Her Best Friend's Baby. Vicki Thompson Lewis

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СКАЧАТЬ As she gripped the railing and considered the implications of what he’d said, she couldn’t hold back a small feeling of triumph. He’d liked his experience with her last night. He’d liked it so much that he wanted more. Maybe Morgan wasn’t all brain, after all.

      “I’ll get the razor,” she said, her step much lighter as she went upstairs.

      AT MARY JANE’S suggestion, they’d driven across town to an area she seldom visited to have breakfast and shop for groceries. Morgan thought it was a smart move. Mary Jane didn’t want to run into anyone she knew until she had herself more emotionally together, and he didn’t want to run into anyone who had known Arielle. After all, his wife had spent the first twenty-two years of her life in this town.

      Taking another sip of his coffee, he sat across the table from Mary Jane in the booth of a small neighborhood restaurant and watched her not eat. She made a show of it, cutting her omelette into bite-size pieces, sipping her juice, putting a little pepper on her food. His plate looked as untouched as hers, but he wasn’t pregnant. She needed to eat.

      “Look, I know you’re not hungry,” he said at last. “But you need to try.”

      She glanced at him. “Couldn’t I swallow twice as many of those prenatal magic bullets you’ve prescribed for me?”

      He shook his head and felt a smile trying to work its way through his pain. “They don’t work very well if you don’t have food in there, too.”

      She sighed and took a bite of omelette into her mouth. Chewing and swallowing, she made a face. “It’s cold and the cheese has congealed.”

      “Then I’ll order you another one.” He lifted his hand to signal the waitress.

      “You most certainly will not!” She shoveled in another bite. “I’m eating. See? Eating.”

      “That’s silly. They can throw that away and get—”

      “Put your hand down.” She reached across the table and grabbed his wrist, smacking his hand on the table. “We are not going to put the waitress and the cook to more trouble because I dawdled over my food and let it get cold. They’ll think something was wrong with it. It’s not good karma to send your food back uneaten.”

      “But you weren’t eating it.” The back of his hand stung where she’d whacked it against the table, but it was the warm grip of her fingers around his wrist that really bothered him. Her fingers against his skin reminded him of how she’d clutched his shoulders last night while he buried himself in her. He forced himself to stay focused. “The food would have gone back to the kitchen eventually, anyway.”

      “Nope.” Her blue gaze held his earnestly. “I would have asked for a doggy bag. Nobody’s insulted if you ask for a doggy bag.” She looked at his hand on the table. “Can I trust you not to try to get the waitress over here?”

      “Guess so.”

      “All right, then.” She released her hold and went back to eating her cold omelette. “It’s a matter of professional courtesy.”

      “I can see that.”

      She paused and glanced pointedly at his plate. “Eat up.”

      “But I’m not—”

      “Hungry? I don’t think that’s the issue. You need your strength.”

      He pushed his plate aside. “I’ll ask for a doggy bag.”

      “Oh, no, you don’t. If you’re going to force me to eat this cold food, you can do the exact same thing. Start chewing.”

      “We’re not in the same boat.”

      She shoved his plate in front of him. “We’re in exactly the same boat. I may be physically carrying this baby, but you are the father.”

      And the only parent. He went still, bracing himself for the blow if she decided to point that out. She didn’t. She was incredibly sensitive. He hadn’t known that about her. There were lots of things he hadn’t known about her, like the silken welcome she provided for a man in bed. That was one thing he’d be better off not knowing, and the one thing he’d never forget.

      “Let’s say you let yourself get run down,” she said. “You weaken your immune system, and there you are, a sitting duck for every bug that cruises by. So you have one illness after another, getting even more run down, and then, when this little girl is born, you’re too full of germs to be in the delivery room, let alone ready to function as her father.” She pointed her fork at him. “What do you say to that, Mr. Pediatrician? Is that fair to anybody?”

      “No. No, it’s not.” He picked up his fork. Eating food when you’d rather not had never seemed like an act of courage to him before. But he realized that in Mary Jane’s case, that’s exactly what it was. He could do no less.

      “Attaboy.”

      He couldn’t help it. He grinned. Yesterday he’d been absolutely sure that smiles and laughter were a thing of the past. But here was irrepressible Mary Jane Potter, valiantly shoving down food she didn’t want and cheering him on to do the same. A person would have to be made of stone not to respond to that.

      She grinned back. “But I gotta warn you, it tastes like crap.”

      His grin turned to a chuckle.

      “You look great when you do that.”

      “I never thought I would again.”

      Her blue eyes grew warm with compassion. “She wouldn’t want you to stop smiling, Morgan.”

      His fork clattered to the plate and his throat closed. He fumbled for his napkin as his grief came flooding back.

      “Damn,” she said softly, bolting out of her seat.

      He tried to choke out an apology and couldn’t. Through his tears he saw her throw a bill on the table.

      “Come on.” She grabbed his hand and led him, stumbling, out of the restaurant.

      Bright sunlight gave way to cool shade as she pushed him into an alley. Then she wrapped her arms around him and he clung to her and cried. He felt her shaking in his arms and was ashamed that he’d caused her to lose control, too. But he couldn’t do anything except curl his body over hers, bury his face in her glorious hair and hold on for dear life.

      Eventually he managed to stop crying, but he couldn’t let go of her. He lifted his damp face, straightened a little and laid his cheek on the top of her head. “I was going to leave today,” he said. “Go back to New York.”

      Her arms tightened around him.

      “I won’t,” he said. “Not yet.”

      Her grip slackened. Then she sighed, and when she spoke, her voice was hoarse from weeping. “Good.”

      CHAPTER THREE

      MARY JANE got behind the wheel of her neon-green Super Beetle while Morgan leaned down and moved the passenger seat back to accommodate his long legs. She’d СКАЧАТЬ