Baby, I'm Yours

Argh! Claire stared down at the pulverized chives. Couldn’t she go at least ten minutes without thinking about the guy? Kind of tough to manage with an ever-present reminder of him in her belly frothing up morning sickness.

Morning sickness quickly segued into afternoon sickness, thanks to a lack of sleep and the clam chowder steaming aromas and heat from a ten-gallon stainless steel pot. No wonder she looked like hell. She felt like hell.

Crash.

Starr grabbed the saltshaker.

Claire made a beeline for the door before the new waiter destroyed every dish in the place. She would just stay well clear of Vic. He had no reason to seek her out since a month after their encounter in his fishing boat, she’d told him she wasn’t pregnant. Which she’d genuinely believed after a spotting episode.

A trip to the doctor for her stomach flu shocked the dickens out of her, then scared her silly because did spotting mean her baby was in danger? And suddenly the baby wasn’t an accident or burden, but rather a little person she wanted so very much.

Sprinting for the hall, Claire hollered back over her shoulder, “Call Ashley and tell her we need help after she’s done with classes, please.”

Their reclusive younger sister preferred to hover in the background, but she wouldn’t stay secluded in her dorm while their business went under.

Claire dodged a busboy with a tub of dirty plates on her way through the kitchen into the hall. A quick mental floor-plan check assured her Vic would be safely out of sight since he always chose the same corner table, number eight.

She screeched to a halt inches away from a mountain of broken china mixed with fried okra and baked chicken.

An overwhelmed waiter with a smooshed corn muffin in hand stared up at her. “Table eight needs to place an order.”

And the bad luck just kept coming.

Where was a shaker full of salt when a down-on-her-luck girl needed it?

“Pass the salt, will ya?” Vic asked his brother-in-law, wondering how many more times he would have to come here before Claire finally talked to him. Face to face, and not in some terse little voice mail message…

No need to worry. You’re off the hook. I’m not pregnant.

Great news. Back to his rootless existence living on his sailboat, as different from his old North Dakota prairie world as possible. Totally free. Except he had these two regrets.

And one of them was walking across the packed dining room of the best-loved new restaurant in Charleston. Right toward his table.

Claire. Her name whispered in his mind like the spring breeze drifting through the open windows, rustling the fishing nets tacked to whitewashed walls. She looked so pretty and fresh in her loose jean dress cinched tight by an apron. Ceiling fans clicked overhead, lifting a strand of her caramel hair free from her gold hair clamp.

She’d been the only thing keeping him going through that other regret. Until he’d messed it up by sleeping with her, then letting his commitment-phobe mindset show.

Claire glided to a stop, her dress swishing a gentle caress against his leg that sparked a not-so-gentle jolt of desire straight to his groin conveniently camouflaged by a tablecloth.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen, welcome to Beachcombers,” she drawled, molasses-sweet tones sliding over his hungry senses. “What can I get for you this afternoon?”

How about a plate of forgiveness?

Except from her closed expression he could see it wasn’t on her menu. Her chocolate-colored gaze met his dead-on and damned if he didn’t want to add a few more regrets to his list.

She pulled a pad and pencil from her apron pocket. “The specials are cornbread-stuffed catfish and chicken-fried steak, followed with a slice of chocolate pecan pie. Could I start you out with an order of the house special barbecue wings?”

If only they could back up to where they’d been before. He missed those uncomplicated hours of staying after closing, drinking her iced tea and talking to fill the lonely evenings before he returned to his sailboat.

Hang tough and place the order, champ. “The catfish sounds fine, Claire. Thanks.”

Nodding, she turned to his brother-in-law, Bo Rokowsky, baching it with him this afternoon. Vic thanked heaven every day his sister, Paige, had found a great guy like Bo after her crummy first marriage, but he also marveled at her ability to put her neck on the block a second time around.

Vic watched the way Claire’s full lips moved as she listed other house specialties. He wondered why he kept torturing himself by coming here trying to talk to her. He would have more luck getting a response from the stuffed fish over the doors.

Women like Claire McDermott who carried the scent of fresh-baked rolls and happily ever after didn’t need a guy like him in her life or in her towering four-poster bed. He’d tried the gold band and white picket fence gig. He’d even thought he and Sonya had built a rock-solid marriage, only to have the whole thing crumble when they’d needed each other most.

Which brought him to his first and greatest regret—looking away for five freaking seconds to rebait his hook while Emma was wading. There had been a couple of other dads and kids—and one small sinkhole in the shallow riverbank.

Nope, he was through with home and hearth, nearing forty and set in his bachelor life. Work at the vet clinic offered a welcome distraction, and time with his niece took care of any paternal leanings that somehow managed to survive inside his battered heart.

Waiting while Bo read over the menu, again, Vic reeled his gaze away from Claire and fixed it on safer subjects. The gauzy curtains gusting in a briny breeze and the sound of sail lines snapping and pinging against masts.

None of which helped since he couldn’t ignore the heat of Claire standing twelve inches away.

A cellphone chirped, tugging his gaze back to the room. At least a dozen people reached into pockets or grabbed for purses, but Bo whipped the winning phone from his jean pocket. He glanced at the faceplate and pushed back his wooden chair.

“It’s Paige. I need to take this outside where I can hear better.” Bo slapped Vic on the shoulder as he passed. “Go ahead and order for me?”

“Sure,” Vic agreed, not that it mattered since the former “player” was already heading outside for the wraparound porch, so sappy gone on Paige and family life it made Vic remember lost dreams.

Silence swelled, exaggerated all the more by the increasing clamor of boat traffic outside. Clanking utensils inside. Tables full of other people apparently having no trouble at all finding things to say to each other.

Claire doodled on the corner of her pad for three clicks of the ceiling fans before flipping the pad closed. The familiar Claire returned with her smile. “Do you think this could be any more awkward?”

Vic welcomed the laugh. Perhaps he’d been worrying for nothing. Time might have fixed things for him. “Maybe if all our families joined us.”

Having her nutty—overprotective—sisters around would definitely make any situation more uncomfortable.

Claire jabbed a thumb over her shoulder toward the hall. “Starr is in the kitchen and Bo will be here again in a minute. Does that count?”

“Well, there you have it, then.” He leaned his chair back, arms crossed. “We’ve faced the worst.”

“It can only get better, right?”

Man, he hoped so.

He eased his chair down onto all fours. “How have you been?”

“Fine. Busy.” She toyed with the waistband of her creamy apron, Beachcombers scrolled on the breast pocket, underlined with a stitched string of tiny shells and footprints he itched to trace.

The waistband accentuated the gentle fullness of her breasts in the Beachcombers jean-and-white theme wear. Fuller than he remembered. And at his eye level.

His mouth dried right up.

Vic took a long swallow of his iced tea before setting the glass back on the table. He had to clear the air or dock his sailboat elsewhere. The boat had seemed like such a great idea when he’d sold off his vet practice and old family home full of memories back in North Dakota. He’d followed his sister and her kid to Charleston when she’d married a local flyboy.

Securing a job at a local veterinary clinic had been easy enough with his Cornell credentials. The boat was all about being a bachelor in this harbor town and able to pull up anchor and sail off for a weekend when memories got to be too much for him. A much better option than drinking away the memories, which he’d started doing too often in his North Dakota home that echoed with childish giggles and tiny footsteps.