The Baby Bump. Jennifer Greene
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in the white casserole on the top refrigerator shelf, tagged with a note from Maybelle Charles. The casserole was her mama’s famous Chicken Surprise recipe. On the counter there seemed to be a fancy pie—pecan—anchored on hot pads that he’d have to return. The pie would definitely be from the widow five doors down, Ms. Joelle Simmons. The basket on the front porch held a peck of late South Carolina peaches. Babs, he suspected.
This was possibly the best place for a single man to live in the entire known universe. The whole town seemed to think he was too thin and incapable of feeding himself. The unmarried female population all seemed convinced that he needed a woman to shape him up. The more bedraggled he looked, the more they chased him. No one seemed to worry that he was a natural slob. They’d all decided, independently, that the right woman could fix minor male problems like that.
The food thing had started a day after he’d moved to Sweet Valley—which was more than three years ago. It was the same day he’d taken over old Doc Brady’s country practice, the same day he’d found this fabulous ramshackle place just a couple blocks from the center of town. Come to think of it—it was even the same day his parents had expressed stunned horror that he’d failed to take a cardiac surgery option at Johns Hopkins, the way they had, the way any self-respecting MacKinnon was supposed to do. His two siblings had already failed their parents by choosing their own paths, but Ike had been the worst disappointment, because he’d actually decided to follow the family heritage of doctoring. Only he was never supposed to take a job here, in this bitsy town that could barely afford a doctor in the first place.
Everything about Sweet Water was perfect for him … except for the minor issue with all the food. The single ladies expected their plates returned. They cooked and baked and made everything on pretty little girly-type plates that invariably had their names on the bottom. Only when he returned them, he usually had to fight to leave.
He was bushwhacked into a chair, fed something else, made to drink something else, was expected to shell out some flirtation and interest.
Ike couldn’t summon the energy to be rude, but he lucked out when Pansy showed up at his door. She refused to leave him, insisted on being adopted and went with him everywhere. She really helped with shortening the visits from all the single ladies.
Upstairs was home. Downstairs was his office—as in open to any and everyone.
Old Doc Brady hadn’t run it that way, but Ike did. He’d inherited some help with the place. Bartholomew had some personality issues, but he cleaned the whole first floor at night and loved the part-time work. A retired nurse named Stephie still lived in the area, and always came in if he needed extra help. And the mainstay of the office was sixty-year-old Ruby, who was a wee bit bossy—but she could run a small country without breaking a sweat.
Right now, though, was his favorite time of day. He fetched a mug of coffee and the paper and ambled out to the screened-in back deck. Tuesday he had no scheduled patients until ten. Ruby would shout to let him know when she got there.
Pansy refused to come out. She was still worried about the snake.
Ike was worried about nothing. The morning was cool; he’d had to pull on a sweatshirt. Occasionally he heard the regular sounds of school buses going by, cars starting to congregate behind lights, stores opening and the occasional conversation as people headed for work or breakfast.
He’d finished the paper and started his second mug of coffee when he heard Ruby’s voice from the front desk—and then the brisk snap of her footsteps coming down the hall to the back door. Par for the course, her portly shape was draped in a wild flower print, accessorized—her word, not his—by bright pink earrings, shoes and lipstick.
“Lady here to see you, Doc. Ginger Gautier. Cashner Gautier’s granddaughter. You’ve got a ten o’clock—”
He glanced at his watch. It was only 9:10. “If you wouldn’t mind, ask her to come on back.”
“You mean in your office? Or in an examining room?” More than once, Ruby felt obligated to explain appropriate behavior to him, always tactfully and framed as a question. Still, her tone made it clear that patients shouldn’t be seen on the back porch.
But Ginger wasn’t a patient. And he knew what she’d come to talk about.
It was always a touchy situation when someone embarrassed themselves. It wasn’t tough on the person who’d been the victim—him. But it was usually difficult for the person who’d done the embarrassing thing. Her.
As quickly as Ruby disappeared, he heard Ginger’s lighter footstep, charging fast—Ike suspected she’d really, really like to get this meeting over with. From the open door, he could see her climb over the exhausted Pansy and step out onto the quiet back porch. She looked …
Delectable.
The hair was wild. Calling it red didn’t explain anything. The color wasn’t remotely ginger, like her name; it didn’t have any of that cinnamon or orange. It was more like dark auburn, with a mix of sun and chestnut, with some streaks of red shivering in the long, thick strands. She’d strapped it up with some kind of hair leash. In the meantime, she had silver shining in her ears, on her wrist. Today she was wearing greens. A dark green shirt, pale green pants.
There was a lot of blue in those eyes. The same blue as a lake in a storm, deep and rich.
Her face was an oval. The eyes took up a whole lot of space, dominated everything about her face. She had thin, arched brows, gloss on her lips, but otherwise he couldn’t tell if she wore any makeup. She had that redhead kind of skin, though … translucent, clear, clean … give or take the smattering of freckles.
As far as the body … well. She looked more like the kind of girl you brought home to meet Mom rather than the kind a man imagined under the sheets. But Ike was nonstop imagining that body under the sheets right now. There was a lot of music, a lot of passion, in the way she moved, the way she did everything he’d seen so far. Of course, he’d been celibate for too long a stretch, so maybe he was dreaming up the sizzle he sensed in her.
That celibacy had probably been dumb. Abstinence had never worked well for him, and he could have slept with any number of ladies in town. Somehow he never had.
Maybe that was because no woman had really enticed him before. Not like Ginger seemed to. Heaven knew he could analyze her body for three, four hours and still want to analyze more. For one thing, she had significantly perky breasts. The breasts themselves weren’t all that significant, but the perky was. They were round, firm, pressed just right against the shirt. She had no waist to speak of. But the pants—well, the pants begged to be taken off. They were just cotton, or some other lightweight fabric, but he could see the outline of her fanny, her thighs, her calves. She might be on the skimpy side, weight wise, but she looked strong and healthy, making it extremely easy to imagine her legs wrapped around him, without those pants. Without that blouse.
Damn, but she was refreshing. Challengingly refreshing. Even the resentment in her flash of a smile was disarming. He was getting mighty sick of women smiling at him as if he were slab of meat. Being disliked was a lot more interesting.
“I was hoping you’d come by to talk. Want some coffee?”
She nodded. “Black.” She motioned to Pansy. “Does that dog ever move?”
“Rarely. About ninety percent of the day she’s in a coma. But don’t say the word d-i-n-n-e-r or there’ll be hell to pay. And I’m talking relentless.” He motioned her to a white Adirondack rocker while he stepped into the kitchen/lab, came back with a mug for her, and a fresh one for him. “How’s Cashner doing today?”
“Happy as a clam.” She locked her palms around the mug. “But I’m not. Being with him has made me scared to death.”
He nodded. “I’m glad you came home.”
“I had no idea. I talked to him on the phone—”
“All the time. I know. He told me. He thinks the sun rises and sets with you. And he holds it together in some conversations, especially