Читать книгу Baby Business: Baby Steps - Karen Templeton - Страница 11

C.J. stared through his office window at the mottled Sandias on the other side of the city, backlit by masses of foamy, billowing white thunderheads. He checked his watch for the hundredth time, but it was still too early.

Today. Today, he’d know for sure.

The first lab result—which showed that, yep, his little guys had indeed, against all odds, found their way back into the game—had left the door open for the second. He’d been reasonably able to concentrate up till now, but the closer he got to D-Day, the more toastlike his brain became. Every time his phone rang, his stomach jolted. He’d even spaced on an appointment with a new client earlier, something he never did.

Not since his MBA days, when he’d sweated out that last, excruciating final in Statistics, had he gone through this kind of wait-and-see hell. Only a damn sight more was hanging on the outcome of this test.

Worst of all, C.J. still had no idea how he felt about any of it. Or was supposed to feel. Not that the idea of being responsible for this innocent little dude still didn’t make his stomach knot, but the initial constant howl of outrage had at least throttled down to the odd, intermittent burst of irritation. After all, he’d been warned this could happen, that he needed to be diligent about checking. That he hadn’t was nobody’s fault but his. So if he’d dodged the bullet, by rights he should be profoundly relieved.

Except …

C.J. glared at the cloud-shaped shadows scudding across the face of the mountains. So what was up with the kick to his gut every time he saw the baby—which had only been a couple of times, given both his and Dana’s impossible schedules and Dana’s justified resistance to getting too cozy before the results came back? Never in a million years would C.J. have guessed that, in the end, some idiotic biological imperative could override more than twenty years of what he’d been completely convinced he’d wanted. Or, in this case, not wanted.

But there it was, jeering at him from the sidelines: an unwarranted, and completely illogical, anxiety that Ethan might not be his.

Val appeared in his doorway, hands parked on hips. “Okay. You want to tell me what in tarnation is up with you today?”

C.J. swiveled his gaze to her don’t-even-think-about-messin’-with-me one. And part of him wanted nothing more than to come clean to this woman who’d become far more than an office manager over the past few years. But until he knew for sure, he wasn’t keen on letting any more people into the loop than absolutely necessary. Even Val, increasingly difficult though it was to keep her out.

“Sleepless night,” he said. Which was true. And not only because of the whole tenterhooks thing about his possible paternity, but because every time he’d start to drift off, Dana’s horrified reaction to his suggestion that they live together would romp through his thoughts. Not that he blamed her. Why in God’s name he’d thought it made perfect sense at the time, he had no idea. Why he still thought so, he understood even less.

Especially considering the serious train wreck potential of having Dana Malone living under his roof.

“Never affected your work before,” Val said, her power-saw twang slicing through his musings. “Sleepless nights, I mean.”

He glowered at her. “And how would you know whether I’ve had sleepless nights or not? I don’t exactly advertise it.”

“Other than the fact that on those mornings you grunt instead of talk, you guzzle coffee like somebody declared a shortage, and your ties never go with the rest of your clothes? I’ve seen subtler billboards. Still and all, I’ve never known you to let your private life—if you even have one, which I sometimes doubt—affect your work. So I repeat … what’s going on?”

C.J. gave his office manager a long, steady look. “First off, there’s a reason it’s called private, Val.” She gave an unrepentant snort. “And secondly, I repeat, nothing’s going on. So sorry to blow your theory.”

“You haven’t blown anything. Because sure as I’m standing here you’re lying through those movie star teeth of yours. And you do know there will be hell to pay when I find out the truth.”

Refusing to rise to the bait, he said instead, “Thanks for covering with the Jaramillos, by the way.”

“No problem. Just remember it when it’s time for my salary review. And when you come out of that fog you’re not in, that market analysis you’re gonna ask for is already on the computer. As are the month-end sales figures. We’re up ten percent over last year, by the way, so you shouldn’t have any trouble finding money for that raise you’re gonna give me. You want more coffee?”

“God, yes. But you don’t have to—” Her raised eyebrows over her glasses cut him off. “Thank you,” he said on a rush of air.

“You’re welcome,” Val said, turning to leave.

“Don’t know how I’d live without you,” he called to her retreating back, chuckling at her fading, “That makes two of us,” from down the hall. A half minute later, she appeared with a huge mug of steaming coffee, his mail and a pink While You Were Out Slip, all of which he took from her.

“You took this message five minutes ago,” he said, frowning at her scrawled time notation beside the unfamiliar name and number. “Why didn’t you put it through?”

“Because I’m screening your calls today, that’s why. Said she’s got a house up in High Desert to go on the market, some friend of hers recommended you.”

He handed her back the slip. “I’ve got more listings than I can handle, pass her on to Bill. What?” he said after a moment when he realized Val was still standing there, gaping at him.

“Since when do you pass up a listing for a million-dollar house? She gave me the address and the square footage, I checked the comps,” Val said to his unanswered question. “Maybe even a million-two.” She firmly put the slip back on his desk. C.J. picked it up again, held it in front of her.

“And the whole reason I took on the other agents was to give me at least half a shot of seeing forty. And Bill could use the finessing practice. What?” he said again at the twin lasers piercing him from those beady eyes of hers.

“Nothin’s goin’on, my fanny,” she muttered, snatching the slip and once again hotfooting it out of his office. A few minutes later, she buzzed him to announce she was going to lunch and that all the calls were being forwarded to his office, and to ask, did he need anything before she left?

“No, I’m good,” he said, although he wouldn’t mind putting in an order for an auxiliary brain right about now. He cursorily checked his mail, which included an invitation to yet another charity function, then forced himself out of his chair and down the hall to the small room where they kept employee records, finally addressing a task he’d been putting off for days.

Minutes later, he was back at his desk, Trish’s social security number scrawled on a Post-it note, making a phone call he’d never in his wildest dreams envisioned himself making. And not only because he’d once dated the P.I., years ago when she’d been a rookie cop who’d pulled him over for speeding.

“You say this chick left the baby with a friend of yours?” Elena Morales now said, clearly unable to suppress the curiosity in her voice.

“Yeah. The mother’s cousin, actually.”

“I see. And you’re worried this gal won’t come back?”

“No, actually, I’m worried she will. That is to say …” C.J. rubbed the space between his brows, realizing he must sound like a primo nutcase. “It’s complicated. And I’d like to see as few people hurt as possible.”

“The baby’s yours, C.J., isn’t he?” Elena said quietly.

“Very possibly,” he admitted. “I’ll know soon.”

“Wow,” Elena said, the single word positively drenched in amused irony. “Sounds like somebody’s finally grown up.”

C.J. grimaced. Even in her early twenties, Elena had wanted more than C.J. had been willing, or able, to give her. From what he understood, she’d found it, with someone else, shortly after they’d split. “I was twenty-five when we dated, Lena. Thinking back, I probably shouldn’t have been allowed out in public, let alone anywhere near another human being.”

She laughed. “Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s over, it’s done, and I seem to recall we had a lot of fun. For a while, anyway.” He could hear the smile in her voice. “Besides, regrets are a waste of energy. I’m just saying, I’m hearing something now I never heard then.”

“And what might that be?”

“I’m not sure. Like maybe you actually give a damn? That you’re involved. Anyway. I’ll get on this, and I’ll let you know as soon as I find something. Or the woman herself.”

But instead of feeling more settled now that he’d taken at least some control of the situation, he felt more discombobulated than ever. Involved? Try trapped. In a situation not of his choosing, and yet undeniably a result of his own idiocy. If he’d only listened to his urologist … if he hadn’t given in to Trish’s entreaties …

If, if, if.

The phone rang; without checking the display, he punched the line button.

“Turner Realty—”

“Mr. Turner? It’s Melanie from Foothills Lab. We have the results of your DNA test….”

This, there was no keeping from her mother. Not that she hadn’t been tempted.

“But why, Dana? Why do you have to go live with the man?”

As she was saying.

“Because, Mama,” Dana said, mindlessly tossing enough clothes into a suitcase to get her through the week, “now that there’s no question that C.J.’s the father, his custodial rights far outrank mine. No matter what Trish wants,” she added, cutting her mother off. “And, you know, considering his initial aversion to fatherhood, maybe everybody should see his willingness to do right by his kid as, you know, a good thing?”

“What’s this?”

Dana turned to find her mother fingering through one of the many spiral notebooks Dana kept around the house, confusion etched in her features when she glanced up. “You’re still writing?”

“Yes, Mama, I’m still writing,” Dana muttered, practically grabbing the book from her mother and tossing it on top of the clothes. She’d started scribbling down ideas for a story as a way to dodge the depression that had threatened to take her under a year ago, only to find the outlet far more fulfilling than she would have ever expected. And increasingly habit-forming, despite all the other demands on her time. She’d only mentioned it to her mother once, however.

“Oh. I thought you’d given up on that. I mean, isn’t it kind of pointless?”

“Ma? Hello?” She zipped up the bag. “Bigger fish to fry right now?”

Her mother huffed and seamlessly shifted gears again. “So why can’t you share custody? Ethan could go to his father’s house one night, yours the next—”

“Because C.J. knows less about taking care of a baby than I do? Because it’s going to be hard enough for him to bond with his son without shunting him back and forth between our houses? Because my place is too small? Because Trish left him with me.”

Dana headed to the living room, her mother’s, “You could move back in with us, you know,” following in her wake. Grabbing the birdcage cover, she tossed her mother a brief, but pointed, not-in-this-lifetime glare in response. “It’s an option, honey,” her mother said, wilting slightly.

“One which I entertained for about two seconds and immediately rejected.” Dana tossed the cover over the cage, earning her a squawk from Ethan, who’d been holding a lengthy conversation with the finches from his playpen. When she caught the just-kill-me-now set to her mother’s mouth, however, she let out a long breath, then put her hands on the older woman’s arms. “Look, I know this isn’t ideal. But what can I tell you, crazy circumstances call for inventive solutions. And this is the only way I can figure out how to do what’s right by everybody. Including not violating Trish’s wishes.”

Worry still crowding her mother’s eyes, she reached across to lay her hand on top of Dana’s. “But you don’t even know what she’s gonna do, honey. And I hate the idea of you gettin’ in over your head. It’s happened before, you know, more than once. Now, don’t be put out with me,” she added when Dana pulled away to gather up the rest of her writing journals and laptop from her desk, tucking them into a canvas totebag. “The way you always see the good in people is a wonderful thing, it truly is. But while I’m sure C.J. intends to do his best by his child, that doesn’t mean—”

“—that he’s even remotely interested in taking us as a package,” Dana finished over the sting of her mother’s words.

“Well. It’s just that you’re so tender-hearted, you know—”

“That doesn’t mean I’m blind,” Dana said, reeling on her mother, her arms clamped over her midsection. “Or stupid.” Faye’s eyebrows lifted. “Okay, fine. To put an end to your pussyfooting around the subject, I don’t suppose there’s any point in pretending I’m not attracted to the man.”

“See, that’s what worries me—”

“Well, stop it. Right now. Because I am also very well aware that C. J. Turner isn’t interested in me that way. Besides, even if he was looking to settle down, which he’s made plain he isn’t, I can’t see that we have anything in common other than Ethan. So see, Mama, I have thought this through. Long and hard. So you’re going to have to trust that I’m made of sterner stuff than you’re apparently giving me credit for.”

“And if your heart gets broken? Again?”

“Not gonna happen.” Dana looked steadily at her mother, knowing full well it wasn’t only Dana’s potential attachment to C.J. she was worried about. She tapped down the twinge of apprehension that echoed through her and said, “Now if you want to be helpful, you could pack up Ethan’s diaper bag for me.”

A request that, amazingly enough, derailed the conversation.

Two hours later, however, standing in the stone-floored entryway to C.J.’s more than spacious house, holding a babbling Ethan and gawking through the living room’s bank of floor-to-ceiling windows at the mountain vista scraping the periwinkle sky, her only thought was, I am so screwed.

And only partly because of the excruciating awkwardness of the situation, the way C.J. and she were suddenly acting with each other like a couple on a forced blind date. Nor was it—she told herself—because she was in any danger of falling for the guy. His house, however …

Slowly, she pivoted, taking in the twelve-foot ceilings, the stone floors, the archways leading in a half-dozen directions. Not that her parents’ three-bedroom, brick-and-stucco ranch house was exactly a shack. But compared with this …

This, she could get used to. Unfortunately.

“You hate it,” she heard behind her.

She turned to see C.J., in jeans and a faded Grateful Dead T-shirt, carefully setting the birdcage into a small niche right inside the living room. “Not at all. Why would you think that?”

“There’s not exactly a lot of furniture.”

True, other than the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed to the gills, the decor was a bit on the spartan side. But the oversized taupe leather sofa and chairs, the boldly patterned geometric rug in reds and blacks and neutrals underneath, got the job done. “It’s okay, I like it like this.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

His eyes swung to hers. Tonight, an odd whiff of vulnerability overlaid the cool confidence, that aura of success he normally exuded. In fact, if she weren’t mistaken, there was the slightest shimmer of a need for approval in his expression. Although she imagined he’d chop off a limb rather than admit it.

“I’m here so seldom, I never got around to …” He made a rolling motion with his hand. “You know. The stuff.”

She smiled, his obvious discomfiture settling her own nerves a hair or two. “Accessories, you mean?”

“Yeah. All those little touches that make a house a real home. Like your apartment.”

What a funny guy, she mused, then said gently, “It’s not the stuff that make a house a home, C. J. It’s the people who live there.”

He nodded, then apparently noticed she was about to drop the baby. “Urn … well, I suppose I should show you where you and Ethan are going to sleep.”

“Good idea. Although …” She hefted the baby toward him. “Here, he’s gettin’ heavier by the second.”

“Oh … sure.” After only a moment’s hesitation while he apparently tried to figure out the best way to make the transfer, C.J. gingerly slipped his hands under the baby’s armpits, giving her a relieved smile once the baby was securely settled against his chest, rubbing his nose into the soft gray fabric of his daddy’s shirt. C.J.’s eyes shot to Dana’s. “Does he need a tissue or something?”

Dana laughed, even as her insides did a little hop-skip at the mixture of tenderness and panic on C.J.’s face. “No, I think that means he’s sleepy. We’d better get the crib set up pretty soon so we can put him down.”

“Crib. Right. Follow me.”

C. J. loped down the hall leading off the foyer, Ethan clearly enjoying the view from this new, and much higher, vantage point. Dana trotted dutifully along behind, catching glimpses of a simply furnished dining room, a massive kitchen given to heavy use of granite and brushed steel and a family room with a billboard-sized, flat-panel TV.

“I thought we could put the baby in here,” he said, as she followed him into a large, completely empty bedroom with plush, wheat-colored carpeting and a view of the golf course … and the pool. Of course. “And then this room,” C.J. said, barely giving Dana the chance to register that he’d already bought a beautiful wooden changing table and matching chest of drawers, “is yours.” She double-stepped to catch up.

“Oh!”

Not at all what she’d expected, given the masculine minimalism in the rest of the house. And certainly the cinnabar-hued walls were a shock after the inoffensive real-estate neutrals in her own apartment. But the rich color, the honeyed pine headboard on the high double bed, the poufy, snowy-white comforter and masses of pillows, immediately brought a grin to her lips.

“Blame the decorator,” he said behind her.

“Thank the decorator, you mean,” she said, unable to resist skimming a hand across the cool, smooth surface of the comforter. She could sense him watching her; she didn’t allow herself the luxury of contemplating what he might be thinking. That he’d been invaded, most likely.

“Well,” he said. “That’s good, then. Okay. Well. Here,” he said, handing back the baby. “I’ll go bring in the rest of the stuff.”

Jiggling Ethan, she stuck her head into the adjoining bathroom, shaking her head at the expanse of marble and the multiheaded shower stall that looked far grander than anything that utilitarian had a right to look. “Heck, you can even see the entire city from the john,” she murmured to the baby, who had decided prying off her nose would be amusing. “Is that weird or what?”

But then, so was this whole setup. Moving in with a man she barely knew wasn’t exactly something she did on a regular basis. Heck, moving in with any man wasn’t something she did on any kind of basis. But still. As weird setups went, this was about as classy as they came.

Once back in the bedroom, she stopped dead at the sight of the gargantuan, charcoal-gray cat sitting smack dab in the middle of the bed. Pale green eyes—curious, bored—assessed her with unnerving calm. C.J. had a cat? A cat who undoubtedly made walls tremble when he walked through the house. A cat who—the thing yawned, sucking up half the air in the room—probably lived for catching and eating things. Like mice. Chihuahuas.

Tasty little finches.

With another yawn, the beast fell over on his side and began to clean one paw. “You are so not sleeping with me,” Dana said, then carted the baby out of the cat-infested room and back to his own, where C.J. had set up the portacrib in a corner close to one window.

“Do we need to change him or something?” C.J. asked.

“Nope. Already did that before we left the apartment, so he’s good. Okay, sweetie,” she whispered to the tiny boy, nuzzling his corn-silk head before lowering him into the crib. “It’s night-night time. Get that white blanket out of the diaper bag, would you? Yes, that’s it,” she said to C.J. Except instead of reaching for it, she said, “On second thought, why don’t you give it to him?”

“Me? Why?”

“Because it’s his ‘lovey.’ It makes him feel secure. So he’ll start associating feeling safe with you.”

“Uh, gee, Dana. I don’t know….”

“C.J.” she said firmly. “The idea’s to make him feel safe. Not you.”

Those blue eyes, gone a soft gray in the twilight, grazed hers for a moment before he nodded, then lowered the blanket into the crib. The baby grabbed it and keeled over, his eyes shutting almost immediately. C.J. stood as though paralyzed, gripping the railing.

“Good God,” he breathed, his voice littered with the shrapnel of confusion, amazement, shock. “There’s a baby sleeping in my house.”

“Now you know how I felt the past two nights. Except he didn’t do a whole lot of sleeping. Come on, we can finish up in here later.”

But when she got to the door, she turned to find C.J. still rooted to the spot, his gaze glued to the now-sleeping infant.

She opened her mouth to call him again, only to tiptoe away instead.

Hours later, C.J. lay in bed, his hands linked behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Had he ever had—what had Dana called it? A “lovey?”—when he’d been a baby? Somehow, he doubted it. Although, from what she’d said when he asked her about it over pizza a little later, most babies had something they use to soothe themselves when they were by themselves—a blanket, a stuffed toy, a small pillow.

Actually, she was a font of information, especially for someone who insisted she knew nothing, really, about taking care of babies. With a pang of sympathy, he wondered how long she’d been studying up, in anticipation of being a mother herself someday. How cheated she must have felt to have had that particular opportunity ripped from her. And yet, when he’d questioned her about it, there’d been no bitterness in her voice that he could tell. Just acceptance.

Grace, he thought it was called.

C.J. hauled himself upright, his abs having plenty to say about how long it had been since he’d even set foot inside the state-of-the-art exercise room next to his bedroom. Still, there was no denying the wonder in Dana’s eyes when she looked at Ethan. Or the longing. And watching the two of them, the way they seemed to mold themselves to each other, he’d felt … ashamed. Inadequate.

And, again, envious.

He forked his hand through his hair three times in rapid succession, it finally registering that the cat had abandoned him sometime during the night. At the same time, a tiny sound came from the baby monitor next to his bed—his nod to gallantry, since Dana had been clearly dead on her feet. In the dark, C.J. stared at it, not breathing.

There it was again. Not exactly distressed, he didn’t think, but definitely a call for attention. Sort of a questioning gurgle. On a sigh, C.J. got up, adjusted the tie on his sleep pants and plodded to the other end of the house, flicking on the hall light to peer into Ethan’s room. The wide-awake baby inside turned his head toward the light, then flipped over onto his tummy, giving C.J. a broad grin through the mesh of the portable crib. A second later, C.J. caught wind of the reason behind the baby’s wakefulness.

Uh …

He scooted down the hall toward Dana’s room, both surprised and relieved to find her door open. A shaft of light from the hall sliced across the bed, where she lay sprawled in a tangle of sheets and nightgown, making cute little snuffling sounds. With an unmistakable “What the hell?” expression, the cat’s head popped up from behind the crook of her knees.

From the other room, Ethan made a noise that sounded like “Da?”

“Dana?” C.J. whispered.

Nothing. Out like a light. Although the cat prrrped at him. And Ethan let out another, more insistent, “Da?” Or maybe it was “Ba?” Hard to tell.

Resigning himself to the inevitable, C.J. released another breath and returned to the baby, who was now lying on his back, thoughtfully examining his toes with a scrunched-up expression that made C.J. chuckle in spite of … everything. Ethan swung his head around, his entire face lighting up in a huge, nearly toothless smile of welcome. Or maybe gratitude.

And way deep inside C.J.’s gut, something twinged. Like unexpectedly pulling a previously unused muscle.

“I suppose you need your diaper changed,” he said, turning on the light. Ethan, now beside himself with anticipation, started madly flapping his arms and kicking his legs, which wasn’t doing a whole lot for the smell factor.

Okay, he could do this. Just as soon as he figured out what the hell half the things in the diaper bag were for. C.J. rummaged around in the bag for a few seconds, pulling out some kind of pad thing that looked reasonable to spread underneath the kid on the changing table, followed by a diaper, powder, wipes and lotions. There. That should do it. Then he sucked in a huge breath, hauled Mr. Stinky out of the crib and over to the table, and got to it, trying to picture his own father doing this for him. Somehow, he wasn’t seeing it.

A minute or so and roughly half a container of wipes later, he heard Dana’s huge yawn behind him.

“Now you show up,” C.J. muttered, stashing the last of the wipes inside the gross diaper and cramming the whole mess into what he hoped was a bag for that purpose. But, judging from Ethan’s kicks and little squeals, the kid was clearly enjoying being sprung from the nastiness so much C.J. hadn’t had the heart to put the clean diaper on him yet.

“Sorry,” she said on another yawn. “I was really out. Uh, C.J.?”

He twisted around and thought, simply, Uh, boy. Heavy-lidded eyes. Masses of sleep-tangled hair in a thousand shades of red, brown, gold. Pale shoulders, nearly bare save for the skinny little straps holding up that nightgown. A plain thing, nothing but yards of thin white fabric skimming her unconfined breasts, falling in deeply shadowed folds to the tops of her naked feet, revealing toenails like ten little rubies. Except for where it clung just enough, here and there, to stir all sorts of unrepentantly male thoughts and musings and such. C.J. mentally shook his head. “What on earth have you been feeding this kid?”

“Food. C.J., really, this isn’t a criticism, but you might want to—”

“Oh, crap!” he yelled as a warm stream hit him square in the chest.

“—not let the air get to his … him like that.”

C. J. yanked one of the wipes from the container and started swabbing himself off. “Don’t you dare laugh.”

He heard her clear her throat. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” The gown billowed at her feet as she crossed the room. “Go get cleaned up,” she said, laughter bubbling at the edges of her words. “I’ll finish up here.”

When C.J. returned a minute later, she was bent over the crib, babbling at the baby, her voice soft and warm as a summer breeze, radiating enough femininity to drown a man in all things good and bad and everything in between. When she smiled up at him, he frowned. She misinterpreted.

“Oh, don’t be such a grump,” she gently chided. “It’s just a little baby pee. Isn’t it, sweetie?” she cooed to Ethan. “You were just doin’ what comes naturally, weren’t you?”

C.J. grunted, appreciating the irony of his son, the byproduct of his doing “what comes naturally,” returning the favor. “Glad you’re having such fun at my expense.”

Dana handed Ethan’s blanket back to him, then padded back toward the door, signaling to C.J. to follow. “They say,” she whispered, “if you don’t play with them when they wake up in the middle of the night, they’re more likely to go back to sleep. Otherwise they’ll think it’s party time. And if it makes you feel any better, he got me good the first night I had him, too.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah.” She started down the hall as C.J. flicked off the light. “I looked like I’d been in a wet T-shirt contest—” Her eyes squeezed shut for a moment, and one hand shoved her hair back from her face. Which probably wasn’t the brightest move in the world on her part in that lightweight gown. “Wow, I’m suddenly starved. What I mean to say is … how about I meet you in the kitchen and we can see what you’ve got. In your refrigerator, I mean.”

C.J. folded his arms over his bare chest, thoroughly enjoying the moment. Especially the part involving the play of the hall light over all those folds and things. Dear God, the woman had more curves than a mountain road. And C.J. wouldn’t have been human—let alone alive—had he not entertained at least a brief thought involving the words test drive.

“Oh, I can tell you what I’ve got,” he said evenly, even as You are so screwed blasted through his skull. Because if they kept meeting up at night like this, with her dressed like that, he was gonna have a helluva time remembering she was here strictly for the baby’s sake. And only temporarily, at that.

Ah, hell. Not the doe eyes. Anything but the doe eyes.

“Leftover pizza,” he said, and she flinched slightly and said, “What?”

“What I’ve got. In the refrigerator. Leftover pizza.”

“Oh,” she said, then smiled brightly. “Fine. Let me grab my robe and I’ll be right there.”

“You want it hot?” C.J. said to her back as she scurried away. When she spun around, those eyes ever wider (how did she do that?), he grinned. Because, dammit, he was having fun. And okay, because he wanted another glimpse of her before she covered everything up with a robe. “The pizza,” he said.

Their gazes sparred for a moment or two before she said, in a voice that managed to be sweet and sultry at the same time (and he really wanted to know how she did that), “Don’t put yourself out on my account. I’m perfectly capable of … taking care of myself.” Then she grinned. With her head tilted just … so.

A doe-eyed, sweet-sultry voiced smart ass. Yeah, he was in trouble, all right.