Baby, I'm Yours

Sliding open the garage door, she revealed the marina parking lot and her restaurant/home up the hill overlooking docked crafts bobbing in the harbor.

They’d been on their way to his forty-two-foot sailboat when they’d been delayed by a spontaneous make-out session against a string of garages for marina residents. And hey, since he owned the truck and bass boat inside, why wait?

Zipping his pants, he tracked her sweet butt hauling up the planked walkway toward the two-story restaurant she co-owned with her sisters. A few leftover Christmas lights illuminated her double-time progress away from him. He considered simply letting her go and giving them both some space. But even as frustrated as he was over her deep freeze, he owed Claire for challenging him back to life after years of numbed emotions.

That meant he couldn’t let her walk away scared.

Snagging his shirt, he vaulted over the side of the boat. He stuffed his arms through the flannel softness that now carried Claire’s lilac scent, along with a few ripped buttonholes from her frantic hands.

“Hold on.” He dashed after her, the tails of his open shirt flapping behind him.

The need for a better end to their weekend raked aside everything else, including shoes. He thudded barefoot past the marina office onto her property, across the patchy sandy lawn.

Toes darn-near frostbitten, Vic made it to her front porch a hairbreadth behind her. He braced a hand just beside her and rested his cheek against the back of her head, nuzzling against her tangled hair. She tensed, but she didn’t move, gasping in the humid night.

His brain scrambled for the right words, a way to shift them back to what they’d shared before he’d ruined it by taking her to bed—or to his boat. “I know you needed me to say something, and I fell short of the mark.”

The tense brace of her shoulders sent alarms through him. Claire was beyond upset. She was in a blind panic. What fears of her own was she carrying around that she hadn’t shared with him any more than he’d told her about his?

And what a time to realize they hadn’t been friends in any meaningful manner after all. Just meal-sharing acquaintances who’d gotten naked together. “God almighty, lady, you’re the most exasperating and incredible woman I’ve ever met. But I’m not very good at the pretty words.”

Slowly, she turned, tilting her chin defensively. She reached, her hand hovering between them almost touching his bare chest, but settling on the open shirt instead. “I need to be alone right now. But I promise I’ll let you know if I’m…”

She didn’t need to finish. Her shuttered expression said it all. They couldn’t go back to what little they’d had. Disappointment chugged through him, more than he would have expected three short days ago.

His hands slid from her face. “Okay, I’ll be waiting to hear from you then. You know where to find me.”

He stepped back from the porch, Claire, her smile. Déjà vu swept over him as she sprinted up the steps and into her antebellum restaurant/home. How many times would he watch people he cared about fade from his life?

Damned if numb wasn’t better after all.

One

Charleston, S.C.: Three-and-a-half months later

“Claire, if you handle a man with as much finesse as you’re using on that swizzle stick, it’s no wonder you sleep alone.”

Tucked in a corner of her bustling restaurant kitchen, Claire surrendered the pitcher of mint juleps to her sister before she sloshed ice onto the counter. “Swizzle stick? Either you’re more innocent than you let on or you’ve just insulted some poor guy in a big—or would that be little?—way.”

“Guilty as charged,” Starr answered ambiguously as she assumed control of the fragrant mixed drink, sprinkling fresh mint leaves on top before passing it over to a waitress.

Claire picked through her herb garden in the open window while stifling the urge to blurt how she’d handled one man a little too well three-and-a-half months ago. Now, she had a permanent reminder of that weekend-long sensual feast last January.

Her hands shook as she snagged the empty bowl for parsley sprigs. “I’m too busy for a love life.”

Today in particular, she had enough on her plate feeding the Beachcombers Bar and Grill Saturday lunch crowd while prepping for the packed week of catering events. Even with the help of her two foster sisters, co-owners in the business, soon she would be busier still with a baby on her hip. Not that she intended to let that information leak to the kitchen full of staff clanging pots and filling orders.

She had to tell the baby’s daddy first.

And she would—after this week passed and she could compose herself with a long bubble bath. She’d only been delaying telling Vic out of practicality. Right? Ever reasonable, she always made the practical decision.

Except for once, and that whopper had landed her in the same shoes as her pregnant unwed mama. However, unlike her mama, Claire was blessed with resources and choices. No one would force her to hand over her child.

Starr rolled silverware inside napkins with lightning speed, pouring more of that frenetic energy into swaying along with beach music thrumming through the sound system. “Who said anything about love? I’m only talking about you getting out more, dating. Pencil in some fun time on that perfectly ordered daily agenda of yours.”

Even Starr’s dark hair snapped with energy, curls straining to pop free from the constraining long braid while Claire felt more like one of the wrung-out rags in the industrial sink.

“I am enjoying life since I love my work.” Huffing a lank wisp off her forehead, she scooched closer to the counter to make way for a waiter balancing a cornbread-stuffed catfish special.

Vic’s favorite.

Her hand drifted downward. She stopped shy of her stomach, shooting a quick glance at her younger foster sister. Starr’s eagle eye missed nothing, a skill gained from her time on the streets before she landed in the same foster home as Claire and their other foster sister, Ashley.

Claire eyed the swinging door with longing. If only she could dash out of the humid kitchen, away from too-discerning questions. But she couldn’t risk leaving for at least an hour since Vic Jansen had parked his fine butt in her dining room for lunch.

“Work,” Starr snorted. “Work won’t sizzle you with a look or have you ready to climb out of your skin after a kiss.”

Do not think of Vic. Vic’s kiss. Vic’s hard-muscled body under her hands, his tall strength covering her with such seductive gentleness and utter confidence in every deep stroke.

Uh-oh. Hormone alert.

Claire clipped a fistful of chives, ran them under the faucet and fanned them along the butcher block. “Cooking is relaxing.” Order in the middle of chaos. “I had a blast decorating that baby shower cake last night, listening to the spring rain patter.”

Until she’d fallen asleep in her frosting. Claire whacked the chives.

Work might not launch her hormones into overdrive, but it also didn’t confuse her like the man eating in the next room. She needed reliability in her life, especially now. Even with its shoestring budget, her business provided more stability than any man with broad shoulders that screamed to her fingers explore me…

A crash echoed from the narrow hall.

Claire winced at the clatter of shattering china. Superstitious Starr snatched a saltshaker from the counter and pitched a pinch over her shoulder.

Another reason to keep quiet about the baby. Claire refused to let anyone label this pregnancy the latest in a gosh-awful string of bad luck alongside a leaky roof. A broken water pipe. A rotten board giving way on a porch she could have sworn was in pristine condition. All expensive repairs she could ill-afford if she wanted to keep the business.

Jeez, some days she almost wondered if somebody was out to ruin her—or her house.

Not a chance would she let that happen. This historic old wreck was the only real home she’d ever had. Her biological mother had skipped from apartment to apartment, shelters sometimes too, depending on her finances. Tina McDermott had tried her best to provide for her daughter, but as a seventeen-year-old single mother booted out by her parents before graduation…well, options sucked.

The Department of Social Services had removed Claire at age eight, after discovering Tina was leaving her child alone to work the midnight shift at a truck stop. The Department of Social Services had placed Claire in the care of a kooky, wonderful old woman with a dilapidated antebellum mansion, no money, and a half dozen foster daughters. Many more came and went, placed with permanent families. All but Starr, Ashley and her. When “Aunt” Libby died just over a year ago, she’d left the house to the three of them. Starting a restaurant together was a near-impossible dream, but one they held tenaciously.

Starr passed a basketful of rolled napkins to a busboy before turning back to Claire. “Maybe I’m being a little pushy today because I’m worried about you pulling off all these parties. No offense, but you look like hell.”

“Not a problem. You’re talking to me. Remember?” She picked up her knife and resumed chopping. “The Queen of Anal Retentive. Who wouldn’t look like hell during a busy lunch hour?”

She couldn’t control the exhaustion of her pregnancy, but she prided herself on her organizational skills, a matter of survival when she’d been living with Tina.

Claire chopped faster. Multiple orders echoed up to the high ceiling, along with the familiar clamor of clanging dishes, shouted calls for another pitcher of sweet tea.

Vic drank her sweet tea by the gallons.