You're My Baby. Laura Abbot
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Pregnancy. She’d had no idea it would be so thick, so full of information. As she read, she found herself almost unconsciously rubbing her palm back and forth across her still-flat stomach and humming along with the Phantom of the Opera CD playing in the background.
She was intently studying diagrams of the stages of fetal development when the doorbell rang. She jumped up, curious. She wasn’t expecting anyone. She ran a hand through her hair, then stuffed the book under a pillow. At the door she peered through the peephole. Grant?
She undid the chain and unlocked the dead bolt before easing the door open. He loomed above her, his eyes twinkling, his mouth quirked in a grin. “You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here, right?”
She held the door open wider, by way of welcome. “It had crossed my mind. I would think you’d had enough of me for one day.”
“Apparently not. May I come in?”
“Of course.” She ushered him inside, then pointed at the only easy chair in the room. “Have a seat. Can I get you anything? A soda? Iced tea? Sorry, but I’m out of beer.” And will be for nine months.
“A soda would be fine.” When he followed her into the kitchen, the room seemed to shrink.
She took her time at the refrigerator, bewildered. Grant Gilbert had never been to her home. Why was he here tonight? When she turned back, he was leaning over the counter, his chin propped in his hands, studying her. Maybe it was because they were at eye level, but she’d never noticed before what gentle blue eyes he had. Or how his short, wavy brown hair was silvering just a bit above his ears. Flustered, she handed him a Sprite and watched him pour it over the ice. Then with the grace of a born athlete, he moved back to the living room and eased into the armchair.
She sat back down on the sofa, then decided to get to the heart of the matter. “About this morning—”
He waved his hand in dismissal. “I’m glad I could help with the theater. Were you able to get your room finished?”
Had he deliberately misinterpreted to help her save face? “Finished? You know better than that. My room is a constant work in progress.”
“Speaking of works in progress, I’d like your advice about one of my own. That’s one reason I came over.”
One reason? Were there others? “How can I help?”
As he talked, he slowly rotated the glass between his palms, every now and then pausing to see if she was following him. The need in his eyes was apparent as he explained how much he wanted to have his son with him for the year. Pam had had no idea his ex-wife was such a bitch, nor that she had made it so difficult for Grant to be with his son. “…so I’m desperate. I’m asking everyone I know if they can recommend somebody. Anybody.”
She smiled. “Not just anybody, I hope.”
He shrugged, then grinned ruefully.
She thought for a moment. “Have you contacted area colleges? There might be an older woman going back to school who would need some extra income.”
He brightened. “I hadn’t thought of that. It’s worth a try. Finding a qualified person within my budget will be a problem.”
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