Pinned

By Jackie Barbosa

Amanda

It doesn’t bother me if you call me a motoho. Ever since my cheating bastard of an ex-fiancé left me with an STD that rendered me infertile, I’m not looking for a relationship, but I do occasionally have an itch to scratch. With Thunder Valley Raceway nearby, there’s no shortage of motocross riders passing through town, and they’re fit, fine, and looking for a good time, not a long time. So why shouldn’t I partake once in a while?

Still, I’m a little surprised Tyler Biggs was game; he’s not known as a player, unlike some riders I could name. And I’ll admit, I’m kind of sorry we only had one night together. Tyler is model handsome, smart, and phenomenal in bed. I wouldn’t mind hitting that a few more times, especially since he lives less than an hour away when he’s not on the circuit. But before I can decide whether or not I’m ready to take that step, life throws me a curveball, and I have no choice but to see Tyler again.

Tyler

I’m not normally a one-night-stand kind of guy, but the night I met Mandy, an uncomplicated romp in the sheets was exactly what I needed to remind myself that there’s more to life than motocross racing. So what if I don’t win the championship this year? I can still hook up with the prettiest, funniest girl in the bar if I want to and have mind-blowing monkey sex with her. In the best possible world, we would have more time, but motocross moves on and that means I have to, too. And then, eight weeks later, Mandy shows up on my doorstep and drops the other shoe.

A teeny, tiny one.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Publishing
• Release date: Feb 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781094440071

Jackie Barbosa

I can’t remember a time when I didn’t want to be a writer when I grew up, but there were plenty of times when I wasn’t sure I ever would be. As it turns out, it just took me about twenty years longer to grow up than I expected! On the road to publication, I took a few detours, including a stint in academia (I hold an MA in Classics from the University of Chicago and was a recipient of a Mellon Fellowship in the Humanities) and many years as a technical writer/instructional designer for a data processing company. I still hold my day job, but my true vocation has always been writing fiction and romance in particular. To stay informed of my release schedule, you can sign up for my newsletter (which I only send out when I actually release a book) or follow me on Twitter or Facebook. As a matter of public record, I tend to be a lot more active on Twitter, but also a lot more political. I am represented by Kevan Lyon of the Marsal Lyon Literary Agency. I’m a firm believer that love is the most powerful force in the world, which that makes romance the most powerful genre in the world. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise!

Book preview

One

Tyler

I hate math, but it doesn't lie. And the numbers in this spreadsheet are telling a story I don't want to read.

It won't work. Not without a major sponsor to cover the overhead expenses.

Oh, I'm sure I can get us one. This team will be a powerhouse in motocross, but sponsorships always come with strings. Strings I was hoping to avoid.

But I've got to make the compensation package attractive to the people I want to bring in, or they're not going to sign on. Not even with the promise of fractional ownership and decision-making power that I've been pitching. The folks I need to make this happen aren't going to be satisfied with less than they're already making, even for a bigger share of the pot. Because there aren't any guarantees when it comes to the size of that pot. Despite having Owen Lenart, Alex Herrera, and Joy Chen riding for the team and Darnell Lewis as chief mechanic, we could still go bust.

Which means I'm going to have to do the nasty with at least one company to make the ends meet. If I were in a cartoon, there'd be a dark cloud hovering over my head to indicate my annoyance with the prospect. Instead, I scowl at the red number in the bottom corner of my computer's screen.

The doorbell rings. I roll my eyes up and my desk chair back at the same time. If it's the Jehovah's Witnesses again, I'm not going to be polite. Some people just don't understand No, thank you.

I stalk out of the bedroom I've fitted out as an office, which is on the far side of the house, and down the hall. It's not a large house—I'm only one person, after all—but it's all on one level, so I can't get to the front door right away.

The doorbell rings again.

Keep your pants on, I mutter as I reach the end of the hallway. Annoyed as I am, I still pause to admire the view from the living room. That view—of a hill densely forested with pines and aspens—is the reason I bought this house despite the lousy layout of the bedrooms and the thirty-year-old kitchen. One glimpse of the 12-foot open-beams and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the woods, and I was done for.

Inhaling as if I can smell the trees as well as see them, I reach the front door and pull it open.

And blink in astonishment.

It's not proselytizers. It's not FedEx delivering a package I need to sign for. It's not even one of the neighbor kids trying to sell candy bars or magazines or some other junk to fund their sports team or band. (I never buy. I give them a straight cash donation, but they always offer the goods anyway.)

It's her.

My brain takes several seconds to catch up to my eyes, though.

Mandy. That's her name. Or at least all of her name I was ever privileged to know.

I knew the rest of her, though. Biblically. And briefly.

She's way sexier than I remembered. Which is ironic, because the first time I met her, she'd been wearing the most outrageous fuck-me stilettos I'd ever seen, a pair of ass-hugging short-shorts, and a tight, thin tank-top with no bra. Sex on stilts, I'd thought at the time, and although I usually avoid one-night stands with motocross groupies, she'd captivated me. And not just with her physical attractiveness and come-hither clothes, either. She might have looked like the stereotypical dumb blonde, but I knew within a few seconds that the airhead act was only that—an act. This woman was smart, savvy, and funny as hell, and after the lousy day I'd had, taking her to bed had seemed like the perfect antidote to everything that ailed me.

Today, though, she's dressed in a turquoise satin blouse and ivory trousers made of silk. A pair of diamond earrings dangles from her lobes. I'm ninety-percent sure they’re the real thing and more than a couple of karats each. Her long blond hair is done up in a complicated braid and her makeup is so subtle, I know it's expensive and has been applied with great expertise. She looks like a million bucks. Literally.

And also like sex on stilts, although I don't think the heels she's wearing under her slacks are particularly high.

Hi, Tyler. I recall, now, that her voice is deep and has a throatiness to it that plays hell with my libido. Are you going to invite me in or are you going to stand there and let all the mosquitoes in?

Damn it. There are mosquitoes right now thanks to the rain we had earlier in the week, and I don't want them in the house. I'll be up all night wondering if I hear one buzzing around my bed.

Uh, sure, come on in. I step to the side so she can enter. But my mind is racing.

What the hell is she doing here? She had been the one to insist on one night and one night only. I hadn't imagined that, had I? And how did she know where I live? It's not like my home address is common knowledge; I pay an attorney to keep that stuff off the internet, in fact.

She brushes past me, and I get a whiff of her fragrance—lemons and honey and something spicy, like cloves or nutmeg. The scent instantly activates the memory of kissing my way down her torso to her pussy and lapping her like a lollipop. She'd tasted as delicious as she smelled, and when she came on my tongue, I'd felt like I was on top of the world.

My cock twitches, because not only do I remember eating her out, I remember what happened next. We went through every condom I possessed.

Has she changed her mind about the whole once-is-enough thing? Because it hadn't been enough for me. The evidence of that currently strains against the zipper of my jeans.

Once inside, she does what everyone who comes through my front door does; she lets out a soft sigh of appreciation and says, Wow. Great view.

Right. I need to get a handle on this situation.

Not that it isn't nice to see you, Mandy, but why are you here? How are you here?

Her back is still to me when I ask the question, so I can't see her expression to gauge her emotions, but the set of her shoulders tells me this isn't a social call. What. The. Fuck?

Maybe we should sit down, she suggests, turning her head just enough that I can see her profile. There's a little more color in her cheeks now, and my heart starts racing because I'm starting to have suspicions, but none of them make any goddamn sense. We used protection. It can't be that bad, can it?

I gesture at the sectional that occupies most of the living room, surprised to find my hand is steady. Wherever you like.

After a moment's hesitation, she chooses the far side of the sectional closest to the windows, so I sit down on the opposite end of the L-shape. I'm not going to crowd her.

She looks out the window for several long seconds, making me wait for it. I'm about to demand that she explain herself right the hell now when she faces me and announces in staccato bursts, I'm pregnant. It's yours. I'm keeping it. I don't need money or anything else. I just thought you should know.

If there were any mosquitoes in the house, I'm pretty sure I'd be collecting them in my mouth.

Pregnant? With my kid?

I'd been thinking more along the lines of some hard-to-cure STD like herpes or HIV, although why my mind went there first, I can't say. I mean, the health department notifies you of that kind of shit, don't they? Pregnancy is a much likelier explanation, and I should have thought of it. But for some reason, that was the last thing that came into my head.

Our baby. My baby.

My brain must have stopped braining for a while, because Mandy stands up abruptly. Okay, that's all I had to tell you. I guess I'll be going.

I spring from my seat to block her path. Not in a threatening way, I hope. No, no. shit, I'm not mad. Just surprised.

For the first time, she cracks a smile. Not half as surprised as I was when the plus symbol showed up on the pee stick. This wasn't supposed to happen to me.

Under other circumstances, I might debate about who was more shocked, but instead I ask, "How do you think it did happen? Nothing went wrong with any of the condoms as far as I can remember."

She shrugs. I asked my OB the same thing, and she told me there can be microscopic holes in condoms. It's rare, but not unheard of. And sometimes, they just fail; no one knows why. Shaking her head, she continues, The real mystery is that my Fallopian tubes are a hundred percent blocked—a souvenir of my former fiancé fooling around on me—and I shouldn’t to be able to get pregnant. Or if I do, it's supposed to be ectopic. A bemused expression overtakes her face as she presses her hand to her—as far as I can tell—flat abdomen. Apparently, this one wound up in the right place. So I hope you understand why I'm not going to terminate.

The last declaration is delivered with steely defiance, as if she expects me to demand she have an abortion. Like I would ever tell a woman what to do with her own body. Not my circus, not my monkeys.

Absolutely. My voice sounds like I'm shouting down a rain barrel, though. I'm going to be a father.

And that's when the full implication of what she said when she announced the pregnancy hits me. I don't need money or anything else. I just thought you should know.

She thinks I don't want a child. Or at least that I won't want this one. The only reason she told me was because she doesn't want to have that whole secret baby problem where the kid wants to know who their daddy is and everything blows up in your face. That's why she was clear about not needing anything from me—she wanted me to know she isn't keeping the baby because she's planning to shake me down for child support.

And suddenly, I have a new—and pressing—question, because she seems very sure that she can raise a child without any additional income. And then there are her clothes, jewelry, hairstyle, and makeup, all of which scream, I'm loaded. Not to mention, now that I think of it, she was so cagey about her full name the night we spent together.

Mandy, who are you? Exactly?

Two

Amanda

Damn, damn, damn. This isn't going down the way I planned it at all.

As soon as I realized I was pregnant, I knew I'd have to tell Tyler. I may not have a lot of scruples when it comes to men—not anymore—but I do think it's wrong to have a baby without informing its father.

But when I'd rehearsed this scene, my primary concern had been that Tyler Biggs would think I'd gotten pregnant on purpose to trap him into marriage or otherwise get my hands on his wallet. He is, after all, famous, fine as fuck, and flush with cash thanks to several multi-million-dollar endorsement deals and multiple motocross championships. And judging by this house, which is modest despite the breathtaking setting, he hasn't been spending down. A girl could do worse than tapping him first and his bank account second.

A girl who isn't me, that is.

It had just never occurred to me that, once assured he wasn't on the hook for any baby-related expenses or diaper-changing duty, Tyler would care one way or the other about his impending fatherhood. I can see now, though, that I should have considered the possibility. Just because I've never known any men who wouldn't see an unintended pregnancy as an unmitigated disaster doesn't mean there aren't some who might actually want to be a dad. What the hell have I gotten myself into? Co-parenting with a near-perfect stranger?

And how near to perfect he is, my libido pipes up to remind me.

I've fucked my share of hot athletes. Being unalterably heterosexual is inconvenient when you're a confirmed misandrist, but the itch is still there and needs to be scratched. None of them were as drop-dead gorgeous as Tyler or half as good in the sack, though. The man is a genius when it comes to cunnilingus and has the stamina of a race horse with the equipment to match. That's why I'd been thinking about trying to hook up with him again even before I knew about the bun in my oven.

Of course, that's moot now. If Tyler is going to want a role in this child's life, I'll find a way to roll with it because it's as much his as mine, but I do not want to give him the idea that there's the slightest chance of us becoming a happy nuclear family. And before you suggest it's presumptuous of me to imagine that he wants to get back in my pants, let alone that he might have visions of marriage and white picket fence, allow me to point out that I am a catch and that Tyler's last question shows he's already on his way to figuring that out.

Who are you? Exactly?

I don't see any way to avoid telling him the truth. He'll find out sooner or later, whatever I do.

So I stick out my hand, inviting him to shake as if we're being introduced for the first time. Amanda Leanne Scheffler.

His caramel-brown eyes flicker at the name and I know he's putting two and two together...and making a hundred million. Scheffler Brewing, he says slowly. Wonderingly.

Got it in one. I smirk. So you can see that I really don't need your money.

Scheffler Brewing is the other major beer company in Denver, but don't let the fact that it's smaller or less well-known than the gigantic one fool you into thinking