Cinderella's Secret Agent. Ingrid Weaver

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      Despite the rain that sheeted down the window and the hangover from hell, the day suddenly seemed brighter. Del’s teeth barely ached as he scraped his chair back and stood up. “Maybe I can help,” he said.

      At least the taxi was yellow instead of white, Maggie thought as the cab splashed its way across the Queensboro Bridge toward her apartment in Astoria. As long as the cab was yellow, there would be less risk of getting Del confused with a knight on a white horse, riding to her rescue.

      She turned her head to look at him. His dark brown hair clung wetly to his scalp, molding the contours of his head like a helmet. His navy blue windbreaker appeared black, soaked through from the rain and weighed down against his shoulders like tightly woven chain mail. His usually neatly pressed chinos stuck to his thighs, outlining muscles that could easily control a horse.

      He’d brought an umbrella with him, but it had been one of those small, collapsible ones. He’d used it to keep her and the baby dry instead of himself.

      Darn chivalrous of him, wasn’t it? Like an old-fashioned knight, or maybe a cowboy out of some Gary Cooper western?

      Maggie grimaced inwardly. The roller coaster ride she’d been on with her emotions since Delilah’s birth was beginning to slow down, but it wasn’t over yet. She was pathetically vulnerable right now, so she had good reason to be cautious about her reaction to Del.

      He was a nice guy, that’s all. A really nice guy. He didn’t deserve to be the focus of all this silly fantasizing—she’d already decided that would only lead to trouble.

      After all, that was how it had started with Alan: a chance meeting in the diner, an instant attraction to the man with the charming, too-good-to-be-true manner. He had flirted outrageously, then had swept her into a whirlwind romance. He’d topped it all off with an impetuous declaration of love that she’d wanted too badly to believe.

      But Del wasn’t like Alan. He was tender and honest….

      Hormones, she reminded herself, swallowing hard against the sudden lump in her throat. She’d read about this in the baby books, too. That’s why she was making such a big deal out of Del’s friendly gesture. He wasn’t trying to be charming, he was simply being, well, nice.

      “How’s the baby doing?” he asked.

      Maggie lifted the corner of the receiving blanket and peeked at Delilah in the car seat. “She’s still asleep.”

      “Good. I was worried the rain might have woken her.”

      “Thanks to you, she didn’t get a drop.”

      “Great.”

      She brushed her thumb across the baby’s knuckles. “It seems as if I’m always thanking you, Del.”

      “You don’t have to. I’m glad I could help.”

      “I’m sorry about the way Joanne roped you into this.”

      “No need to apologize. I volunteered.”

      “Thanks, Del.”

      Thunder rumbled as the taxi pulled up in front of Maggie’s apartment building. Del got soaked once more as he held the umbrella over Maggie and Delilah and escorted them to the entrance. When they reached her apartment on the third floor, he took the key from her hand and unlocked the door.

      Maggie had always liked this apartment. She’d decorated the place on a shoestring, scouring the neighborhood discount stores for bargains and brightening the walls with paint the color of pale daffodils. She loved the earth-toned fringed rug and the overstuffed couch, the tapestry pillows and the lamp with the stained-glass shade. All the little touches she’d stretched her budget to add made the place cozy and welcoming.

      She paused on the threshold. Everything was exactly the same as it had been when she’d left for work the day her baby had been born.

      And that was the problem. It was exactly as she’d left it.

      In the gray light from the window, she could see the heap of laundry still on the couch and the dishes she’d left in the sink. The high-backed rocking chair she’d found in a thrift shop last week was buried under a layer of newspapers and baby books. Through the doorway that led to her closet-size bedroom, she could see the trailing edge of a crumpled sheet.

      She hadn’t tidied up before leaving for work that morning—her back had been aching in what she now realized had been the onset of labor. On top of that, she’d been too tired out after taking most of the previous evening to rearrange the bedroom furniture to clear a space for the crib.

      Her gaze swung to the far wall and the pieces of what was supposed to be Delilah’s crib. She had believed it would be weeks before she would need to assemble it. She wasn’t sure where the sheets for it were. She hadn’t finished organizing the clothes she’d been acquiring for the baby, either—she had assumed she’d have plenty of time to get the apartment into shape once she stopped working.

      As she contemplated the tasks ahead of her, Maggie’s emotions did another roller coaster twist and dip, swerving toward despair. But then she glanced at her daughter, and she was swooping upward again.

      This was another one of those moments she’d anticipated for months. She had her baby safe and warm in her arms, and she was about to bring her into the home they would share together.

      What did it matter if the place wasn’t perfect? Who cared if there was more work to be done? Fancy furniture and clean laundry didn’t make a home. Love made a home. And she and Delilah would have plenty of that.

      She would manage somehow. She always did. One day at a time.

      “Are you crying again, Maggie?”

      She licked a tear that had trickled to the corner of her mouth, then firmed her chin. “No.”

      “That’s good,” he said, patting the pockets of his sodden jacket. “Because I don’t think I have anything dry on me.”

      His stab at humor only made her eyes fill faster. Maggie took a shaky breath and led the way inside. “Take your jacket off, Del. I think we could both use some towels.”

      He closed the door behind them and looked around briefly, then peeled off his windbreaker and hung it over the doorknob. “Don’t worry about me, Maggie.”

      “It’s the least I can do after the way you brought us home and everything.” Holding Delilah to her shoulder, she walked to the bathroom and took a large bath towel from the shelf over the tub.

      By the time she returned, Del had cleared the newspapers and books off the rocking chair and was stacking them under the window. He grabbed a pillow from the couch and propped it against the chair back.

      “Del, you don’t have to—”

      “Here.” He took the towel from her hand and draped it around his neck, then cupped her elbow and guided her to the chair. He hovered by her side until she and Delilah were comfortably settled. “You should be taking it easy.”

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