Baby, I'm Yours

Except three-and-a-half months ago, instead of drinking, he’d screwed up and lost himself in Claire on a day when the memories dogged him. The day Emma would have been nine years old.

He’d stayed late at the restaurant to talk with Claire. Too late, and by bottom of the third glass of tea, he’d been cupping her sweet bottom in his hands as they plastered themselves to each other in an out-of-control kiss.

He owed Claire an apology. If she wouldn’t let him deliver it in private, he would settle for their semiprivate table. “Claire? Why don’t you sit until Bo gets back? You look exhausted.”

And she did, so much so he questioned the wisdom of hashing this out now.

“Exhausted? Seems the Jansen charm’s in limited supply today,” she drawled.

Still, she sat. Apparently exhaustion won over pride.

“Even dog-tired you still put other women in the dark.”

“Ah, the charm’s back.” Claire shuffled mixed-up sugar and artificial sweetener packets in the tiny basket, resuming order. Pink on one side. White on the other.

He remembered well what those competent hands could do to his self-control. “Not charm. Truth.”

One elegant finger nudged the lantern centerpiece an inch to the left. “Things are hectic. I’m shorthanded here and the wedding’s coming up.”

“Wedding?” Jealousy bit. Hard.

“I meant, the rehearsal dinner that I’m catering next Friday and three baby showers before then.”

“Oh, right.” He knew that, and he’d forgotten just by looking at her hands.

“These catering gigs are important for the business.” She folded her hands on the table, a small burn staining the tip of one finger.

A protective urge left him itching to do something, to help her. Not that independent Claire would let him do jack. She had her foster sisters to lean on anytime, and undoubtedly a guy someday, too. She should spend her time with a man who could give her a wedding of her own to plan.

Which wasn’t him.

Vic shut down senseless regrets, unrolled his silverware from the napkin and plastered on his best life-suits-me-fine smile. “I’m sure everything will go smoothly with you organizing it.” He dropped his napkin across one thigh. “Just bring Bo the chicken-fried steak.”

She scraped her chair back, obviously ready to run. “Sure, I’ll send that right out with Starr.”

A clearing throat sounded from behind Vic. He couldn’t decide whether or not to be grateful for his brother-in-law’s return.

Bo tucked the cell phone in his jeans pocket, eyeing the two of them with suspicion—and dangerous speculation. “No chicken-fried steak for me. I’m cutting back on cholesterol. Could you hang around for a minute more while I look over the menu again?”

Staring up at the indecisive customer she currently longed to strangle, Claire stifled a frustrated scream. The bad luck just kept rolling in at a time when she needed to bolt for the kitchen, far away from the temptation to tell Vic everything now.

Or worse yet, crawl into his lap and all over him. Now wouldn’t that go over well with the Saturday lunchtime clientele?

Claire launched to her feet. Too fast. She grabbed the chairback for support as her stomach rose to her throat without warning. If Vic’s brother-in-law didn’t make up his mind soon so she could leave, she was going to toss what little she’d eaten all over Vic’s work boots. Big work boots.

No little swizzle stick.

“Gentlemen, how about I give you a while longer to look over the menu? I’ll send someone out to take your order in a few minutes.”

Please, please, please, Starr, arrive soon.

“No need,” Bo insisted. “It’ll just take a second, darlin’, and I may have some questions.” He studied the menu.

For the third time.

Was this guy torturing her on purpose?

Claire flipped open her pad again and doodled tiny baby bottles along the edges to keep from looking at Vic. She dreaded her upcoming conversation with him, but she couldn’t hide the pregnancy much longer. Already, her apron pulled tighter around her waist, and she’d seen his eyes linger on her swollen breasts.

Overly sensitive breasts that currently tingled for the touch of his talented tongue.

How would the footloose bachelor react to the news that he would soon be a daddy? Especially when she could tell he wasn’t over his divorce.

The green-eyed monster nipped her, then turned a sad shade of blue as she thought about the little girl he’d lost and how this would make him think of her all the more.

Claire’s aching maternal heart clenched in sympathy. She didn’t know the details beyond gossip since Vic never talked about his past, a telling silence. The rumor mill held that his daughter drowned and his marriage dissolved as a result.

The green-blue monster turned fiery red to confront the woman who’d walked out on Vic.

Jeez, it wasn’t like they were even dating. Just friends who’d fallen victim to a nocturnal chat and loneliness for one impulsive weekend. Okay, a three-day weekend where they didn’t sleep much. Then the whole condom accident cut everything short because for some reason she’d kept the old box around from her brief engagement four years prior.

At thirty, she should be wiser now about her relationship track record. But Vic had a dangerous effect on her self-control.

Bo slapped the menu shut, jerking Claire back to the present. She poised her pencil, ready to write and run.

“Could you list some of the other house specials?”

She inhaled three slow breaths and willed her stomach not to swell in the eons it seemed it would take this military aviator to make up his mind. “Baby back ribs. Baby artichoke salad. Baked chicken served with baby potatoes and glazed baby carrots.”

Baby? Even the menu was out to get her today. She moved on to safer foods.

“Or pulled-chicken pecan salad on a crisp bed,” she pushed aside thoughts of beds with Vic sprawled across crisp white sheets, “a bed of iceberg lettuce.”

Ice. Yes, cool, chilling thoughts.

“Hmm.” Bo tapped his menu against his chin. “What else?”

Patience, she reminded herself. A mother needed to have patience. “One of our house specialties is country ham.” Would their baby have Vic’s blond hair and his blue eyes? “With blue-eye, uh, I mean redeye gravy.”

“I’ll take the chicken-fried steak after all.”

Chicken certainly seemed appropriate for the day since she felt like a great big coward. “Ooh-kay. One chicken-fried steak and a cornbread catfish coming right up.”

Plucking a folded napkin from her pocket, Claire dabbed the sweat from her brow and willed away the dizziness. Surely it had more to do with her lack of lunch than with the rugged hunk sucking all the oxygen from the room. She pocketed her notepad in her apron and spun away on her heels.

Too fast.

The room tipped.