Christie Ridgway: Beginning With Baby

Her gaze flicked toward him, flicked away. “Fine as I can be under the circumstances.” Then her body curved awkwardly as she went for another sip of the coffee without disturbing Rex.

Jackson frowned again. “Do you want me to put him down? He’s asleep.”

The decision looked like it was too much for her. He took the cup out of her hand and then slipped the baby from her. His knuckles brushed against the warmth of her nightgown-covered skin, but he gritted his teeth and ignored the sensation as he walked the baby to the small crib set in the corner of the room.

Rex settled down without a whimper, which was instead the noise Jackson wanted to make when he turned around and looked at Phoebe again. Still flopped on the couch, with Rex gone from her chest, Phoebe exposed to him more than she could possibly realize.

Her short gown came to just above her knees, revealing both bare feet, curving calves, the beginnings of her thighs. The nightgown was thin white cotton, and he could see just the hint of panties beneath it. He quickly jerked his gaze upward—then wished he hadn’t.

Where Rex had been snoozing, the gown was plastered to her skin. And with Rex gone, Jackson could clearly see the outline of her lush breasts and the dark pink of her nipples. He swallowed.

Thankfully, Phoebe’s eyes were closed and as he watched, she blindly felt around in front of her, muttering something about coffee. He sprang forward to place her cup in her hand.

Her eyes slitted open. “My hero,” she said.

She’d called him that before, he remembered, gritting his teeth. “Is going to his own apartment right this minute.”

Two little lines appeared between her arching brown brows. “Why?”

He hesitated, trying to decide how much to say.

Her eyes opened and her unguarded gaze ran over him, slowly and sleepily. He let himself look her over, too. All those slender limbs and smooth, smooth skin. He groaned.

“What?” she said, obviously too sleepy to be aware of what she wasn’t hiding.

He shook his head. “I need to get you a robe.” He strode toward her bedroom door without even waiting for her acquiescence or direction.

And groaned again. Her scent permeated her bedroom, too, that flowery, creamy smell that sent signals to his body he had no right listening to. Her bed was just steps away, a big brass one with rumpled white linens and five—five!—overstuffed pillows.

Without even closing his eyes he could imagine her hands gripping the brass rails, imagine himself shoving one of those fat pillows beneath her hips….

“Damn!” he muttered, whirling around, whirling away from the scene in his own imagination. There. On a hook behind the door he saw a silky, flowered kimono. Grabbing it, he took a step toward her living room.

To halt once more at the sight of Phoebe.

She’d abandoned the coffee and stretched out as best she could on the small love seat. Her hair was spread wantonly against the cushions and one foot had slipped completely off, spreading her legs. The nightgown’s round neckline had slipped too, revealing the pale rise of one breast.

She was fast asleep, with each breath the gown slipping more and threatening to completely expose her.

Jackson couldn’t breathe. He quickly choked in a breath, but air didn’t help.

He still couldn’t move.

And that was how their nosy and moralistic landlady found them as she pushed through the front door that Jackson apparently hadn’t completely shut on his way in.

Phoebe in what appeared to be sensual abandon. Jackson coming out of her bedroom, Phoebe’s lingerie in his hands.

A shriek jerked Phoebe from sleep.

She struggled to sit up, blinking quickly, her heart pounding. “Wha—”

“I never!” said Mrs. Bee, her tiny nose quivering in what was obviously outrage.

Phoebe blinked again. “Never what?”

A man cleared his throat.

Phoebe’s head whipped around. Jackson. That’s right, he’d brought coffee.

She appreciated the sight of him all over again—delicious and lord-of-the-manor handsome, his shirt partway undone. Heat kindled, melting her insides.

He closed his eyes. “Phoebe, that’s not helping.”

Right. Right. But not helping how? She looked back at Mrs. Bee. “Did you need something?”

The white bun atop the little lady’s head stabbed the air as she drew her spine poker straight. “It seems to me it’s you that needs something.”

Uh-oh. Phoebe sat straighter on the couch and drew the folds of her nightgown closer. Her thin, white nightgown. She bit her lip.

Mrs. Bee didn’t require any prompting to continue, though. “Good morals and good sense is what you need, young lady! What is this man doing in your apartment?”

“Uh, uh…” Phoebe tried gathering up her thoughts.

Jackson stepped into the room and strode to the couch. He released something he’d been holding, and Phoebe’s robe floated to her lap. “Mrs. Bee, I’m sure I don’t have to remind you Phoebe has a right to entertain whomever she likes.”

“Entertain!”

Phoebe didn’t need to tell Jackson it was a poor choice of words. As she quickly slipped her arms through the sleeves of her robe, she could read the knowledge on his face.

She touched his arm, smiled to reassure him. “Maybe later we can talk, Mrs. Bee, I’ve had a rough night and—”

“Rough night!”

Jackson shot her a sympathetic look. Apparently foot-in-mouth disease was rampant.

He stepped closer to the old lady. “Come on, Mrs. Bee. You know I’ve been hard at work—”

“Hard at work! That may be what your generation calls it, young man, but…”

This had gone far enough. Phoebe rose to her feet. “Don’t be silly,” she said firmly. “Jackson has been on the job all night. I’ve been up with Rex.” She stood on tiptoe to verify the baby was still comfortably sleeping, even through the ruckus.

Mrs. Bee crossed her matchstick arms over her narrow chest. “Then why is this man here at such an early hour?”

Phoebe sighed. The woman had no right. “He brought me coffee, okay?”

“Humph.”

Phoebe struggled to keep a pleasant expression on her face. “Now, was there something I can do for you?”

“You know I’m worried about the child.”

Phoebe sighed. “And bless your heart for it, Mrs. Bee. Rex and I appreciate your concern.”

“I can’t sleep nights thinking of the situation.”

She couldn’t sleep nights! Phoebe thought longingly of her bed.

“A young woman shouldn’t be raising a baby alone,” Mrs. Bee proclaimed.

The older lady’s strident tone was apparently too much for Rex. Without even a snuffle of warning, a full-out wail burst from his baby lungs. Phoebe rushed toward the crib, only to collide with Jackson, who’d gotten there quicker.

He picked up the baby. “Bottle time?”

She nodded, then led the way. “But I need to make one up with the new formula.”

Completely ignoring Mrs. Bee, they both went into the small kitchen, bumping elbows and hips in order to put together the bottle as quickly as possible. Rex signaled his hunger by intermittent and plaintive wails that insisted the adults in his life needed to get a move on.

Finally she had Rex in the crook of her arm and the bottle poised above him.

Silently, surprisingly, a stone-faced Jackson adjusted her hold on the baby, bringing Rex’s chest a little higher and tilting the bottle a little more. “Less air in his belly,” he said softly, looking at the baby instead of her, “Might also help that indigestion.”

Jackson standing behind her, Phoebe settled on the love seat, careful to keep Rex and the bottle in the suggested positions. With a sigh she looked up at Mrs. Bee, who stood where they’d left her, her hands clasped together.