Expecting The Doctor's Baby. Teresa Southwick
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with one wall covered in a bold burnt orange. It was colorful, warm and inviting.
“My father h-hates it,” she said.
Mitch moved closer and the spark of anger in his eyes was clearly visible in the dim light. In spite of the simmering hostility, his touch was gentle when he crooked a finger beneath her glass and urged it to her lips for a sip.
“Your father is a first-class idiot.”
Maybe, but he was the idiot who’d raised her and she loved him for that. She owed him a lot. “Thanks for getting the valet to let my father know not to wait for me.”
His mouth pulled tight for a moment but all he said was, “You’re welcome.”
“And thanks for not giving me too hard a time when I insisted the valet tell him that I wasn’t feeling well.”
“As opposed to you’d rather walk barefoot on glass than get in the car with him?”
“Yes,” she said. “I know you don’t understand—”
“You’re right. I don’t get it. You’re bright and beautiful and witty. I don’t understand why you let him get away with treating you like a ditz.”
“He’s entitled to his opinion about what I do.”
“That doesn’t give him the right to be vicious.”
She took another sip of brandy and felt it warm her inside. The look Mitch was giving her heated her, too, in an entirely different way.
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