Linda Markowiak - And Baby Makes Six

She looked around the kitchen. What had they had here, anyway? A food fight?

She was still fuming about Crystal, about the scare that had brought Jenny halfway across the country without much more than the clothes she wore. She picked up a sponge and squirted some soap on it, then began to attack the kitchen counter with short, vehement strokes. She was probably going to ruin her nails on his kitchen counter. And her stomach was doing the usual morning flip-flops.

And she couldn’t stop thinking about a certain man’s bare chest, those clearly defined muscles, the dark hair that glistened and curled, about the goose bumps on all that bare skin. He looked so…physical. Male.

Not her type, of course.

Her sponge knocked a piece of cereal off the counter. Glad for the diversion, she picked it up and threw it into the disposal.

Over the past two weeks, she’d tried to picture Mitch Oliver’s house. He’d described it to Crystal. An old farmhouse that’s been added on to a lot. She’d had her own mental picture of that house—white and meticulously cared for, a green roof and shutters, kind of like the houses rich people had in the Hamptons. Pretentiously unpretentious.

Jenny’s mother had been a maid in a house that was pretentious, a little Tara, big white pillars and all. It was fake, just as these rambling farmhouses were fake in their own way.

Fake, she told herself. Fake.

She hadn’t had a really good look at the outside of Mitch’s house. She’d been too worried about Crystal, too afraid that she’d miss the turn, that the directions she’d got at the gas station were wrong.

But she’d got a bit of a look. The house was big, and it was white, and the green shutters were surely there. But there was something so unpretentious about it that it hadn’t registered until now that Mitch’s house appeared to be the genuine article—a big old farmhouse.

Okay, it wasn’t pretentious. But it was a mess. Why would someone with all his money want to live like this? She forced herself to stop picking up bits of cereal. Let him clean his own kitchen.

She tossed the sponge into the sink and took a look around. It was very odd, being alone in a house of a man she hardly knew. There was a hush. The dog in the laundry room must be sleeping; she didn’t hear so much as a sigh.

A few of Mitch’s cabinet doors were open; she closed them. She wandered into the family room, tucking the breakfast-room curtain into place as she went.

The house had good bones. In the family room, there was a big stone fireplace that took up most of the end wall. Built-in bookshelves stood on either side of it, but there weren’t many books there. Instead, there were photographs, and there were lots of trophies. The big hockey star was obviously proud of his trophies and not much of a reader. There was a big-screen television, some comfortable leather chairs, a set of barbells askew on the floor in front of the fireplace. The whole place needed a good dusting.

She saw open French doors to her left, and a lot of sunlight shining through them. She wandered over and stood in the doorway looking in. It was a huge room, modern and light, apparently new. Various exercise machines—expensive, professional-looking models, were arranged in front of floor-to-ceiling mirrors. There was a weight bench and even more weights. At the rear, a wall of sliding glass doors led to a deck and hot tub. Beyond the deck, a lawn, white with frost, sloped down to a pond, which was brilliant blue in the early-morning sunshine.

Well. Mitch’s house might be messier than she’d expected, but it was expensively fitted just the same, and those trophies—and this room—showed plenty of ego.

Just because some judge put blood and money over love, Mitch had been given the opportunity to raise Crystal…and he was making a mess of it.

She heard an automatic garage door opening. Finally. She heard him open the outside door, then a friendly whine of the dog. When he opened the door to the kitchen, she was already walking back to meet him there.

He was leaning down, with a big hand on the collar of the dog…horse. The animal strained, whined again, looked at her. Mitch said, “I guess this is as good a time as any to meet Face-off.” He nodded toward the dog.

“Okay.” She stopped in her tracks, her gaze riveted on the dog. She swallowed. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a dog that big.” Crystal, you poor thing, having to deal with this beast, on top of everything else!

Mitch’s head was bowed. One hand still held the dog’s collar, another scratched behind its ears. The dog quieted some, but still eyed her. “He’s big, but he’s gentle. He’s never growled at the kids, let alone bitten anyone.” The scratching continued, big, competent hands, blunt fingertips buried in the dog’s glossy fur.

“Well, as long as he doesn’t bite,” she said uncertainly, taking a few cautious steps forward. “But if he doesn’t bite, why do you have that death grip on his collar?”

She was almost upon him, so close she could smell the sharp cold that radiated off his leather jacket. He looked up, and she found herself staring into his eyes.

Brown eyes. She remembered those eyes. As deep and rich as dark, polished wood, set in that arresting face of strong features. She looked away quickly.

Mitch said, “Face-off doesn’t bite, but he doesn’t seem to know how big he is, either. If he gets the chance, he’ll knock you down and lick your face.”

She shuddered, and he gave her an odd look. “You don’t like dogs?”

“Well, I’ve never owned one.”

She was close now, and she could see the weave of Mitch’s sweater, revealed in the open vee of his partially unzipped jacket, and her traitorous mind conjured that bare chest. Quickly, she bent toward the dog, put out her hand. The dog made her nervous. That’s why her stomach was doing double flip-flops now.

Mitch said, “Every kid should have a dog.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She gave Face-off a tentative pat. At the contact, the dog quivered, sniffed. She forced herself to pat his head again. Her hand was close to Mitch’s now. Oh, yes, the dog was making her nervous, all right. “Dogs are so messy.”

“Messy is okay sometimes.”

I guess you’d know.

She continued to pat Face-off. Slowly, Mitch relaxed his grip. The dog started to surge; she jerked back. Mitch pulled him back in line.

Face-off submitted to the restraint. But he looked up at her with a droll expression on his face, as if ready to make friends in the only way he was permitted, given Mitch’s hand on his collar. His tongue came out, pink and wet and soft-looking, and something in Jenny went suddenly, unexpectedly soft in response. The tongue looked twice as wide as his face; despite her unsettled stomach and the close proximity of a very large, attractive man, that lolling tongue was suddenly comical. She looked down into the dog’s round, friendly eyes. “Is that dog…” She hesitated. “Is that dog smiling at me?”

Mitch looked up, obviously startled. “You see it, huh? It’s the weirdest thing, a dog smiling, but he does. When we were looking around at the shelter for a pup, I didn’t really want this one—I knew with those paws, he was going to be huge. But he smiled at the kids, and that was all it took for them to want him, so…” His eyes met hers, and he was suddenly grinning.

Oh, he had a great smile, sure and confident, with strong, square white teeth. It set off the regularity of his features, sent lines arcing from the corners of his eyes. Caught by that grin, she started to smile back. Another little skitter of nerves, of awareness of his closeness, brought her up short. “We need to talk about Crystal,” she said quickly.

“Sure. Right.” Mitch’s smile disappeared. “Let me lock up Face-off again.”