one of the showers that had been chasing across the valley all day, and as she walked towards him a sudden shaft of sunlight lit up the raindrops that clung to her.
They sparkled against the sliver-gray velvet cloak that swirled around her ankles. Sparkled on the bouquet of flowers she was carrying. Sparkled on the long dark lashes that curtained her beautiful eyes.
Then she pushed back the wide hood of her cloak and the sun, slanting through the stained glass of the old church, lit up the short, elfin cut of her pale blonde hair.
The baby, nestling in his mother's arms, whimpered restlessly and the newcomer leaned over, touched his cheek. "Hello, gorgeous." she cooed softly, in a voice liked melted chocolate, the infant's complaint was immediately transformed into a smile.
And the she looked up, straight into his eyes, and repeated the soft, "Hello". Even without the 'gorgeous' tag, he felt the same instant desire to grin as she offered him a slender hand. "I'm Marron Chestnut."
"And you must be Trunks Briefs. Bra and Goten have told me all about you." She added as she looked at me.
"Whatever Bra and Goten have told you—" he bit back the denial as he remembered where he was "—is probably true."
"Really?" The corners of her mouth tucked into a small, teasing smile as she titled her head thoughtfully to one side. "I wonder. So few people live up—or down—to their reputations."
Even as he struggled to remind himself that he was in a church, godfather to the infant about to be baptised and with no business to be thinking the kinds of thoughts that were racing through his head, she turned away to kiss Bra, the baby's mother and his baby sister, and apologise for her lateness.
"I notice these bluebells in the orchard as I was leaving. They're just the color of Ben's eyes so I stopped to pick some." She explained as she took baby Ben from Bra. The vicar ushered them towards the front and Trunks thought he must have imagined the spark of something hot and sweet that had crossed the space between himself and Marron. An unspoken promise that said...'Not now. Later.'
As if she had read his mind, Marron Chestnut lifted her long lashes and sent a sideways glance at him. In this instant he noticed her eyes weren't the baby blue he had though them to be. They were cerulean and ocean deep and he was suddenly out of his depth and floundering. It was a unfamiliar sensation and every instinct warned him that should head for the door while he still had the chance. Though he had made a promise to his best friend and sister; to stand as godfather to their first child and escape was not an option he could take.
Yet all through the service Trunks was distracted by the scent of the flowers she carried. It wove a spell through his mind so that all through the tea that followed, and the champagne and the toasts to baby Ben's health and happiness, he was intensely aware of her presence shimmering on the edge of his consciousness. Once the photographs has been taken, and escape was possible, they had circled the company, keeping maximum distance between them as id by a unspoken agreement, understanding that to be close was to risk instant conflagration.
But when he had glanced in her direction he had the feeling that he had just missed meeting her gaze. Or maybe it was simply his imagination working overtime. Maybe. Yet without a word spoken, without a gesture or so much as a lift of a brow, they had arrived at the door at the same time, ready to leave.
"Hold on Marron, its raining again," Goten said, as he walked them to the door. "You'll get wet in your broomstick. I'll run you home."
"Broomstick?" Trunks repeated, turning to risk the heat of her dangerous eyes.
And for the first time, since she'd arrived in the church. Marron met his gaze head-on. "Goten thinks I'm a witch." She should have been smiling, but she wasn't. "Don't you, Goten?" she asked, but her eyes continued to hold Trunks a prisoner.
Goten hesitated, and she tilted her head back and laughed, her throat, a perfect white curve that Trunks' hand ached to cradle. Then Bra called from the nursery and Marron said, "You're needed, Goten."
"Yes, but..."
"I'll take Marron home," Trunks offered.
"You're quite sure? It's way out of your way..."
"Quite sure indeed." He'd been going that way ever since Marron had look at him. Maybe Goten was right. Maybe she was a witch.
"Oh. Right. Well, thanks... And thank you for today. Both of you. Give us a call when you get back from the States, Trunks. Come and stay." Then almost as an afterthought, Goten added, "And take care."
They paused on the doorstep and there was a moment of silence while Marron, her eyes level with his, regarded him thoughtfully. "You're quite sure?" she asked after a moment, echoing Goten's words. He knew she wasn't talking about the lift.
Neither was he when he replied, "Quite sure." Trunks led the way to his car and opened the door. Her cloak trailed over the edge and he bent to lift it, tuck it inside. The material was soft, sensual beneath his fingers. Silk velvet. Like a woman's skin. Maybe that was why his hands were shaking as he slid the key into the ignition. "Which way?" He asked abruptly.
"Left." He glanced at her. "I live on the other side of the village. It's not far."
Not far, but it was a different world. Goten and Bra's home was minimalist modern, a labour-saving miracle of architecture designed for busy people and set in a low maintenance courtyard garden with a small paddock beyond that was grazed by a neighbor's elderly pony.
Marron, in total contrast, lived in a piecrust cottage surrounded by an old- fashioned garden filled with spring flowers bloomed with wild abandon. They spilled over onto the brick paths, splattering their legs with raindrops as they ran for the door.
Once they'd reached the shelter of the pitch-roofed porch they paused for a breath. And to look at one another. Take a moment to consider. Nothing had been said, but they both knew once he was beyond the front door all thoughts that were now safely in their heads would spill over into unstoppable action: there would be no stepping back.
It was as if she was saying, 'You're quite sure?' again. But this time silently. His own silence was all the answer she needed. And she held out her key to him. It hung there between them, shimmering dull sliver in the stormy light, and at the back of Trunks' warning bells began to ring.
"I don't do commitment," he said roughly. Almost hoping that she would tell him to go. Leave. Get out.
She didn't say any of those things. She said nothing, her aqua eyes holding his, demanding that he make his own decision about whether to go or stay. The warning bells clanged with desperate urgency but all afternoon her eyes silently promised him everything he had ever wanted from a woman. Promised that she would fulfil his every dream.
She was wasting her time. He had no dreams. He was a hollow man, rich in the stuff money could buy, but without a heart, incapable of love.
Most of the time he lived with it, scarcely noticing the emptiness. Today wrapped in the warmth of friends whose love for each other, whose happiness had reached new heights with the birth of their baby son, he had been painfully aware of his own shortcomings.
Marron Chestnut was offering him a chance to forget, lose himself for a few hours, without a word he gathered in the key and woman in one movement. For a moment he simply held her, breathed in her scent of rain-washed earth and wallflowers and bluebells. For a moment anything seemed possible.
Fantasy, he knew, but his mouth came down on hers with a deep hunger, a longing to be proved wrong...
Thank You.
The Bachelor's Baby
Prologue
Trunks Briefs couldn't take his eyes off her. She had arrived late for the christening, caught in one of the showers that had been chasing across the valley all day, and as she walked towards him a sudden shaft of sunlight lit up the raindrops that clung to her.
They sparkled against the sliver-gray velvet cloak that swirled around her ankles. Sparkled on the bouquet of flowers she was carrying. Sparkled on the long dark lashes that curtained her beautiful eyes.
Then she pushed back the wide hood of her cloak and the sun, slanting through the stained glass of the old church, lit up the short, elfin cut of her pale blonde hair.
The baby, nestling in his mother's arms, whimpered restlessly and the newcomer leaned over, touched his cheek. "Hello, gorgeous." she cooed softly, in a voice liked melted chocolate, the infant's complaint was immediately transformed into a smile.
And the she looked up, straight into his eyes, and repeated the soft, "Hello". Even without the 'gorgeous' tag, he felt the same instant desire to grin as she offered him a slender hand. "I'm Marron Chestnut."
"And you must be Trunks Briefs. Bra and Goten have told me all about you." She added as she looked at me.
"Whatever Bra and Goten have told you—" he bit back the denial as he remembered where he was "—is probably true."
"Really?" The corners of her mouth tucked into a small, teasing smile as she titled her head thoughtfully to one side. "I wonder. So few people live up—or down—to their reputations."
Even as he struggled to remind himself that he was in a church, godfather to the infant about to be baptised and with no business to be thinking the kinds of thoughts that were racing through his head, she turned away to kiss Bra, the baby's mother and his baby sister, and apologise for her lateness.
"I notice these bluebells in the orchard as I was leaving. They're just the color of Ben's eyes so I stopped to pick some." She explained as she took baby Ben from Bra. The vicar ushered them towards the front and Trunks thought he must have imagined the spark of something hot and sweet that had crossed the space between himself and Marron. An unspoken promise that said...'Not now. Later.'
As if she had read his mind, Marron Chestnut lifted her long lashes and sent a sideways glance at him. In this instant he noticed her eyes weren't the baby blue he had though them to be. They were cerulean and ocean deep and he was suddenly out of his depth and floundering. It was a unfamiliar sensation and every instinct warned him that should head for the door while he still had the chance. Though he had made a promise to his best friend and sister; to stand as godfather to their first child and escape was not an option he could take.
Yet all through the service Trunks was distracted by the scent of the flowers she carried. It wove a spell through his mind so that all through the tea that followed, and the champagne and the toasts to baby Ben's health and happiness, he was intensely aware of her presence shimmering on the edge of his consciousness. Once the photographs has been taken, and escape was possible, they had circled the company, keeping maximum distance between them as id by a unspoken agreement, understanding that to be close was to risk instant conflagration.
But when he had glanced in her direction he had the feeling that he had just missed meeting her gaze. Or maybe it was simply his imagination working overtime. Maybe. Yet without a word spoken, without a gesture or so much as a lift of a brow, they had arrived at the door at the same time, ready to leave.
"Hold on Marron, its raining again," Goten said, as he walked them to the door. "You'll get wet in your broomstick. I'll run you home."
"Broomstick?" Trunks repeated, turning to risk the heat of her dangerous eyes.
And for the first time, since she'd arrived in the church. Marron met his gaze head-on. "Goten thinks I'm a witch." She should have been smiling, but she wasn't. "Don't you, Goten?" she asked, but her eyes continued to hold Trunks a prisoner.
Goten hesitated, and she tilted her head back and laughed, her throat, a perfect white curve that Trunks' hand ached to cradle. Then Bra called from the nursery and Marron said, "You're needed, Goten."
"Yes, but..."
"I'll take Marron home," Trunks offered.
"You're quite sure? It's way out of your way..."
"Quite sure indeed." He'd been going that way ever since Marron had look at him. Maybe Goten was right. Maybe she was a witch.
"Oh. Right. Well, thanks... And thank you for today. Both of you. Give us a call when you get back from the States, Trunks. Come and stay." Then almost as an afterthought, Goten added, "And take care."
They paused on the doorstep and there was a moment of silence while Marron, her eyes level with his, regarded him thoughtfully. "You're quite sure?" she asked after a moment, echoing Goten's words. He knew she wasn't talking about the lift.
Neither was he when he replied, "Quite sure." Trunks led the way to his car and opened the door. Her cloak trailed over the edge and he bent to lift it, tuck it inside. The material was soft, sensual beneath his fingers. Silk velvet. Like a woman's skin. Maybe that was why his hands were shaking as he slid the key into the ignition. "Which way?" He asked abruptly.
"Left." He glanced at her. "I live on the other side of the village. It's not far."
Not far, but it was a different world. Goten and Bra's home was minimalist modern, a labour-saving miracle of architecture designed for busy people and set in a low maintenance courtyard garden with a small paddock beyond that was grazed by a neighbor's elderly pony.
Marron, in total contrast, lived in a piecrust cottage surrounded by an old- fashioned garden filled with spring flowers bloomed with wild abandon. They spilled over onto the brick paths, splattering their legs with raindrops as they ran for the door.
Once they'd reached the shelter of the pitch-roofed porch they paused for a breath. And to look at one another. Take a moment to consider. Nothing had been said, but they both knew once he was beyond the front door all thoughts that were now safely in their heads would spill over into unstoppable action: there would be no stepping back.
It was as if she was saying, 'You're quite sure?' again. But this time silently. His own silence was all the answer she needed. And she held out her key to him. It hung there between them, shimmering dull sliver in the stormy light, and at the back of Trunks' warning bells began to ring.
"I don't do commitment," he said roughly. Almost hoping that she would tell him to go. Leave. Get out.
She didn't say any of those things. She said nothing, her aqua eyes holding his, demanding that he make his own decision about whether to go or stay. The warning bells clanged with desperate urgency but all afternoon her eyes silently promised him everything he had ever wanted from a woman. Promised that she would fulfil his every dream.
She was wasting her time. He had no dreams. He was a hollow man, rich in the stuff money could buy, but without a heart, incapable of love.
Most of the time he lived with it, scarcely noticing the emptiness. Today wrapped in the warmth of friends whose love for each other, whose happiness had reached new heights with the birth of their baby son, he had been painfully aware of his own shortcomings.
Marron Chestnut was offering him a chance to forget, lose himself for a few hours, without a word he gathered in the key and woman in one movement. For a moment he simply held her, breathed in her scent of rain-washed earth and wallflowers and bluebells. For a moment anything seemed possible.
Fantasy, he knew, but his mouth came down on hers with a deep hunger, a longing to be proved wrong...