The Baby Invasion (Destiny Bay-Baby Dreams) (8 page)

“Not really,” he answered, almost wincing, as though he knew he was caught and was beginning to lose sight of an escape plan. “I was cooking, but dinner plans got interrupted.”

Cathy nodded, remembering what he’d said to his date when he’d advised her to go on home.
 

“I saw you go over to say goodbye to your friend before you started on the window,” she said, and in spite of her wariness, she knew her eyes were brimming with silent laughter. “Did she leave you any steak?”

Scott grinned. “Are you kidding? She took the steak, the corncobs, even the onion dip. When I got over there she had everything in a laundry basket she was ‘borrowing.’ I’m surprised she left me coffee for my morning meal.”

“Ouch.”

He shrugged. “I probably ruined her plans, showing up like I did, before she’d completely filled the basket.”
 
He pretended to look sad for her.
 
“The coffee business must nag at her. If only she’d had time to get it all!”

She found herself grinning back at him. He was cute. And she did like a man who could laugh at himself.
 

“Serves you right,” she teased.

He pretended to be taken aback, one eyebrow raised. “How so?”

Glancing over her shoulder at him, she started for the kitchen. “Like they say, you get what you pay for.”

He came after her, only a step behind. “Are you implying I have to pay for women to date me?” he demanded.

She laughed at his outraged face. “No, silly. Of course not. But what you get out of a relationship is proportional to what you’re willing to put into it.”
 

She opened the refrigerator door and leaned in.
 

“And I have a feeling this young lady was just a name in a phone book to you when you asked her out.”

“A name on a locker room wall is more like it,” he muttered, leaning back against the counter and watching her trim figure as she reached for a large pot.

“What?” She straightened, placing the pot on the stove and turning on the flame.

“Nothing.”

His eyes met hers and she looked away a bit too quickly, reaching for a cloth to wipe at the already spotless ceramic-tiled counter. The blond oak cabinets, the gleaming appliances, the butcher-block island, all created a setting that seemed to suit her.
 

But he couldn’t help wonder what she would look like in a little black dress with diamonds in her earlobes. He had a feeling she would be a knockout.

She put down the cloth and looked at the pot, sighing. “Well, this is going to be a letdown from steak, I’m afraid. But I fixed it for dinner and it’s all I have.”

She turned and found him much too close, and suddenly she realized he had the longest dark eyelashes.
 

“I hope you like soup,” she said, her voice husky.

“Soup is fine,” he replied, but his gaze never left hers and though he didn’t touch her, neither did he back away.

She knew they were standing too close together, knew she should move back, or say something. It was awkward to be standing here this way, but she couldn’t move. It was as though there was a magnetic ring around him, and she’d gotten stuck to it.

She wanted to touch him, touch his face, smooth back his hair. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t said anything. Was he waiting for her to take the lead? To show him what she wanted, how much she would allow?

His eyes were dark, she couldn’t read them. But she could feel the physical tug between them, the force trying to pull them together. It excited her, made her pulse beat faster. It would be so easy to sway a little, lean toward him, end up in his arms.

And in his bed. And in his life, just long enough for his leaving to break her heart.
 

A shiver of dread passed between her shoulder blades.
 

No!
 

She was going to be strong. She’d gone over all the hazards, she knew them well enough by now. She wasn’t going to let herself— and her family—in for that sort of anguish.

The sound of something loud and gooey making big, wet bubbles broke the spell. They both turned to look at what was on the stove, seeming to forget all about the magic that had been growing between them.

Cathy moved to turn down the heat. She lifted the lid to stir the concoction.
 

“Your dinner calls,” she said lightly.

Watching, Scott grimaced. The sounds had not been good. “What is that?”

She threw him an apologetic smile. “It’s your soup, I’m afraid.” She lifted the lid again so he could take a peek. “I hope you like split pea.”

“Split pea soup?” He leaned forward and sniffed the air. “I used to love split pea soup. My mother always made it on cold winter nights.”

“This was the first time I’ve ever made it.” She pulled out a ladle and a large, deep soup bowl and began to dish it up. “Personally, I think it’s horrible stuff.”

Watching her, Scott became nostalgic. The scent of the soup, the steam rising from the pot all combined to bring back a wave of comfort such as he hadn’t felt in a long time.
 

“I used to love it. But nobody makes it like my mom used to. She soaked the peas for days and then threw in a huge ham bone with big hunks of ham still clinging to it.”

Cathy looked up and nodded. “That’s what I did.”

He looked more closely. “You’re kidding.” He took the bowl from her and set it on the kitchen table. “This does smell good,” he noted doubtfully.

She watched him, her arms folded across her chest, a smile hovering on her lips. “It looks and tastes like green slime to me,” she murmured softly, waiting to hear his verdict.

He took a sip and his face relaxed in ecstasy. “Green slime! No way. Ambrosia!”

She made a face.
 

“Ambrosia, huh? Well, I’m glad you like it.” Straightening, she went to the breadbox and took out a pan she’d left there. “At least these corn muffins I made to go with it are pretty good. Would you like one?”

“Corn bread?” He frowned, his spoon poised for another sip. “Don’t you have any French bread?” He swallowed the soup and waved the spoon in the air. “You always eat French bread with split pea soup.”

“Do you?” She shook her head, teasing him just a little. “How lucky you’re here to teach me the finer points of the etiquette of split pea soup.” She went back to the breadbox. “You’re in luck. I do have some French bread.”

He didn’t say a word, too busy enjoying his soup. She cut a few slices of the bread and poured him a glass of milk before sitting across from him at the kitchen table.

He took another spoonful and sighed happily. “This is wonderful. You can come cook for me anytime.”

“Thanks,” she said tartly, “but I’m not looking for a cooking job.”

He lowered his spoon and looked at her.
 

“That brings up an interesting point that’s been bothering me,” he said. “I can’t believe you can really raise all these kids on babysitting money.”

“You’re right.”

“Then what else do you do? What’s your true calling?”

Her eyes got a dreamy, faraway look and she rested her chin in her hand, elbow on the tabletop.
 

“I went to college, once upon a time, and I studied Art History. Rembrandt and El Greco and the Twentieth Century Surrealists. Got a degree and everything.” She glanced back at him. “Do you have any idea how many jobs there are out there for Art History majors?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

“About three. And I wasn’t one of the lucky trio who got them.”

He nodded, not surprised. “And so you lapsed into despair and had three children to make up for it?”

“Not quite.” She gave him a crooked smile. “I got married first. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“But you are married no more.”

She felt prickles of unease. This was odd, sitting here talking to him like this. He was studying her too closely, and yet she was opening up to him in a way she never did to strangers.
 

Maybe he wasn’t a stranger any longer. Maybe that was it.

“I also worked as a secretary until the twins came. And now I do medical claims for an insurance company. It’s work I can do at home.”

“And that’s an asset, is it?”

“When you have little ones to take care of it sure is. There’s no way I could pay for decent childcare on the kind of salary I can command in the work force. Not until I get a bit more experience under my belt.”

Scott knew she was probably right.
 

“And the kids’ father?
 
Doesn’t he…?”

Send along a bit of child support?
 
The answer was “no” but Cathy wasn’t going to whine about that to Scott.
 
She rose before he finished his sentence and filled his bowl again.

“It’s been a treat staying here in this big house,” she said quickly to fill the silence.
 
“It’s much bigger than our tiny apartment across town.”

Scott watched as she came back to the table, murmuring his thanks as she put his plate before him and sat down again.
 
For one wild, flashing moment, he had a picture of her doing the same thing in his own kitchen next door.
 
The image made him feel warm and toasty.

But the picture quickly expanded and suddenly there were three little faces peering from around her knees.
 

He blinked and shook it away.
 
He had to keep that in mind.
 
She came with too many accessories.
 

“You know, this is really a strange neighborhood,” she was saying.
 
“When I was going door to door trying to find out if anyone knew April, it was eerie, as though everyone was living in sort of a mental ghost town.
 
Nobody seemed to know anyone else around here.”

He shrugged and took a drink of his milk.
 
“You know how these newer developments are,” he said.
 
“People’s lives revolve around their work.
 
Home is just a place to sleep at night.”
 

“I guess so.
 
It seems as much money goes into building fences as into the houses themselves.”

Scott grinned at her. He was feeling good, like a cat after a meal, silky and lazy and at peace with the world. “That’s the way I like it.”

She shook her head.
 

“Not me. I like the kind of place where there are no fences and everyone knows his neighbors and they have block parties and barbecues and the kids play baseball in the street.”

He shuddered visibly. “Sounds terrible.”

That stopped her. She leaned slowly forward, searching his eyes.
 

“You really are a mean old man, aren’t you?” she accused softly.

He pushed the plate away, full at last.
 

“If someone who doesn’t like neighborhood block parties gets that hung on him, I guess I am.”

Her blue eyes searched his again. “Oh, sure,” she said. “You enjoy being a grouch. But deep down, you really like kids, don’t you?”

It was time to bite the bullet. There was no point in pretending. To lie to her now would be to ask for trouble—and maybe raise expectations that could never be fulfilled. He raised his face and said it clearly.
 

“No. Not really.”

Shock widened her eyes, and then she smiled, sure he was kidding. “Oh, come on. Everybody really likes kids deep down.”

He stared back, not flinching. “I don’t.”

She would not give up. Not wanting to be responsible, like Joey, was one thing, but to actually dislike children! That went against the laws of nature.

She gazed quizzically at him, coaxing a different response. “Think this through now,” she urged. “I mean little babies in little pink bonnets with curlicues on their foreheads, with shy little grins, chubby little legs taking their first steps...”

He shook his head firmly. “Can’t stand any of it.”
 

He leaned forward until his face was only inches from hers and said distinctly, “I think all children should be locked up in cages at birth and released on their eighteenth birthday only if they’ve been very, very good.”

She stared at him.
 

He stared back.
 

There was no give in him at all. This couldn’t be. Not like children?
Really
not like them?

She took a deep breath. “Okay, I’m willing to make a concession. I know that you said you... Don’t care for children.”

“Right.”

“I understand that. I can come to terms with it.”
 

Why did she care? That was the question. But she didn’t want to deal with that now. For some reason she had to find a way to change this answer of his. She had to find a chink in his armor.

She gazed at him, biting at her lip and thinking hard.
 

“Okay, you say you don’t like kids. But it’s just because you don’t know children.”

He sighed, leaning back and shaking his head. “Sorry, Cathy,” he said firmly, almost sad for her. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

She hesitated. “What do you mean? I know you’d change your mind if you came to know their sweet little ways.”

“You’re dead wrong.” He said each word emphatically.

She stared at him, completely at sea.

“Cathy, the fact of the matter is...I probably know more about children than you do.”

What an odd thing to say. It didn’t make any sense. She frowned, shaking her head. “What are you talking about?”

He turned in his chair, looking at her from under lowered lids. There was a storm brewing in his eyes now. For the first time, she could read his feelings in his gaze. He’d kept his tone light, but she could see the reality beneath the amused detachment. Her fingers curled around the edge of the table, as though she needed to hold on to something, as though it were going to be a bumpy ride.

“I was the oldest in a family of seven,” he said. “My mother had seven children in fifteen years. I was eighteen before I escaped.”