Judy Duarte - And Babies Make Five / At Long Last, a Bride - And Babies Make Five

So why had he stopped by her house before heading to the country club?

“I’m on my way to the grocery store to pick up a few cleaning supplies and wondered if you needed anything.”

“Do you always dress so nicely when you’re scrubbing counters and mopping floors?” she asked.

He slipped her a crooked smile, and her heart slammed against her chest. “I have a woman who comes to work for me on Saturdays, and she told me last week that I was out of window spray and cleanser. But I forgot to pick it up, so I’m off to get it now, before she arrives.”

Her gaze traveled the length of him, then back to those intoxicating brown eyes. “What time do you play today?”

His grin brightened. “In an hour. So it’ll be a quick trip to the market. How’d you know that I was playing golf?”

“Just a lucky guess.”

“So,” he said, nodding toward his car, which was idling in the drive, “do you need anything while I’m at the market?”

“No, I’m okay. But thanks for asking.”

“No problem.”

As he headed to his vehicle, she turned to go back into the house, then thought of something she’d forgotten to pick up yesterday.

“Wait a minute,” she said. “I’m going to empty out the closet in the room that’s going to be the nursery, and I’ve already run out of boxes. Would you mind asking if they have any to spare?”

“Will do.”

He took off, and she went back inside. When he returned with more boxes than she needed, he asked if she wanted any help.

“No, thanks,” she said, even though she hated to deal with the heavy boxes. “Go on and play golf. I’ll be okay.”

But she wasn’t exactly okay. She was feeling way too many yearnings for her handsome neighbor. And she really needed to get her mind off Hector and back on nesting.

The next morning, when he spotted her sweeping the stoop, he crossed the lawn, took the broom away from her and finished the work himself.

If truth be told, she was glad that he had. It was getting harder and harder to do some of the simplest things.

But she had to stop relying on her neighbor to do them for her.

Three days later, when her doorbell rang, she didn’t need to peer out the peephole to see who it was. Hector, it seemed, had taken her on as some kind of pro bono case.

And in the past week and a half, he’d taken her recycling bins to the curb on trash-collection days, which was especially surprising since he wasn’t home very much and rarely had items that needed to be recycled—at least, not that she was aware of.

His kindness touched her, of course. And so did his boyish smile, the unruly hank of hair that flopped onto his forehead and the heart-spinning scent of his woodsy cologne. Just being near Hector had her thinking all kinds of wild and crazy things, some of them not the least bit neighborly.

She liked having him come around—maybe too much. What would happen if she got a little too used to his visits? What if …?

Well, there were a lot of things that could complicate her peaceful life, and she wasn’t sure that she was in any position to deal with any more than what she was already up against. And for that reason, she needed to get him, her heart and her zinging hormones back under control.

So when she swung open the door and found a smiling Hector on her stoop again, she invited him into the living room, intending to have a little heart-to-heart.

“I was just thinking,” he said. “This is a big house, and you probably shouldn’t be doing anything strenuous.”

“I’m not. The big stuff, like the moving, is over. And the Salvation Army will eventually come and take all those boxes in the garage.”

“I’m talking about scrubbing and cleaning and vacuuming. After I saw you sweeping the stoop yesterday, I called Margo, the woman who works for me. She has a free day each week, so if you’re interested, I can give you her number.”

He was concerned about her doing too much? And he was offering his cleaning lady?

Samantha wondered if Peter would be that worried about her, if he’d been alive and known they were expecting triplets.

Probably, but Hector …

She pointed to the sofa. “Why don’t you sit down for a minute.”

He complied, folding his long, lean and masculine body into the seat and stretching his arm across the backrest. “What’s the matter?”

“I really appreciate your thoughtfulness, Hector. But I guess it just seems …”

“Weird?”

“No. Not that. It’s just …”

“Unusual?”

“Yes, that’s what I’m getting at. I mean, you’re just a neighbor. And, well, you didn’t even like my husband.”

“I wasn’t fond of him, if that’s what you mean. But I’m sorry that he died. Sorry that you lost him.”

“Thanks. I’m sorry, too.”

His sympathy surprised her, yet it seemed to make it all better. Or maybe it made it worse. She struggled with her reactions to him, both physical and emotional. But she’d be darned if she knew what to do with them, other than put a stop to their budding friendship—or whatever it was—before things took a complicated turn.

“I’m uneasy with your help, Hector.”

“Why?”

“Because.” She didn’t dare give her primary reason, so she reached for another. “It feels as though you’ve taken me on as some kind of charity project.”

“That’s not it.”

“Then what is?”

“I have no idea. I guess you could say that I care for you. Maybe it’s sympathy. Maybe it’s a weird desire to look out for you. Hell, I don’t know what it is. Maybe

I’m attracted to you.” He laughed at that, and she didn’t know what to make of it.

He had to be joking, but she didn’t find anything funny about it, especially since her attraction to him was growing by leaps and bounds.

But she’d be darned if she knew what to do about it—other than accept his help.

And then where would that leave her?

The Armstrong Fertility Institute, a modern structure located near the Harvard Medical Center, housed the administrative offices, as well as a research lab and the clinic where Dr. Chance Demetrios practiced.

Since Samantha had been instructed to return the following week, she’d scheduled her appointment on Wednesday at ten o’clock in the morning. And she made sure that she arrived ten minutes early.

She was eager to learn that the babies were growing, that everything was just as it should be.

There were only three other women seated in the waiting room, and since there were other doctors who practiced at the clinic, it wouldn’t be too long before she was called.

After the door shut quietly behind her, Samantha headed to the front desk so she could check in with Wilma Goodheart, the receptionist. Wilma, who was in her late fifties, had worked at the Institute almost since day one and seemed to know each patient by name.

As Samantha approached the desk, she said, “Good morning, Ms. Goodheart.”

The receptionist, with her silver-streaked hair swept into a no-nonsense bun, glanced up from her work and smiled warmly. “Hello, Mrs. Keating. You look bright and cheerful today. I take it you’re feeling well.”

“I am. Thank you.”

Samantha had asked the woman to call her by her first name several months ago to no avail. Apparently, Wilma insisted upon referring to all the patients as either Ms. or Mrs., which was nice. But Samantha didn’t like to be called Mrs. Keating. Every time someone addressed her that way, she felt compelled to turn around and see if Peter’s mother was standing behind her.

“Go ahead and find a seat,” Ms. Goodheart said. “I’ll let the nurse know that you’re here.”

“Thank you.”

Samantha chose a chair near the window and reached for a magazine. But as she did so, she couldn’t help noting that two of the other pregnant women were seated next to men. It was nice to see expectant fathers be so supportive of their wives or girlfriends, and Samantha couldn’t help being just a wee bit envious.