Miracle Baby (Harlequin American Romance) (6 page)

“And those are?” she prodded, a smile twitching her own lips.

“First, you tell me another one of your wishes. A small one.”

She considered his words, an answer forming instantly. “To never forget. Ever.”

He nodded, his eyes never leaving hers.

“And you?” she asked, fighting to keep the moment light.

“To fix things.”

“Well—” she glanced around the room “—it certainly looks like you're off to a good start.”

“Maybe. But I have other things to fix, too.” He lifted the ornament box into her line of vision. “Which kind of leads me to my second condition.”

Rolling her eyes skyward, she made a silly face, the sound of Rory's subsequent laugh chasing away the perpetual chill in her body. “And that is?”

“That you'll let me fix you dinner tonight. At my place.”

Whether it was the all-night knitting session or the visit with Rory, Maggie wasn't sure. But one thing was certain—she hadn't slept so hard or so well in months.

Ten months and twenty-four days, to be exact.

And if it wasn't for the chirp of her phone reminding her to get up, she'd still be sleeping. Soundly.

If she'd had any dreams, she didn't remember them. If she'd had any nightmares, they hadn't been bad enough to wake her. All she knew was the time on the clock when she'd climbed into bed and the time there now: 6:15.

Glancing down at the directions Rory had written out, she couldn't help but smile. For the first time in as many days as she hadn't slept, she actually found herself looking forward to the evening.

It didn't matter what he cooked or if he could even cook at all. The simple notion of having a little company actually sounded okay. Good, even.

And it made sense. Rory O'Brien was a nice man. He was sweet and funny and intelligent and…

Indisputably handsome.

She shook her head and examined the map he'd drawn
for her that morning, the path to his home clearly marked out. They would have dinner, he'd said. Then, if they were both game, they could pop in a movie or simply talk.

It had sounded good, fun even—an invitation she'd tried, but failed, to duck. And she was glad.

Why the change of heart, she wasn't sure. Perhaps it was the seven-hour nap she'd just taken. Perhaps it was the unexpected burst of energy and positive thinking the knitting lesson had created. Or perhaps it was the simple fact that Rory
understood.

Setting the directions on the table beside the door, she turned slowly in front of the mirror. The brushed jeans fit her okay, though a few extra pounds would make them look better.

She lifted her hand to her neck, fingered the tiny diamond pendant that hung from the gold chain nestled in the V of her cashmere sweater. The necklace had been a gift from Jack just six months after they'd started dating. During their subsequent years together he'd given her other necklaces, more expensive ones to reflect his budding career, but it was this one she wore most often.

Feeling her excitement begin to wane at the memory, she grabbed the directions and her keys and stepped into the hall.

 

H
E HEARD HER FOOTSTEPS
before the knock, and felt the relief they unleashed in his body. He'd been so certain she would change her mind once she got back to her suite. That she'd think better of accepting his invitation.

But she hadn't and he was glad. Real glad.

Yanking the door open, he felt his breath hitch at the sight of her standing on his front step—her long brown hair cascading over her shoulders in soft waves, the sensual curve of her lips, her dark brown eyes glistening in the glow of the porch light as they looked shyly back at him….

Oh man, he was in trouble.

“Maggie…you made it.” He stepped to the side and motioned her in. “Any problem with the directions?”

“No. They were great but—” Two steps into the hall, she stopped and peered up at him with a look he'd bet good money didn't bode well for their evening. “I wanted to bring something—a pie or a cake. But the bakery closed at five. I'm sorry.”

He felt the sudden tension in his shoulders ease. “That's okay. It would have only delayed your arrival, and I already made dessert.”

Following her gaze down to her gloved hands, he knew he wasn't out of the woods yet. Being here was tough on her. He could see it in the way she slid the tiny diamond pendant back and forth along the gold chain she wore, could sense it in the way she looked at her feet again and again.

“That's a beautiful necklace, Maggie.”

Startled, she looked up, a flash of pain crackling across her face.

Uh-oh.

“Can I take your coat?” he asked quickly as he met her wary eyes with what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “I made a fire and things are getting mighty toasty around here.”

“I'm not sure if I should really—”

“Ohhh, I almost forgot. C'mon with me for a second. I want you to see how it looks on my tree.” Tucking her arm in his, he set off in the direction of the hearth room. If he didn't act fast, she was going to leave. That much he could figure out.

He also knew he didn't want her to leave. Not yet, anyway. Not until they had a chance to spend some more time together. The key, though, was finding something that would make her relax, make her
want
to stay.

“How what looks?” she asked, her words morphing into a whisper as he pulled her through the archway and stopped in front of the tree. “Oh, Rory, it's lovely—the tree, the ornaments, all of it.”

He beamed. “I think so, too.”

And suddenly the ice was broken. Whatever reluctance or hesitation or second-guessing he'd sensed upon her arrival was gone.

Slowly, she made her way around the tree, reaching out from time to time to examine a particular ornament, each move she made captivating him more.

Maggie looked different somehow. Her face seemed softer, more relaxed. And her eyes—those large brown, doelike eyes that had drifted in and out of his thoughts all day—actually held a hint of a sparkle.

“What's this one?” she asked, brushing a gentle finger across a homemade snowflake that resembled a star. “Did you make it?”

“I sure did. In Mrs. Trantini's kindergarten classroom. It was a present for my mom.”

Maggie looked from the ornament to him, his body tightening in response. “Why do you have it then?”

Keeping his eyes locked on hers, he shrugged. “It was one of the ones I claimed after she passed away.”

Maggie looked back at the tree. “Doesn't that make it hard? Seeing it hanging on your tree…reminding you of a time that's forever gone?”

“But it's not gone,” he insisted. “Seeing it there, hanging on my tree, helps me remember. And I do. I remember how long it took to cut all the holes just right. I remember how I searched all over the house for the perfect gift box so it wouldn't accidentally rip when my mom unwrapped it on Christmas morning. I remember the way her eyes glistened when she opened it. And I remember how she insisted on hanging it at the front of the tree each year from then on…like it was some sort of priceless keepsake.”

“But hanging it now on your own tree, when you're by yourself… That doesn't cloud out the memories?”

“Nope. It just helps me remember even more.”

Maggie released the snowflake and backed away from the tree. “I see.”

“Can I take your coat now? Dinner should be ready shortly.”

In a flash he saw her shoulders stiffen as the internal war from earlier intensified. Only this time he suspected any gray areas had dissipated in favor of two distinct sides. Should she stay? Should she go? He prayed she'd opt for the former.

Her eyes closed for just a moment, only to reopen with
what sounded like a sigh of determination. “It smells good. Have you been cooking long?”

He sent up a mental prayer of thanks as he watched her wiggle out of her coat. “A couple of years, I guess. I got tired of eating standard bachelor fare.”

“TV dinners and soup?” she teased, the sudden lilt to her voice bringing a smile to his lips.

“On good days, yeah.” He draped her coat over the back of a corner chair, then turned to face her once again, the sight of her long legs and feminine features doing their best to distract him from the subject at hand. “You…you look great, Maggie.”

She glanced down at her body, the surprise on her face captivating him all the more. “You really think so?”

“How could I not?” he asked honestly.

“Well, for starters, I'm too thin. A by-product of not eating, no doubt.”

“Which you took steps to change yesterday at breakfast.”

Nodding, she continued. “And my inability to sleep has earned circles under my eyes the likes of which most raccoons would be embarrassed by.”

The circles. That was what was different. “I don't see any circles.”

A small laugh escaped her lips. “Makeup can hide almost anything. The fact that I just slept for seven hours certainly helped, too.”

“All I know is that you're beautiful. I'd be blind not to see that.” And he meant it.

Crimson rose in her cheeks, prompting him to re
direct the conversation into safer waters. “Do you like lasagna?”

Her face lit up. “I love it!”

“Then we're in luck.” Slipping a hand against the small of her back, he guided her toward the kitchen, the crackling of the fire in the hearth doing little to drown out the pounding in his chest. “I set the table just before you got here, but wasn't sure what you'd like to drink. I've got red wine, diet soda and bottled water.”

“Water would be fine, thank you.”

He followed her gaze around the table, watched as it lingered on the place settings for two before moving on to the candle he'd lit in the middle. Worried he'd overdone things, he searched for something to say to lighten the moment. Something that would undo the sudden tension he felt. “The first cake I made this evening actually burned. I lit that candle in the hopes it would mask any lingering smell from my faux pas.”

Her body sagged ever so slightly as she tilted her nose up and sniffed. “It certainly seems to be working.”

“I'm glad.” He pointed to a chair. “Why don't you take a seat? Everything should be ready. I just need to grab the salad from the refrigerator and the lasagna from the oven.”

And so it went—dinner, drinks, conversation, laughter, and occasional awkward moments that had nearly disappeared by the time they were done.

“Why don't we bring our drinks into the hearth room,” he suggested, the hopeful note in his voice one he simply couldn't hide. He enjoyed Maggie's company, plain and simple. She was sweet, honest, serious, funny and utterly
endearing—all things that guaranteed she'd remain in his thoughts, as she had since they'd met. Only now they'd be mixed with a longing he could no longer rationalize away. Not if the way his body reacted to her was any indication. Especially when he felt her skin beneath his palm, as he did while guiding her to the sofa.

What was it about her that made him feel like an awkward teenager? It wasn't as if he hadn't been in the company of women in some crazy length of time. Because he had. And he'd been confident with every single one of them.

Yet somehow Maggie was different. Sure, he imagined what it would be like to pull her close, to feel her body against his. He'd be a fool if he didn't. But there was more, too.

Like a desire to see her smile. And a need to keep her safe.

He pointed toward the tree, his body keenly aware of her proximity on the sofa. “I filled out one of the slips.”

She stilled her glass midway to her lips. “What slips?”

“You know, for the wishing ball. The little slips of paper that you're supposed to write your wishes on. I even put it inside.”

“Do you think it'll come true?” she whispered as she set her water on the coffee table.

“I guess we'll find out next year when I open it again.” He studied her for a moment, enchanted by the way the colorful lights of the tree reflected in Maggie's eyes. “Would you like to write one?”

She held up her palms. “No. I don't really have any wishes left.”

“That's not true.”

He reached for her hand as she turned to him with a frown. “Excuse me?”

“Well, there was the one about knitting, right?”

“Which you granted, remember?”

Nodding, he continued. “And then there was the one from earlier today.”

“I don't remember making a wish.”

“You did. In fact, we both did.”

A smile played across her kissable mouth and he felt his chest tighten in response. “That's right. You wished to fix things. Like tonight's dinner.”

“How'd I do?”

“Amazing. It was absolutely delicious.”

He puffed out his chest with a playful air. “Just call me Chef Extraordinaire.”

“But that was
your
wish, Mr. Chef. I don't remember having one for me.”

“I do.” Reluctantly, he released her hand long enough to open the drawer of the coffee table and extract a gift-wrapped box. “Which is why you should open this,” he said as he placed the square object in her lap.

“What did you do?” she whispered.

“Just open it.”

For a moment, as she stared down at the gift, he thought she was going to decline. But eventually she turned it over, her fingers finding the taped seams.

He heard her startled gasp as the paper fell to the side. “What's this?”

Scooting closer on the sofa, he ran his hand along the cover of the leather-bound book he'd purchased after work. “It's a journaling album—a place to keep your memories close and your fear of forgetting at bay.”