You're My Baby

Like having a baby within my budget. “I can imagine.” Although he had obviously accomplished what he came to do, he didn’t seem inclined to leave. In truth, she found his presence welcome.

They sat quietly for a few moments. “Nice music,” he said. “What show is that?”

She told him.

“I like show tunes, but I’m more of a jazz buff myself. Vintage Erroll Garner is about as good as it gets.”

The longer they talked, the more she relaxed, even enjoyed herself. Usually all colleagues wanted to talk about was school, but Keystone hadn’t been mentioned since the beginning of their conversation. She was delighted to discover he enjoyed movies as much as she did and was something of an expert on Jack Nicholson. They disagreed on whether Anthony Hopkins should make a third Hannibal Lecter appearance, but both thought Schindler’s List was a work of genius.

“And all along, you probably assumed I was just a dumb jock,” Grant joshed.

“No telling what you think of me. An artsy, impulsive broad, maybe?”

“Don’t put words into my mouth.” He stood and placed his empty glass on the kitchen divider. Then, to her surprise, he sat down next to her. Not too close, but definitely not at the other end of the sofa. “Pam, I had another reason for dropping by.”

Something shifted in the vicinity of her stomach. “Oh?”

He bent one leg and stretched his arm along the back of the couch so he could face her. “Those tears this morning? I don’t think they had much to do with a messy room.”

His sensitivity nearly did her in. She owed him some kind of answer. “I have…things going on in my life right now. Things I can’t talk about. Not yet.” She looked into his eyes. “It’s not just you. I can’t talk about them with anyone. They’re…very personal.”

“I respect that. But whatever is upsetting you, maybe I can help. You don’t have to go it alone.”

Oh, but I do. “Thank you. That means a lot.” She didn’t know what to say next, how to break the thread of intimacy his offer had woven. Fortunately she didn’t have long to worry about it. The ringing phone saved her. Quickly excusing herself, she took the call in the kitchen. It was her widowed father in West Texas, who phoned her nearly every Saturday night. She loved him for the gesture. Undoubtedly he thought his call made her feel less dateless, less lonely.

After concluding her conversation, Pam returned to the living room, surprised to find Grant standing, his hands behind his back. “That was my father. He—” She faltered, the perplexed expression on his face stopping her in her tracks. She stared at him, confused.

He took a step toward her. “I—I was looking for the TV remote. You know, to catch the ball scores.” Slowly he brought his hands in front of him. “And I found this instead.” He held up the book she’d hidden beneath the sofa pillow.

The walls whirled and his voice seemed to be coming from a great distance.

“Pam, you’re not just doing research, are you?”

There was no turning away from the question, nor from the compassion in his eyes. “No.” Helpless, she felt tears threatening once more. She gulped, then, for the first time, whispered the words aloud. “I’m pregnant.”

CHAPTER TWO

WHERE THE HELL was Ann Landers when a guy needed her? Grant stared at Pam, questions racing through his head. Carefully he set the book on the arm of the sofa and moved toward her. “That’s good news, er, isn’t it?”

She lowered her eyes, standing before him defenseless and vulnerable. “Yes,” she said quietly. “Just wonderful.”

The hitch in her voice tugged at him. “Come here.” Before he could stop to think, he had wrapped her close, cradling her head against his chest.

He held her for long minutes, feeling her shoulders tremble beneath his hand, listening to the muted sounds of her weeping. She had to be scared to death. How could this have happened? Pam was smart, savvy. She had to know where babies came from.

He scanned her living room, desperately trying to focus on something besides the feminine body pressed against him. Okay, two cats reclining on the window ledge, books piled randomly in the bookcase, a baker’s rack crowded with candles and figurines, multihued pillows everywhere and an eclectic collection of prints and pictures on her walls. Nothing matched, but it was somehow…homey. Comfortable. The same way she felt in his arms.

The faint citrus scent of her hair and the way her cheek nestled against him stirred a surprising hunger. Gilbert, don’t be a jerk. The last thing this woman needs is you coming on to her.

He stepped back then and tilted her chin so he could look at her. “Are you okay?”

She ran her hands down his arms, then, clutching his wrists, ducked her head. “I’m sorry. Tears are stupid. They don’t accomplish a thing.” She let go, then turned away from him. “Two times in one day. That must be something of a record for you.”

“Probably, but who’s counting?”

“I promise not to make it three.”

“Sure? Third time’s the charm, you know.”

“There isn’t any charm to help with this.”

What did a guy say to that? He led her back to the couch, then wrapped a purple mohair throw around her. “Sit down and let me fix you a cup of tea. That was my mother’s solution to everything.”

“It can’t hurt. Tea’s on the top shelf of the pantry.” Almost without seeming to notice what she was doing, she picked up the baby book but didn’t open it, her fingers tracing a path around the edges of the cover.

While he waited for the water to boil, Grant paced, considering his options. Should he keep his big mouth shut? Or ask the tough questions? Like where the father was. Who he was. There had to be a rational explanation for this bombshell. He was no dummy, he’d read about the biological clock. Maybe she’d deliberately gotten pregnant. But then what about her job? Talk about an awkward, potentially litigious situation.

The whistling kettle startled him. He was in way over his head. He hadn’t a clue how to help her.

When he presented her with the steaming cup of tea, she took two dainty sips before setting it on the antique trunk that served as a coffee table. Then she gave him a wan smile. “Your mother was right.”

Holding his cup and saucer carefully, he lowered himself into the easy chair. And waited. A car horn sounded outside; inside, the ticking of a wall clock created a hypnotic rhythm. The bigger cat, a black one with white spots, leaped from the window ledge and hopped into Pam’s lap and curled into a ball.

“Who’s your buddy?”

“This is Sebastian.” She nodded toward the window. “And that’s Viola. They were littermates.”

Cat names had always struck him as pretentious. He was a dog man himself. Dogs had forthright names like Buster and Max. “Where’d you get those handles?”

“The bard. Viola and Sebastian are the sister and brother in Twelfth Night.”

“Oh.” Shakespeare. It figured. If he ever had a cat, God forbid, did that mean he should call it Euclid?

They sat in silence, slowly drinking the tea. She appeared lost in thought, but finally looked up. “I’m scared.”

That was an admission he’d never have anticipated from the Pam Carver he knew. “You don’t need to tell me, if—”

“It’s time I talked to somebody, and it looks like you’re elected.”

“You can trust me, Pam.”

“I do.”

Her sincerity touched him. “Is there a man in the picture? Are you planning to marry?”

“No man.” Then she gave a short, derisive laugh. “Obviously there was one. But marriage isn’t an option.”

Grant was confused by his reaction. How could he be relieved to hear that? “Does he know?”