Читать книгу Baby, I'm Yours - Catherine Mann - Страница 7

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.

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.

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.

Thrusting out a hand, Claire stared helplessly at the floor growing closer and could only think how apparently her bad luck wasn’t over for the day.