Navy Seal Dad. Metsy Hingle

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      Mac snorted. “We were a bit more than acquaintances.”

      Deciding it best to ignore that remark, Rachel explained, “I got tied up at the hospital. That’s why I didn’t meet you at the restaurant. There was an accident. A bus filled with high school kids on their way to a football game was rear-ended by an eighteen-wheeler.”

      “I heard. Was it bad?”

      “Not really. Mostly bumps and bruises. A few stitches, a couple of sprains and one broken ankle.” Suddenly, standing alone in the dim porch light with Mac felt too intimate. It reminded Rachel of other nights when they had stood in the moonlight and she’d recounted the events of her day for him. Slamming the door shut on her memories, she tucked her hands into the pockets of her coat. “Anyway, by the time I got a break and was able to call the restaurant, you’d already left. I didn’t know how else to contact you.”

      “It’s all right,” Mac told her, the ghost of a smile on his lips. He ran his thumb along her jaw in a gesture that was tender, loving…like the look in his eyes.

      No, she wouldn’t do that to herself again, Rachel vowed, and turned her face away from his touch. But not before she caught the flare of emotion in his eyes. For a second she almost believed that she had hurt Mac. Just as quickly, Rachel dismissed the notion. More likely she’d been right earlier today, and she had simply dashed Mac’s hopes for a quick reunion while he was in town. Swallowing hard, she reminded herself of what a mistake their relationship had been the first time. It was a mistake she had no intention of repeating. “All the same I’m sorry about standing you up.”

      “Quit apologizing, Rachel. Your roommate already explained about the flu hitting the hospital’s staff and how you had to pull an extra shift in the E.R.”

      “My roommate?”

      “Chloe.”

      Rachel sucked in a breath. “You talked to Chloe?”

      “Yeah. When I came over to find out why you didn’t show up at the restaurant, she answered the door and told me what happened.”

      “I see,” Rachel murmured. She had called Chloe to let her know she’d be even later than she’d first thought tonight. And then she had called the restaurant for Mac.

      “I liked her. She seems really nice.”

      “She is,” Rachel informed him. Chloe Chancellor was nice. And she was so much more than a roommate. She was also Rachel’s friend. It had been Chloe who had comforted her during those first lonely weeks after Mac had left. It had been Chloe who had bullied her into taking care of herself when she’d first discovered she was pregnant. It had been Chloe who had insisted she hated living in the big, old house alone and had convinced her to get out of her tiny apartment and move in with her so that P.J. would have a real home.

      And it had been Chloe who had insisted she was wasting her time by dating Alex. According to Chloe, who had known Alex Jenkins since they were kids, the good doctor had grown up to be a major stuffed shirt who wanted what he perceived to be a perfect wife. A position that, according to Chloe again, Rachel appeared to fit perfectly. But ever the romantic, Chloe believed marriages should be entered into for one reason only—love. And, of course, Chloe had been enthralled by the tale of her affair with Mac and had long since made up her mind that Mac was the only man Rachel would ever love. She certainly prayed her friend was wrong, Rachel thought.

      “She’s a very gifted artist.”

      Rachel jerked her attention back to Mac. “Chloe invited you inside?”

      “She practically insisted when I told her who I was. Anyway, I happened to notice the artwork. She seemed a little surprised that I thought they were good. Then she admitted they were hers and I got her to point out a few of the others she’d done. Like I said, she’s very talented.”

      “I know she is.” It was Chloe, who for all her bravado, doubted her own talent.

      “She’s agreed to sell me one of the small oils for my mother.”

      “Sounds like you two hit it off,” Rachel said with dismay.

      Mac grinned at that. “My guess is the uniform had something to do with it. That, and the fact that she apparently knew who I was. I take it you told her about us.”

      “I may have mentioned your name to her in passing,” Rachel replied, knowing as she said the words what a whopper she was telling. Chloe had listened to her sob her heart out far more times that she cared to remember after Mac had left. And she had been the one in the delivery room with her when she’d borne Mac’s son. Thoughts of their son had her nerves—already wound tight as a spring—growing even more strained. Rachel held her breath and waited for Mac to mention P.J.

      The smile disappeared from his lips. “Then I guess I’m lucky she didn’t slam the door in my face.”

      “Why would she do that?”

      “Come on, Rach. I can’t imagine you would have many nice things to say about me, considering how badly I handled things before I left.”

      Rachel met his somber gaze. “Then you’d be wrong, Mac.” No matter how things had ended between them or how deeply he had hurt her, she would always be grateful to him for giving her P.J.

      “Rach,” Mac said her name like a prayer as he moved in, cupped her shoulders. “If only you knew how many times I—”

      The lights flickered on inside and after a quick snick of locks, the door opened to reveal a sleepy-eyed Chloe clutching her big fluffy robe around her. “Are you guys deliberately trying to catch pneumonia? It’s freezing out there.”

      “Sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean to wake you,” Mac told her.

      “You didn’t. The little monster did.”

      Rachel stiffened at her friend’s words, and the frown on Mac’s face set her nerves to racing again. “I’d better go,” she told him, hoping to hurry him along. “I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

      Ignoring her dismissal, Mac kept his focus on Chloe. “Little monster?” he repeated, a determined expression on his face.

      “P.J.,” Chloe offered with a yawn.

      “P.J.?”

      As if on cue, P.J. let out a squeal guaranteed to wake the dead. And just as she knew he would, he came waddling over to the door on his little chubby legs, his arms outstretched. “Mama,” he said, one of the few words in his limited baby vocabulary that anyone could understand.

      “You have a son?” Mac asked Chloe.

      Seeing no hope for postponing the truth, Rachel reached for her son. Holding him in her arms, she turned back to face Mac. “He’s not Chloe’s son, Mac. He’s mine.”

      Two

      “Yours?” Mac repeated, feeling as though he’d been sucker punched.

      Rachel hiked up her chin. “That’s right,” she told him. “Mine.”

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