The Texan's Surprise Baby. GINA WILKINS
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He wanted to make sure she—um, the whole family—was safe here, he quickly corrected himself.
That was the least he could do for Hannah for now. She’d made it clear enough that she wasn’t interested in anything more from him.
It felt good to Hannah to be back at work after visiting her mother’s family in Louisiana for the past ten days. She’d gone there to break the news to her extended family about her impending motherhood and had been gratified that her relatives on that side were as supportive as the Bell family. Her widowed grandmother was already busily crocheting a delicate baby blanket that she’d promised to mail as soon as it was completed.
She spent Tuesday morning taking reservations by phone, updating the resort’s social media pages and website with new photos her sister had snapped around the place and checking in a few guests. Three thirty-something men with a three-day reservation for Cabin 5 wandered in just before noon, dressed in board shorts, T-shirts and sandals, ready for a few days of fishing and beer drinking. Judging by their behavior, Hannah suspected two of the three had gotten an early start on the latter; she hoped the other man had been the designated driver.
A tall, lanky man with a thinning mop of brown hair and beer-glazed brown eyes did an exaggerated double-take when he saw Hannah sitting behind the reception desk. He made a point of checking out her bare left hand, then smiled at her with what she assumed was meant to be irresistible charm. “Wow, when the owners of this place advertised beautiful scenery, they weren’t kidding.”
His two companions groaned in response to the outrageous pickup line. Well-accustomed to fending off passes from overly optimistic guests, Hannah merely smiled, looked at the reservation on her computer screen and asked, “Which of you is Nathan Burns?”
“That would be me,” the supposedly sober man said. “Need my signature?”
She slid a form toward him. “Yes, please.”
Skinny Romeo, as she’d mentally dubbed him, rested a hip on a corner of the desk. “The guys and I brought some big ol’ steaks for the grill and plenty of beer and wine. Maybe after you get off work, you could join us for dinner?”
“Thank you,” she said, barely glancing at him, “but I have plans. Linens and household items are provided in your cabin, but please let us know if you need anything. The convenience store, marina and grill in this building are open until seven.”
“We brought Stu’s fancy ski boat—it’s a honey. Maybe you’d find a little time to go out on the water with us while we’re here? We’ll take a cooler full of beers on ice, have a great time.”
“No,” she said simply. “And please remember to have a designated driver when you’re boating. BWI laws are strictly enforced on the lake. Let me get your keys for you.”
She stood and opened the locked cabinet in which the keys to the cabins and motel rooms were stored. She heard a snort and a snicker behind her.
“Way to go, Bill. You’ve been hitting on a woman who’s preggers,” Stu said in a mocking whisper she probably wasn’t supposed to hear.
“Not only that, he was shot down by her,” Nathan added with relish.
Three keys dangling from her hand, Hannah turned to see Skinny Romeo—Bill—flushed with embarrassment, his eyes sparking with irritation. “You could have said something,” he muttered to Hannah, who resisted pointing out that her condition was none of his business. And then he pasted on a forced, self-deprecating grin for the sake of his companions and shrugged. “Just practicing for all the bikini babes we’ll be seeing on the beach the next three days.”
Stu gave him a rough shove toward the door. “Like you’ve got a shot with any of them. Not to mention your fiancée would serve your innards to the dog if she found out. Now go on so we can get unpacked in time to do some fishing before dinner.”
“Steffie’s not my fiancée,” Bill grumbled on the way out.
“Yeah, well, she sure seems to think she is,” one of the men retorted. Hannah didn’t notice or care which because she’d already turned her attention to the next customer, an unaccompanied woman with faded red hair, heavy-lidded green eyes and frown lines carved around her unpainted mouth.
The woman was probably in her early thirties, pear-shaped, dressed in a too-tight T-shirt and denim capris with flip-flops. Her only attempt at makeup seemed to be the mascara that had smudged beneath her eyes. Hannah’s instant impression was that of a woman who’d given up on her appearance for some reason. It was almost as if a gray cloud accompanied her into the building, a fanciful impression Hannah shook off impatiently.
“May I help you?” she asked with a welcoming smile.
“Jerks, huh?” the newcomer asked with a vague gesture toward the door through which the men had just departed. “I couldn’t help overhearing some of what they were saying to you. You were pretty nice considering how pushy they were being.”
Hannah didn’t gossip about guests with other guests. “What can I do for you?” she asked without directly responding.
Accepting the hint, the woman nodded and tightened her grip on the red handbag she carried beneath one arm. “I’m looking for a motel room for a couple of nights. Someone in town told me this is a nice place to stay. I don’t have a reservation.”
“We have a few vacancies. Single or double?”
“Single. It’s just me—I needed to get away from everything for a little while.”
Hannah nodded and handed the woman a check-in form. “And how long will you be staying with us?”
“A few nights, I guess. Three, maybe four. Do I have to tell you now?”
Assuring the woman, whose name turned out to be Patricia Gibson, that she could stay as long as she wanted, Hannah completed the check-in and assigned her a lower-floor room in the motel. “We provide daily maid service unless you hang the do-not-disturb sign on your door. Linens, a mini-fridge and a flat-screen TV are also provided. Feel free to use the pool or lake swim beach, and there are grills and picnic tables in the day-use area by the beach.”
She added the usual spiel for the diner and convenience store located on opposite sides of the reception desk. “Do you have any more questions?”
“It sounds real nice,” Patricia murmured, picking up the key on a big plastic tag marked with her room number. “What was your name again?”
She had neglected to introduce herself, Hannah realized. She smiled apologetically. “I’m Hannah Bell.”
The key clattered noisily on the tile floor when Patricia dropped it. Making a face, she laughed softly and bent to scoop it up. “That’s why I needed a break. I’m so tired from working that my hands have gone clumsy. I’m sorry, I missed your name. Did you say Anna?”
“Hannah. Hannah Bell.”
“Bell. So you own this resort?”
“It’s a family business.”
“I see.” Tucking the key into an outside pocket of her purse, Patricia turned toward the door, but said over her shoulder, “This summer heat is a killer when you’re pregnant, isn’t it?”
“It can be,” Hannah agreed lightly.
“I was pregnant this time last year. I had a miscarriage, though.”
“Oh.” Hannah struggled to think of something to say in response to the unexpected confidence. “I’m sorry.”
Patricia shrugged. “It was for the best, I guess. I wasn’t married. Hard to do it on your own.”
Fortunately, she left before Hannah had to respond. It seemed to be her day for disconcerting encounters, a thought reinforced when Andrew wandered in.
He greeted her with one of his faint smiles that did not lighten his dark eyes, which were focused intensely