Wendy Warren - Making Babies

Resting her forehead on the door, Elaine barely resisted the urge to knock herself unconscious against the solid wood panel.

Please let this be a bad dream, God. If I wake up and he’s gone, I promise I will give up simple carbohydrates forever.

Mitch stood outside Elaine Lowry’s rented front door and tried not to let his mounting anger get the best of him. The duplex she’d been living in for the past several months was the pits. According to his friend at Portland Property Management, the building was structurally sound. But cosmetically?

Mitch flicked a barklike wedge of peeling brown paint off the door frame and swore under his breath. This was not the type of place he’d pictured for Elaine when he’d asked his friend at the management firm to find her a “good deal.”

Standing with his hands on his hips, head lowered, he waited for her to answer the bell. The work shirt that had been tied around his hips now covered his torso, albeit half buttoned and untucked. Perspiration trickled down the nape of his neck, and he swiped it away, grumbling as a wasp dive-bombed past his face. He looked up to see a nest under the eaves. Great. Another thing he’d have to take care of.

He did not want to be here. Should not be here. In life, as in work, Mitch preferred situations that were black-and-white. Cleanly opened, cleanly closed, like the best cases.

Elaine Lowry was not black-and-white. She was a problem for him in walking, talking Technicolor.

For the past decade and a half, Mitch had made quite a reputation for himself and his firm by representing high-profile divorce suits. He considered it his job to make people act responsibly and with integrity when feelings were hurt, egos were bruised and money was involved. Quite a challenge and one he enjoyed. Usually. Representing Kevin Lowry, however, had been as rewarding as sticking needles in his eye.

Raising a fist that was clenched too tightly, Mitch flexed his fingers, balled them again and knocked on the door.

He never got personally involved with one of his own clients; he certainly never got personally involved with the opposing attorney’s client. Never. Capital N, capital EVER. He’d crossed the line. And he was about to cross it again.

It wasn’t his business to make sure she was protected financially.

It wasn’t his business to make sure she was well housed.

It wasn’t his business to make amends for her marriage or her divorce or…anything else. Yet here he was.

“Just make it fast,” he hissed to himself, knocking on the door one more time, harder than he needed to. He would stay briefly, speak his piece, make sure she was at least comfortable here and maybe give her the name of a good financial advisor. She could do what she wanted with the information. Or not. It was none of his business.

Elaine’s nose, lips and chin were pressed against the door when Mitch knocked. Caught off guard, she jumped, nearly blinding herself on the old-fashioned peephole. She twisted the knob and opened the door.

“Wait a minute! Don’t open—” Mitch started to say, but it was too late; a wasp so big it was probably in violation of the leash law, flew straight at her face.

Elaine yelped and flailed her hands.

“Don’t move!” Mitch ordered with the same deep authority she remembered from the courtroom.

Unfortunately the wasp kept buzzing, so she kept flailing. Then the buzzing stopped, and her nose felt like an entire pincushion had launched itself at her.

“Ow!”

“Damn it.” Mitch pushed the door open in an effort to reach for her. It banged into her bare shin.

“OWWW!!!”

He swore more colorfully. “Sorry. Are you all right?”

“No, I’m not all right!” Elaine shook as she pointed to her nose. She could see the wasp if she crossed her eyes. “Get it off, get it off!”

“Stop hopping.” He grasped her elbow with a strong hand and pushed her a step back, following her into the room. Holding her steady, he examined her face from a distance of less than a foot. “It’s got you.”

She stared back at him; pain and exhaustion that was about a lot more than a wasp sting filled her to overflowing. “This newsflash just in,” she snapped, “I Already Know That.”

Mitch’s brows rose ever so slightly at her tone, but he didn’t seem offended. “Hold still.” Reaching up, he slapped the wasp and—inadvertently, she assumed—her nose.

“Hey!” she protested.

The wasp buzzed away, still alive and only a little worse for the wear.

“Duck,” Mitch ordered, using his hand like a racket to swat the insect out of the house. He slammed the door shut.

Turning back to her, he ignored the glare she attempted to give him. Her poor nose was starting to throb already. She cupped her hands around it.

“Where’s your bathroom?” he asked. Elaine pointed, and Mitch took her elbow, overriding her little tug of resistance.

He found the light switch and flicked it on, then pulled her in front of the sink to the medicine cabinet. “Are you going to put your hands down so I can see your nose?”

“No.” Her voice emerged muffled. Call her vain, but if sensation was anything to go by, her nose was swelling already, and she didn’t have the smallest shnoz to begin with. “It’s fine.”

Reaching up, Mitch drew her hands away from her face, gently but insistently. He had large hands; one easily wrapped around both her wrists and with the other he tilted her face and gazed at it, taking his time. “Not too bad,” he said finally.

Elaine licked her lips. “It isn’t?”

When he shook his head, she expected him to let her go, but he didn’t. He continued to hold her. His touch, however, was light. It was impersonal.

It was driving her crazy.

Elaine’s heart pounded far more than it should have under the circumstances, unless, of course, wasp venom was making her delirious. She knew she was staring at Mitch’s mouth, but felt helpless to look away.

And then the hand cupping her chin moved. He ran his knuckles lightly across her cheek. When he reached her jaw, his fingers unfurled to wander into the hair at her nape.

Oh, Lord, they had slept together. Elaine knew it the moment he touched the back of her neck. She couldn’t remember the last time a man other than Kevin had touched her there, except for Dr. Larson when she’d had swollen glands last winter, and he was seventy. Yet Mitch’s hand did not feel new or strange or even unfamiliar. She remembered it. Her body remembered it.

A shower of tingles raced down her back, along her arms and, incredibly, over her thighs. During the last few years of her marriage to Kevin, she’d forgotten she even had thighs. Mitch was barely touching her and suddenly she felt every pore.

“Where’s your antiseptic?”

Elaine licked her lips. “Where’s my—” She blinked, blurry with desire, but not too blurry to realize what he’d just asked. Her lips formed a confounded O. “What?”

“Antiseptic,” he repeated. “That sting is…pretty nasty.”

“Is it?” Her racing heart skidded to a dull, heavy thud. Embarrassment washed up her neck and face. What she remembered clearly from that night in the bar was the incomparable comfort of Mitch’s presence. The case had ended. Her marriage was over. Sitting in a bar, in her winter coat, in the middle of the afternoon, she’d felt more alone than ever before in her life. She’d tried hard not to show despair, humiliation, or any of the myriad emotions she’d felt. She’d tried not to look at Mitch’s face, so often shuttered and unreadable, but on that day almost…compassionate.

Then over the sound of waves crashing in her ears, she’d heard him say, “He’s not worth it, Elaine.”