by Lisa Plumley
“Drink up,” he said, beaming. “It’s good for you.”
She gazed into the Flintstones glass of foaming … stuff … he’d whipped up, not at all sure she could actually consume it. She sniffed.
“This smells like … I can’t put my finger on it, but I’m thinking … Christmas time, punch bowls, rum.” Chloe snapped her fingers. “Eggnog!”
“Sure, you could call it that,” Nick offered, running his fingertip around the edge of the blender container he was holding. “It’s got eggs in it.”
He licked the tip of his finger, then held up the blender pitcher and lapped up a drip. She’d never envied a hunk of plastic before.
“Eggnog, huh?” she managed to say. “Okay.”
She sipped. It tasted of cold frothy milk, a touch of banana … and the slimy glob of raw egg that slicked down her throat on the first gulp.
“Aaack!” Chloe thrust the glass at Nick and leaned toward the coffee table, shoving aside books and magazines and knocking a rental videotape of The Three Stooges to the floor in her quest for the tissue box. “Why didn’t you tell me the egg was raw?”
She heard the muffled whump of tissues being pulled out of the box. Nick pressed a wad into her hand, and she used it to wipe away the last traces of his pseudo health drink. That horrible stuff had to be revenge for the way she’d sprung her pregnancy surprise on him.
“Of course it was raw,” he said, exactly in the same way he might have said, “Of course I hate shopping.”
“You’ve seen too many Rocky movies.”
“Don’t be a baby.”
“Don’t be a doofus,” she said with a shuddering glance at the Flintstones cup. “I’m not drinking that stuff.”
“Okay.” He looked disappointed.
Something told her she hadn’t seen the last of his efforts to make sure was a suitably healthy example of an expectant mother. The idea had a certain irony, but it wasn’t anything Chloe could consider further with egg aftertaste in her mouth and Nick’s steady gaze making her feel warm all over.
“I’ll come up with a better drink next time.”
“Thanks for the warning.” She dreaded it already.
“You’re welcome.” Smiling, he picked up the Flintstones cup and slugged down the contents, then rubbed his stomach. “But you’re missing some good stuff.”
I know, Chloe thought, watching him carry the cup into the kitchen. I’m missing you. The sink faucet rumbled, then water splashed. She imagined a future with Nick elbow-deep in soapsuds at her sink every day, a kitchen towel slung over his shoulder and a babbling baby at the table and her whipping up something gourmet at the stove … and knew her fantasy was only that.
She couldn’t even cook.
She followed him into the kitchen anyway, and found Nick head-and-shoulders deep inside her refrigerator, mumbling to himself. His backside faced her, every bit as cute as she remembered. His denim shorts stretched tight as he reached for something on the shelf in front of him.
Chloe stifled a sigh and leaned back on the counter to watch. Fate was cruel to have delivered her a man like this next door, given her a taste of life in his arms … and then dangled him just out of reach with Kahlúa-induced amnesia and the constraints of platonic friendship. It just wasn’t fair.
Nick’s hand emerged holding a box of Twinkies. He slapped it onto the countertop beside the six-pack of diet cola he’d already removed from the refrigerator.
“Hey!” She was beside him in an instant. “Those will get all gooey if you leave them out like that.”
He faced her, eyebrows raised. “They’ll get even gooier in the trash can,” Nick said, picking up the box again and aiming it toward the plastic bin in the corner like a basketball player making a free throw. He paused. “Want to say goodbye?”
“What? No!” Chloe grabbed one end of the box and pulled. Nick pulled back.
The tug of war that ensued wasn’t pretty.
“You can’t eat this stuff,” Nick said, wrenching his end of the box.
His tug sent her stockinged feet skidding across the linoleum. She added her other hand to the struggle and gained an inch or two. “Let go!”
“You let go.” He tugged back, and she lost the ground she’d gained. His broad chest and grinning face forecast his victory, but she wasn’t ready to call it quits yet.
Chloe Carmichal was no pushover. And she never surrendered.
Instead she stuck her foot on top of Nick’s ankle for leverage and tightened her grip on the Twinkie box. “It’s mine. Give it up, you brute, before I have to manhandle you.”
The idea had merit. She couldn’t allow herself to dwell on it—but she couldn’t deny herself a quick roving glance over his … manhandables, either. The man could entice a nun to sin, and never know he was doing it. That was the trouble with brainiac types like Nick. He lived in a world of the mind, where a buffed-up body was just efficient packaging for the real goods.
She never knew efficiency could be so sexy.
“Grow up, Chloe,” he said, interrupting her in mid-fantasy-flight. “Doing without junk food for a few months won’t kill you.”
“Oh, no?”
“No. Anyway, it’s for your own good.”
He pulled harder. She skidded and tried backpedaling against the slick waxed linoleum. The motion destroyed whatever balance she had left. Chloe tightened her hold on the Twinkies, felt herself falling … and then Nick caught her. Cardboard crunched and cellophane crackled between them as their chests came together and squashed the Twinkie box.
“Oh!”
His arms held her close, his hands splayed across her shoulder blades to keep her steady, and when she looked up from the flattened remains of her prize—he had let go of it, after all—somehow Nick’s face hovered only inches from her own. Concern turned his eyes mesmerizing and blue. Chloe felt herself melting, easing into the warmth of his arms like Moe easing into a brilliant patch of sunlight, and understood exactly what it was about the heat that made the cat purr.
“Whoops,” she whispered.
His gaze dropped to her mouth. She wanted to say more, just to keep his attention there, but the feel of being in Nick’s arms stole her breath and sent her wits walking. She licked her tongue over her lips, drew a deep breath, and couldn’t release it to save her life when she felt her chest expand and press closer against him. Time spun slower.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Mmmm-hmmm.” Better than all right. “Thanks.”
And thank God he didn’t let her go. Instead, he held her a little tighter. “You should’ve just given up the Twinkies peacefully,” Nick murmured. “Now they’re ruined.”
As if she cared. She’d crush a million boxes if it would land her in his arms. Chloe didn’t know how she’d lived without his warmth surrounding her these past weeks. Like a supplicant, like a woman in love wanting to be kissed, she tipped her head back.
Her eyes drifted closed. Please, just give me this one moment, she thought as she sensed Nick’s face coming nearer. I’ll live on it forever and never ask for more.
“Chloe … ?”
The wonder in his tone opened her eyes. The desire she glimpsed in his gaze made her heart spin into a happy dance of love lost and returned. He was going to kiss her! Even without knowing the truth of their baby, Nick really wanted her, just for herself. It was all she could’ve dreamed, happening before her eyes.
He lowered his head fractionally closer. His minty toothpaste breath drifted past her cheek and the lean, close-shaved caress of his jaw followed, making her twist her head to capture his mouth. Kiss me.
“Kiss me,” she whispered aloud. “Oh, Nick—”
His whole body went still. Slowly he drew back, and the heat in his eyes was from anger, not passion.
“What?”
“I—I—I—” I said it out loud! “I was kidding!” She raised her Twinkie box prize and tossed it onto the kitchen table. “I win!”
“You win.�
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She nodded.
“You win … that.” He cocked his head toward the Twinkies.
She nodded.
“You did all … that, just to win.” He straightened his glasses and peered at her. “Ruthless competitor that you are, of course.”
Was that irony in his voice? “Umm, sure.”
“Like hell,” Nick said. “You’re not like that, Chloe, and we both know it.”
She gestured lamely toward the Twinkies.
“You were serious.”
“All true Twinkie aficionados are serious about their—”
“Cut it out, Chloe. This is important. I have to think.”
Don’t think! Don’t think! She grabbed his hand. “Later. Think later,” she said rapidly. “I know! Let’s go watch that Three Stooges tape I rented.”
She yanked on his hand, trying to pull him toward the living room and away from any further explorations of the disaster that had just happened between them. He didn’t budge.
Now she knew how Larry felt when they played tug-of-war with his doggie toys on the slick kitchen linoleum. Lots of movement … no forward motion.
“You’ve never kissed me before,” Nick said.
Her heart twisted. Chloe quit pulling and let go of his hand. “I didn’t kiss you now, either.”
“You … ” Nick’s gaze searched hers. Then, typically, he dismissed the facts and went straight for the truth. “You wanted to.”
She was in so far over her head. But as long as they were speaking truths, Chloe figured she might as well play along.
“So did you.”
He frowned. “I didn’t. I can’t. I won’t.”
Her hopes rose. She couldn’t help it. “Which is it?”
Nick slammed his hands onto her bright Spanish-tiled countertop hard enough to make her wince. That had to hurt, but he didn’t seem to notice. He squeezed the edge hard enough to whiten his knuckles. “I won’t.”
Why not? part of her wailed.
“I won’t come between you and—” He ducked his head and his gaze shifted to her non-pregnant looking belly. “—and the father of your baby.”
Chloe stared at him, openmouthed. This was a wrinkle she hadn’t anticipated.
“Who is it?” Nick asked.
Tell him the truth! part of her urged. But the Chicken Little side of her personality prevailed.
“I—I told you. It’s over.” Over because he didn’t love her. Over because having a family now would ruin Nick’s inventing career.
Most of all, over because she owed it to her baby to accept nothing less than a father who loved and wanted children. The kind of father she’d never known.
“Even now, it’s over?” Nick asked, turning to lean on the countertop instead of mangle it in his hands. “Even with the baby? Babies change things—”
“Not for him.” Not if she could help it.
He frowned. “You’re wrong. I know you haven’t dated that many men lately, Chloe, but—”
“Now you’re the expert on the men I date?” she interrupted, crossing her arms over her chest. “Thanks, Mr. Dating Game, but—”
“—but I think,” he continued patiently, holding her gaze with his own, “whoever he is, he deserves to know he’s going to be a father.”
“No!”
Chloe jumped and grabbed the mangled Twinkie box. If he wouldn’t move on, then she would. She’d move right on to a hundred fat grams’ worth of distraction, if that’s what it took, and nobody had better try to stop her. Cellophane rustled as her fingers touched the Twinkie pancakes inside the box. Then Nick’s hand closed over the outside.
She snatched it out of his reach. “I’m hormonal,” she snapped. “Cut me some slack, okay?”
He raised both hands and grinned. That grin alone was enough to break her heart. How had coming so close that night only wound up pulling them apart now?
“Okay … if you tell me who your baby’s father is.”
Chloe made a face at him. “Like a dog with a bone.”
“Ruff.” His grin widened. “Well?”
“No deal.” She unwrapped a Twinkie and licked up some of the sweet, squished-out filling, trying not to show all the sidestepping going on in her brain. “Drop it, Nick. He’s … he’s gone, and he’s not coming back.”
“Gone? Gone where?” Nick spread his arms wide, turning a circle between her kitchen table and the sink as though looking for something. “He didn’t just vanish.”
“No, he—he—he—” Oh, great. Now he’d rendered her tongue-tied and stammering, she, who’d never been at a loss for words in her life. Frustrated, she cried, “I don’t need him. I can do this on my own!”
“Like you do everything else?” He slammed his hand onto the kitchen table. “Dammit, Chloe! You don’t have to do everything all by yourself!”
Why not? She always had. “I’m doing this,” she said quietly.
Nick’s hands touched her shoulders. Slowly, she looked up at him, then licked some filling from her fingertip. “I’ll be okay.”
He squeezed gently, his gaze stuck on her mouth, then blinked up at her. “Let someone help you. Let him help you. He has a responsibility to you.”
She shook her head.
“Dammit, don’t tell me he ran out on you!”
The sudden fury in his face caught her off guard. Chloe stepped back, stammering out a reply.
“He—he didn’t run out on me.”
Nick arched his eyebrows. I’m waiting, his expression said.
Oh, cripes. This just got worse and worse. She’d thought she could handle it at first, but … .
“That wasn’t it at all. No, he—he—he—” Desperate, Chloe wheeled her arm in a circle as though that might kick-start her imagination. “He—”
“He … ?”
She looked around, seeking inspiration. Her gaze landed on the “Macho Men of the Military” pinup calendar hanging beside her refrigerator—Mr. April was dressed in a sailor’s hat and boots and not much else besides a smile—and all at once, Chloe had the lie she needed.
“He’s in the marines,” she blurted out.
Nick’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “The marines.”
“Sure. He was, um, called back to duty suddenly.”
“I don’t remember you dating any marines.”
Aaack. He was right. Chloe crossed her fingers behind her back and gave Nick her sweetest smile. “I didn’t tell you about him,” she said, spinning a more elaborate story in her imagination. Love lost to duty, a brave soldier called back before his true love could tell him about their baby … maybe it was crazy, but she was committed now.
“I just couldn’t tell you,” she said, adding a sigh for effect. “Bruno was too special to be shared.”
Chapter Five
Bruno.
The name haunted Nick night and day for the next two months. Even his work was affected. Who could concentrate with thoughts of Chloe’s mystery marine buzzing around in his head?
He could, dammit. Scowling at the printout in his hands, Nick tried to make sense of the scrawled notes he’d made past midnight last night—he’d resorted to working past dark most days, just to get something done—and finally gave up in disgust. Something had to give. It just couldn’t be his work.
And it couldn’t be Chloe, either. She needed him, now more than ever.
Hell, what a mess. Nick threw the printout onto his desk and swooshed his wheeled chair across his home office to gaze out the window. As it was, he’d been dividing his time between taking care of Chloe and working on a new version of his growth accelerator—and giving short shrift to both. He’d dreamed since he was a boy about making a name for himself by inventing miraculous things. Without a proposal and prototype, without an investor and licensing, his dream would be impossible to achieve.
And without Chloe, his achievements would be pointless.
He didn’t buy her story about Bruno. Something about it rang false, and Nick had operated o
n instinct and educated guesses long enough to trust his gut. So far he hadn’t been able to find the mismatched element in her story, but he would. The more important question was, why would she keep it from him?
He had a feeling the answer hovered just on the edge of his memory, like a misremembered name on the tip of his tongue. All he needed to jog it to the forefront was the right stimulus… whatever that was.
With a growl of frustration, Nick slapped his hand onto the thick windowsill beside him, ready to whirl back to his computer and try to get something done. Instead, a flash of movement outside caught his eye and stilled his slide. A second later, he realized what he’d seen.
A bird bobbing past the window.
Not flying, not soaring or swooping or gliding. Bobbing.
It could only be Shep, Chloe’s winged avenger. Where one of her animals were, she couldn’t be far behind. And where Chloe went, trouble followed. Nick decided to investigate.
Outside, he spotted her halfway down the block, power walking through the shade of a feathery-leafed mesquite tree. Her shimmery orange bicycle shorts, yellow T-shirt, and floral baseball cap glowed bright as the early-summer Saguaro Vista sun overhead. Chloe added more vibrancy to their small-town block than all the surrounding Fifties-era red brick houses and their water-thrifty desert landscaping put together. As he watched, she waved to an elderly neighbor lady who was outside gathering her newspaper, then crooked her elbows at her sides and picked up speed.
Just as he’d suspected, Shep rode on her shoulder—which explained the bobbing he’d seen earlier, if not the rest of what he saw now. Her beagle, Larry, secured by an auto-winding leash attached at Chloe’s waist, trotted along at her side with his tongue lolling. Moe the cat slinked through the yards bordering the sidewalk, safe prowling distance from the rest of the menagerie but keeping up, all the same. The only things their troupe lacked were Chloe’s goldfish and her hamster, Curly.
Waitaminute … Nick peered closer. If he didn’t miss his guess, that hunk of rounded hot pink plastic spinning at Chloe’s heels was Curly’s exercise ball. Powered by furiously pumping rodent feet inside.
