Dreams of Her Own (6 page)

Then she fled.

Hiding in the powder bath, Millie splashed cold water on her face. Why? Why did these t
hings have to happen to her? Wasn’t it enough that she wasn’t pretty? That she’d never had a boyfriend? Or sex? Did she also have to be a total loser? First the shoe-size factoid, now this.

“Millie, you okay?” Darcy’s voice came through the door. “Honey, let me in.”

Millie unlocked the door then collapsed onto the toilet seat, while Darcy squeezed past the door to face her.

“There’s not enough room in here for both of us,” Millie said.

Darcy snorted. “Gee, thanks.”

Propping her arm on the sink, Millie buried her face in it, tears threatening.

Darcy rubbed her back. “Aww, honey.”

Millie sniffled.

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. It could happen to anyone.”

Yeah, but why did it have to be
me
? And why in front of
him
?
“Has it ever happened to you?”

“Well . . . no.”

Of course not.

“But, do you remember that blind date I had with, oh, what was his name? Sean? Sven? Anyway, he choked on a piece of steak the size of Texas and the waiter had to perform the Heimlich Maneuver on him. The piece of steak popped out like a cork out of a champagne bottle and landed in another diner’s wineglass, setting off a domino effect.”

Darcy shook her head. “The force of the expectorated meat knocked the glass of red wine over, the diner jumped from her chair, tipping it over, hitting another diner in the back causing him to lunge forward so that he ended up with his face in the mash potatoes.” Darcy shook her head. “Used it in
Her Last First Date.
”

“And did you ever go out with him again?”

“No.”

“And this is supposed to make me feel better, how?” Millie asked, glancing up at Darcy.

“But that’s not why I didn’t go out with him again.” At Millie’s raised eyebrows, Darcy continued with a sigh, “I didn’t go out with him again because he smelled like
lutefisk
.”

Chapter 8

Unsure what to do, Ian began cleaning off the table, mopping up the spilled water with paper towels he’d found on the kitchen counter.

He hoped Millie was okay. Choking was scary business. Curtis had choked on a hamburger once on the job. Scared the life out of Ian who’d thought he was having a heart attack. Luckily one of the guys knew the Heimlich maneuver and was able to save him. After that, Ian had learned it in case he ever needed it. This was the first time.

Funny thing, after the initial adrenalin rush, he’d again noticed how nicely Millie’s petite body fit against his. Beneath those oversized clothes lurked a dainty, but curvy frame. He’d also noticed how she smelled. Nothing floral or musky. Nothing perfumey. Just fresh. Clean.

Darcy toddled back into the kitchen. “Oh, Ian. I can’t thank you enough for saving Millie!” She laid her delicate hand on his forearm. Unlike Millie, Darcy never seemed intimidated by him.

“Is she all right?”

“She will be. She’s just . . . composing herself.” She turned to pick up the empty bowls, then eyed the wet paper towels in his hands. “And thanks for cleaning up the water.”

“Sure.”

She set the bowls on the counter. “Hey!” Darcy said to her stomach, making Ian jump. “Watch it, Peanut.” Then the next thing Ian knew Darcy had his hand in a death grip and was dragging it toward her soccer ball-sized belly. For a little thing, she sure was strong. “He’s frisky today.” She grinned up at Ian as she held his hand in place.

“Uh . . .”
Can you say awkward?
“Oh!” Then Ian felt it. A flutter of movement. “Wow.” He gazed into Darcy’s shining eyes and thought that movement was the most incredible thing he’d ever felt.

“Pretty amazing, huh?”

“Yeah. Yeah it is.” And it was. After another moment waiting with no more activity, he withdrew his hand. “I’ll, uh, just go get the new drill bit and be back.”

“Stay warm,” Darcy called after him.

His heart would stay warm thinking about the feel of the little life inside Darcy’s belly. His body would stay warm thinking about Millie’s body pressed against him.

Later that ev
ening, still smarting from the Heimlich debacle, Millie soothed her wounded pride with a cup of tea and a good book. Curling up on her loveseat, she promised herself just one chapter, then she’d pick up her own manuscript and get to work. But first, a little inspiration from Jude Devereaux and
A
Knight in Shining Armor
.

In middle school, Millie had resorted to books for companionship, reading everything in her parent’s personal library. From Tolstoy to Kant, Darwin to Pythagoras, and Edith Wharton to Dante. She’d picked up her first romance novel when she was sixteen—the very book she held in her hands—at the Forest Hills Public Library where it had been lying abandoned on a table. And she’d fallen in love. With beautiful heroines and handsome heroes. With happily-ever-afters and the idea that true love could conquer all. Even if she couldn’t find love for herself, she could find it in the pages of the books she read.

She’d earned a bachelor’s degree in literature with a focus on the Middle Ages from Sarah Lawrence College. But when she’d seen the job listing for a personal assistant to a best-selling romance author, she’d jumped at it, and never looked back.

A half hour and one chapter later, Millie sighed and set aside her dog-eared copy of the novel.

Booting up the second-hand laptop she’d found on eBay, her one concession to technology, she opened up the file for her latest chapter. She might be a Luddite, but she had no desire to draft her manuscript as Jane Austen had—in long hand.

She’d taken a booklet she’d discovered in the library about courtship in Regency England and used each chapter as the basis for her own chapters. While she might be mousey and shy, her heroine, Lady Georgina Spencer, was not, and she broke every rule in the book. Which is how she ends up falling for a rake of the first order.

Last she’d left her heroine, she’d been in a drawing room alone with her rake. First mistake. Then, they’d been caught by society’s most notorious gossip. Second mistake.

She’d set a word count goal of eighty-five thousand words, and was well on her way, but for the dreaded sex scenes. Cursing her inexperience, she focused on getting her heroine in as much trouble as possible
sans
sex.

Her mind drifted to Ian and the way his lean hard body felt against hers when he’d held her. That was after the all-too-humiliating chunk of meat popped out of her throat and landed in her bowl of soup.

At least it had been her bowl of soup, and not his. Small favors, and all that.

Closing her eyes, she recalled Ian’s sinew and muscle, his breath in her ear, the tight band of his arms around her rib cage. The clean, fresh smell of him. Yes, she could write that authentically enough. But without the choking part.

She didn’t want to think about what it would be like when she saw Ian again. Would he bring it up? Or would he pretend it never happened? She hoped for the latter.

That was why sex was so far out of her league. Who wanted to have sex with a woman who couldn’t even swallow her food? Who couldn’t walk across a street without almost getting run over? Who was an accident looking for a place to happen? No one,
that’s
who.

That’s
why her heroine was beautiful, and graceful, if not a little strong-willed. Hardheaded, even.

Putting the day’s lunch disaster behind her, she sought to create a disaster for her un-Millie-like heroine instead.

The next day, Millie poured a hot bowl of
leftover soup for Darcy and placed it on a serving tray next to hers, while Darcy set the table. “I hope I don’t keep eating like this after Peanut is born. I’ll be bigger than Grand Central if I do.”

“You should gain one to five pounds in your first trimester and about one pound a week after that.”

“How’d you know that?” Darcy asked.

Millie shrugged. “I read it somewhere.” She’d actually done some research, concerned over Darcy’s continued morning sickness.

“Watch out for that—”

Before Darcy got her sentence out, Millie’s foot slipped on something wet and soft. The next thing she knew, the tray tipped backward, spilling the hot soup down the front of her. Gasping as the hot liquid soaked into her sweater and hit her skin, she dropped the tray to the counter with a clatter and grabbed her sweater to pull it away from her body, burning her hands in the process.

“Oh!” Darcy grabbed the hem of the sweater and jerked it over Millie’s head and off, dropping it onto the floor, leaving Millie standing in nothing but her bra and her noodle-splattered skirt.

“Are you okay?” Darcy asked. “Did you get burned?”

Millie just shook her head, peering down at the red splotches on her stomach. “No. I’m okay.”

Darcy plucked a towel off the rack and ran it under cool water and began blotting Millie’s stomach, making her squeal.

Just then, Ian rounded the corner and barreled into the kitchen. “Dar—”

Millie yelped, turning her back on him while trying to cover herself, mortified that he should see her like that.

“Sorry. What happened?”

She glanced over her shoulder to see he had turned his back, then she reached around and snatched the wet kitchen towel out of Darcy’s hands and held it up in front of her chest. Why she didn’t know, since she had her back to Ian.

“Millie spilled a bowl of hot soup,” Darcy volunteered. “I yanked her sweater off.”

Great.
First, he’d snatched her from the jaws of death on the street, then she’d nearly choked to death in front of him. Now this. What other lame, embarrassing things could Ian witness? She shuddered to think.

That’s it
. She and soup would never cross paths again.

“Quick thinking.” Ian nodded. “Anything I can do?”

“No!” Millie exclaimed.

“No,” Darcy added more calmly. “Thank you.” Taking an apron out of a drawer, she threw it around Millie’s shoulders. “Let’s get you out of the rest of your clothes and into something clean and dry.”

Millie couldn’t help but think she’d just heard Darcy’s mothering voice. At least what she imagined a mothering voice sounded like, since she’d never heard it from her own mother.

On the way out of the kitchen, Millie sneaked another look over her shoulder. Ian still had his back to her, hands shoved into his jeans pockets.

Upstairs in her bedroom, Darcy took out a pair of pre-pregnancy jeans and a soft turtleneck sweater in navy blue. “Here. You can wear these.” She stepped back as if assessing Millie’s size and nodded. “They should fit,” she said, laying the clothes on the bed.

“Thanks,” Millie muttered, still embarrassed over her display.

“Aw.” Darcy gave her a brief hug. “Could’ve happened to anyone.”

“Yeah. And did it ever happen to you?”

“Well, no. But that doesn’t mean it couldn’t.”

Millie grimaced.

“I’ll just leave you to change,” Darcy said as she headed for the door. “If you want, you can throw your clothes in the wash.”

“Can you tell me when Ian leaves? I think I’ll just stay here until he does.” Millie eyed the clothes on the bed, certain they were too small.

“He won’t say anything. For all his rough appearance, he’s quite the gentleman.” Darcy sighed. “He turned his back immediately.”

Right. Probably because he couldn’t bear to look at me.

The visual Ian got as he’d rounded the corner into the kitchen wouldn’t
leave his brain. Millie, standing there in nothing but a white bra and brown skirt, her breasts filling the cups to a pleasing capacity. Her gently curving hips visible without the bulky sweater.

She had a sweet little body beneath all those brown clothes.

Then he recalled the red splotches across her bare midriff.
Don’t be such a dick,
he thought as he scrubbed his hands over his face.
He shouldn’t be thinking about her body and how much he’d like to touch it. She could have been burned.

He’d been coming to tell Darcy she could check out the newly installed bookcase he’d built. Seeing what was left of what appeared to be the lasagna soup on the floor, he grabbed a roll of paper towels and began mopping up the mess. Darcy didn’t need to be on her hands and knees, that was for sure. He didn’t miss the fact that this was the second time Millie and soup had crossed paths and she’d come out the loser.

“You don’t need to do that,” Darcy said from the doorway.

Ian stood. “It’s no problem. Is Millie burned?”

“No. She’ll be fine. I think I got her sweater off before the soup could soak in.” Darcy wet a handful of paper towels, which Ian took from her and continued to clean up. “Seems you’re always cleaning up around here.”

“Yeah, a jack-of-all-trades, I guess.” Ian worked in silence a few minutes, as Darcy pulled out the trashcan for the soiled paper towels. Recalling her kindness to Millie, he glanced up at her, “If you don’t mind me saying so, you’ll make a great mom.”

Darcy hesitated a moment then gazed down at him. “No. I don’t mind at all. And thank you.”

“That should do it,” he said as he rose.

“By the way, what were you coming to tell me?” Darcy asked, her head tilted.

“The new bookcase is finished if you want to take a look.”

“Ooh! Definitely.”

Millie gingerly opened the bedroom door. She’d heard Darcy and Ian talking in the nursery
earlier, but it had been quiet the last twenty minutes. No bangs, no thuds, so Ian must have left. She climbed a few stairs to the third floor where Darcy’s office was and called out, “Is he gone for the day?”

“No,” Ian said from behind her, making her yelp. “He’s still here.”

She froze, closing her eyes, feeling yet another flush creep up her neck. Will she ever stop embarrassing herself in front of him?

“Darcy, however, is not here.”

This snapped her out of her mortification, and she spun to face him. “Where’d she go?”

“She mentioned something about Red Velvet Cake and Aunt Butchies.”

“Cheese and crackers! I forgot!” Running down the stairs, she remembered to grab her coat before heading out.

“Where are you going?” Ian called.

“To catch up to her.” She slammed the door in her haste.

Millie practically ran down the sidewalk, buttoning her coat as she went.
How could she have forgotten?
Darcy had a luncheon tomorrow to benefit the Readers for Life Literacy Program, and several women who’d bid on and won lunch with the best-selling author were coming. She’d ordered the cake just yesterday, and with all the humiliation hullabaloo, she’d forgotten to pick it up.

Ian needed to finish his job and leave her in peace. Ever since he’d started working in the house, she couldn’t keep her mind on her own work. Or, apparently, eat or prepare soup without endangering her own health and well-being. And it was all his fault with his well-worn jeans, tool belt that pulled those jeans precariously low on his hips revealing the band of his underwear—blue today—and his size thirteen feet.

He made her nervous and all too aware of his presence. He didn’t even need to be in the same room with her, and she could feel him. Except just now when she’d needed to most. She closed her eyes again in mortification at her latest humiliation.

And nearly ran into a street sign.

Note to self: Don’t close your eyes while running down a sidewalk.

Who was she kidding? She didn’t need Ian to make her a klutz. She’d done just fine on her own the twenty-nine years prior to meeting him. Like the time she’d been reading
The Kadin
and tripped over a skateboard in the middle of the walkway. In her defense, it had been a
very
juicy part. She’d since forsaken reading and walking at the same time. Or at her high school graduation when she’d walked up to receive her diploma and almost did a face plant on the stage. To this day, she had no idea what she’d tripped over.