Harlequin Superromance January 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: Everywhere She Goes\A Promise for the Baby\That Summer at the Shore (46 page)

She looked down at the money in her hand and sighed. She'd lost count. It would have to be recounted—this time with actual attention paid to it. The longer she spent counting the money, the further away her bed got. She restacked the bills and started over. Then began the long process of checking credit card receipts against the record in the till. And checks from the few old Poles whom Susan still allowed to pay with a check.

Healthy Food was full of traditions—things that were “just the way they were when Pawel's mother was still alive,” to quote the old-timers. Grandfathering in people who could pay with a check—a privilege that was
not
passed down to children—was cute and homey. An ancient cash register that had to be repaired every two weeks and an old dial-up credit card machine were not. Vivian would love one of those fancy systems with the credit card slot attached to the monitor. Then there would be only one receipt for the customer to take and one receipt for her to count.

Vivian had suggested the idea to Susan once. Her mother-in-law's response had been a halfhearted “I'll think about it” followed by “people love to chat while we ring them up. Would a faster system make them think they had to hurry along?” And that was the rub of having a restaurant passed down from Milek to Milek. Modernizing anything was too easily seen as an affront to tradition. Some people
still
complained about the new, clear sneeze guards over the food, even though it was incomprehensible to Vivian that people could prefer the green light the old sneeze guards had cast on their mashed potatoes.

Being in Susan's position when the waitress uniforms finally disintegrated into rags would be terrifying. But also an awesome challenge.

The first week or so Vivian had worked the register at Healthy Food, someone had counted the register a second time. Not out of suspicion, but to make sure she'd done it right. It hadn't taken long for Edward and Susan to realize that Vivian was never wrong in her count. She hadn't counted money in her years of dealing, but she'd counted almost everything else. Now Vivian prepared the deposit with no one looking over her shoulder, a new feeling of trust after years under the 360-degree cameras. Fate had an ironic sense of humor.

Her chores for the night done, Vivian set the register so it would be ready for the morning, packed the deposit away in the safe and helped out until Susan was ready to go home.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

K
ARL
SAT
AT
one of the big round tables with the one old man too feeble and the two teenagers too cool to dance at the wedding reception. He was neither, but—he looked out over the conga line snaking around the dance floor—the abandonment everyone else seemed comfortable with just wasn't his thing. He could walk around the room, talk with people and otherwise be social—but no dancing. The thought of a conga line made him shudder in horror.

Vivian's exuberance made it difficult for her to hang on to the person in front of her, but she laughed every time her hands slipped off Chuck Biadała's shirt and he turned back to admonish her for not keeping up. She'd not known a single person from the neighborhood the first time she'd sat at Healthy Food's register and started ringing up customers. She'd been a stranger—an outsider—and not just because she wasn't Polish. She wasn't from Chicago, she hadn't gone to Mass or Catholic school with these people and she was suspicious of sweet cheese pierogies, but her smiles and kindness had integrated her with the neighborhood. Now, when he walked around Archer Heights with his wife, she seemed to know more people than he did.

She exaggerated the kick of her legs out to the sides, whooping as she did so. Her face glistened with sweat, making her skin glow and her eyes shine. Sometimes it was hard to believe this exuberant person was the same woman who'd quietly played solitaire in his apartment and knit him a cap. He knew better than anyone the difference between public and private faces. But what amazed him about his wife was how her public face invited people in.

Karl knew how to smile and shake hands. He could ask questions and get people to talk with him, but he also knew that—even at his most friendly—he intimidated people. He was a serious person and people took him seriously
.
Until now, he'd been content to raise his eyebrow and have people tell him their problems out of fear. Fear, intimidation or friendliness—he didn't really care why they told him about city problems, just so long as they told him. He had a responsibility to the city and he couldn't fulfill his duty without the help of the citizenry.

However, watching Vivian, he wished people would tell him out of love. Because people loved her. His neighborhood adored her. His family treasured her. Everyone she met warmed to her immediately. When she'd been cooped up in his apartment, terrified he'd learn about her past and kick her out into the street, he'd been completely unaware of how welcoming a person she was. Wasn't that how the saying went? He couldn't see the forest for the trees? Karl had been so close to Vivian that he'd only been able to see her fear. Now, with a little distance, he could see her courage, too.

She tripped over her feet, stumbled into Mr. Biadała and laughed. When Mr. Biadała turned back with concern on his face, she waved him off.

What a terrible shame it would have been if he'd won the argument over her working at Healthy Food or living with his mom. If his suspicions of her had triumphed, he would never have gotten to know this lively, laughing woman. Knowing this vivacious side of her made the quiet, contemplative side more special. That was the side she saved for him, just as he saved his macabre sense of humor for her.

The song ended. Vivian had one hand on the slight bulge of her stomach and was resting the other on Mr. Biadała's shoulder. She looked happy and was smiling but the skin around her eyes was tight and...
My mother died in childbirth.
His heart stopped at the memory of those words. The doctors said everything was fine, there were no complications, but what if they were missing something?

When he stood up the chair scraped against the floor and would've toppled if he'd not grabbed on to it. He didn't bother to tuck it under the table. Worries over Vivian trumped manners.

By the time he'd stumbled past other wedding guests and up to Vivian, her hand was off her stomach and resting at her side again.

“Are you okay?” he asked. She was more than just the mother of his child—she was a part of his life, and he didn't want anything to happen to her.

“Hmm?” Her voice was dreamy as she smiled up at him, her skin electric with joy. He cushioned her face in his hand and rubbed his thumb over her cheek, which was puffy and still lovely. “Hmm...” she murmured, as she rested the weight of her head in his palm. He relaxed with her, able to support and help her for the first time in what felt like months. Since she'd moved in with his mother and started working, he felt as if she didn't need him anymore. Being needed by his wife, if only as a headrest, felt nice.

“Are you okay?” he repeated. “You were holding your stomach and I'm...” He was scared to lose her and scared to say that fact out loud.

“I'm fine.” Her cheek curved as she smiled against the palm of his hand, and she turned to kiss the fleshy part of his thumb. “I'm a little out of breath, but I'm afraid if I lean over, I'll get light-headed.” His worry must have shown on his face because she kissed his palm, the tip of her tongue brushing against the hollow of his hand, and said, “It's normal for me to get breathless and light-headed at this point in my pregnancy. It's fine. I'm fine.”

She might be fine, but he wasn't. The kiss she'd pressed into his hand had woken up all the atoms in his body, and all he wanted to do was take his wife back to his apartment—what should be
their
home—and make love to her. And he wanted her to still be there when he woke up the next morning.

Warmth and sweat from dancing made her jasmine scent more potent. If he could figure out how to swing her over his shoulder and carry her, caveman style, to a closet, he would. He would then have to figure out how to make love to a short, pregnant woman in a janitor's closet, the physics of which he wasn't certain of, but was willing to try.

“Come on.” He slid his hand around her waist and pulled her in close, letting everything about her wash over him.

“Where are we going?”

Somewhere I can act like the crazed, lusty man you've turned me into.
But he didn't say that. She'd rocked his equilibrium, and he'd gotten her pregnant. “We're going to sit down so you can catch your breath and I can get you a fancy virgin something to drink.”

“Oh, I love virgins,” she cooed. “Mr. Biadała was right when he said you were a keeper.”

“A keeper?” The thought of his American history teacher and the father of his best friend from high school telling his wife to keep him made him smile. Being with Vivian made him smile, period.

The deep carpet stopped the sharp clicking noise her short heels had made on the dance floor as she walked with him to their seats. “He also said he didn't know why I was still living with your mom, but one of us would come to our senses soon and, even if you were being a ‘stubborn fool,' that I should forgive you.”

He'd like to believe he was the one who should have to forgive Vivian, not the other way around. But Mr. Biadała had always known the right answer when Karl was in high school, and he probably knew the right answer now.

“Here.” He sat Vivian down in his chair and she sighed as soon as her butt hit the seat. “Catch your breath and I'll be back with a Shirley Temple.”

“Double cherry,” she called after him.

Karl was glad he'd brought himself a glass of water because she finished her drink in three gulps, then reached for his water. “Do you need more?” he asked when she put down his glass, now empty.

“No, but I wish I had some antacid in my purse.” She put her hand to her heart. “I'm not sure drinking all that liquid so quickly on top of all that dancing was a good idea.”

He placed his hands on hers, grateful to be close to her when not also surrounded by his family. “There's a drugstore not far. I can go get you some.”

“Ah, that's sweet.” She picked up his hands and kissed his knuckles. More tender, affectionate kisses. Not the crazed sex in the closet he was fantasizing about.

He didn't want to be sweet. He wanted her to come home with him. He wanted to strip off her clothes and make love to her until she didn't think about her heartburn anymore.

“But I think I hear the Electric Slide starting and I want to dance some more. Come on.” She slipped out of the chair, yanking on his hands. A lock of her hair was plastered across her sweaty cheek and he wasn't able to get out of her grip long enough to brush it aside and escape for the hills.

Topping the list of things he
didn't
want to do was the Electric Slide. He set his feet. “You just said all that dancing gave you heartburn. I have Tums at my house.”

His words halted her pulling. She cocked her head up at him, one brow raised, that lock of hair giving her two wicked smiles across her face. “I have Tums at your mom's house and I like the Electric Slide.”

“But I'm not at my mom's house.”
Come home with me, Vivian. I want you.
Was she going to make him say the words?

God, even the sight of her biting her lip made him crazy, which just proved how badly he needed her and how far off his center she made him.

Then she smiled, and the corners of her eyes crinkled, and he knew he'd both won and lost.

“After you do the Electric Slide with me.”

He'd won more than he'd lost, though she'd nearly made it a draw. But just because he didn't resist as she tugged him to the dance floor didn't mean he couldn't protest. “I don't know how to do the Electric Slide.”

“Everyone knows how to do the Electric Slide.”

“I can't dance.” She had a smaller stride than he did and he could have easily caught up with her. But she was enjoying cajoling him and he was enjoying being cajoled.

“I can't, either. We'll be the cutest couple on the dance floor.”

The din of wedding guests and music got louder as they got closer to the dance floor. Karl dragged his feet a little more. He would do the Electric Slide with Vivian, but he'd prefer not to. Then his shoes hit the wooden floor and he thought about how he'd look, tripping over his own feet and knocking his pregnant wife to the floor.

At the sight of thirty people crossing their legs front and back, front and back, Karl stopped. He could joke about it at the table, but he really didn't dance. He stood on the sidelines and watched others dance while remaining aloof and impassive. Straitlaced, never in anything more casual than khakis was his M.O.

He took a deep breath and let it out in a great puff. He hadn't danced since he was thirteen, and that memory alone was awkward enough for him to consider abandoning Vivian. His one middle school dance...his fingers skimming the girl's back, sliding down to the crest of her butt and then chickening out at the last minute for fear she would raise a fuss and his dad would find out. His erection and the step back he took every time she took a step forward. His certain knowledge that his deodorant—another new experience—had failed and she would be assaulted by his BO just before banging against his jutting erection.

By the time he'd figured out how to touch a girl's butt, control his erection and trust in his deodorant, no one expected him to dance. And he no longer had to worry about a lecture from his father on respecting women if his hand slipped from a girl's waist to the curves of her butt. None of which helped him with his current predicament. Boy or girl, his child was getting dancing lessons.

“Are you okay?” Vivian turned to look at him.

“Fine.” He still didn't take a step forward.

Her lips twitched from side to side as she examined him. Finally, she wiped that stuck lock of hair from her cheek and said, “You don't have to dance.” She looked over her shoulder at the dance floor. “We can just go back to your apartment.”

Her eyes lost a bit of their luster as she said those words. Living with his mom and working at Healthy Food, Vivian had become part of the community he had grown up in, and he wanted to take her away from it—even if just for a night—because
everyone knew Karl Milek didn't dance.

The newspapers liked to say he was a leader in Chicago's Polish community and leadership gurus liked to say leaders become leaders by not being afraid of making asses of themselves. He closed his eyes to gather his sense of dignity, then looked his wife straight in her copper-colored eyes and smiled. “Let's show this room how poorly the Electric Slide can be done.”

His reward wasn't going to be taking Vivian home with him tonight; his reward was the way her smile brightened his life. Swallowing the last of his resignation, he followed his wife onto the dance floor, faced the wall and prepared to boogie-woogie-woogie.

And he immediately went to the left and bumped into Vivian, who laughed with unrestrained delight. He stood in one place to watch her feet and listen to her “step, cross, step, clap” instructions and the person to his right ran into him—Mrs. Biadała, who made mother-hen clucking noises and told him how cute he looked.

He hadn't danced since he was thirteen and he hadn't been cute since he was six. Past six, he'd been “an old soul” and “precocious.” Tonight was a night of firsts.

“Back, back, back, clap.” Vivian's amused instructions jarred some distant memory in his brain and he didn't even have to be told to lean forward, tap his back foot and make a stupid circle with his forearm. Or hop to turn and face the other direction. Apparently, bounding about like an ass in a line with other people was as much about muscle memory as riding your bike or ice skating.

He missed crossing his legs, but he moved to the right with the rest of the dancers and was only a millisecond or so behind them clapping. After the next hop and turn, he moved to the right
and
crossed his legs behind one another like he was supposed to, though he still clapped too late.