Marie Ferrarella - His Secret Baby - The Agent's Secret Baby

But standing here, in the middle of her chaotic kitchen, with the stuffing only half-baked and demanding her attention, the potatoes refusing for some unknown reason to cook to the point where they were soft enough to mash, and the turkey needing basting every fifteen minutes, not to mention that she had to stop periodically to feed or change an overly fussy baby, her goal of having everything ready by five o’clock was becoming the impossible dream.

Sound suddenly emanated from the baby monitor on the counter. Brooklyn was awake and crying. Again.

Eve pressed her lips together, trying to ignore the sound.

Brooklyn’s wail grew louder.

Her daughter had gotten accustomed to being scooped up within moments of voicing her displeasure. Eve knew schools of child-rearing sometimes frowned on that, claiming that to deny instant gratification was actually good for the baby. But the sound of her baby’s cries just twisted her heart. Besides, she reasoned, how could too much love be a bad thing?

Still, today would have been a good day to put one of those “let the baby cry a little” theories to the test. Eve tried and remained where she was.

She lasted all of a minute and a half. Throwing up her hands, she wiped them on her apron then hurried to the staircase.

“Mama’s coming,” she called out, taking the stairs as quickly as she could.

The pitiful cries continued until she entered Brooklyn’s room.

“Maybe you’d like to come down and give me a few pointers,” she said to her daughter as she picked the infant up.

Brooklyn sighed deeply, as if some horrible wrong had just been righted, then lay her head down on her mother’s shoulder, tucking herself against her mother’s neck.

The missing piece of my puzzle, Eve thought, patting the baby’s bottom. She could almost feel the deep affection in her chest doubling the moment Brooklyn lay her head down.

Remaining where she was for a moment, Eve drew in a deep breath. No offensive odor registered. “Okay, you don’t need changing and you just ate an hour ago, so you’re not hungry. You’re just lonely up here, aren’t you?” she murmured, stroking her daughter’s back. It was a toss up who was more soothed by the action, Eve mused, Brooklyn or her. “Okay, come with me,” she said cheerfully, leaving the room and heading for the stairs. “I know just where to put you.”

On his last visit—yesterday—Josiah had brought yet another gift for the baby. It was what amounted to a motorized port-a-crib, complete with music some expert declared that babies enjoyed. He’d had Lucas put it together for her. The finished product currently stood in the family room.

“Time to put this little contraption to the test,” Eve announced. Very carefully, she deposited Brooklyn into the port-a-crib.

The moment her back made contact with the thin mattress on the bottom of the crib, Brooklyn began to fuss again. Eve quickly wound the motor. The port-a-crib slowly swayed to and fro, the gentle action keeping time with the soft strains of a lullaby.

Brooklyn’s eyes widened. Entranced, she stopped crying. Her expression became alert, as if trying to pinpoint where the sound came from.

If she didn’t know better, Eve thought, she would have said her daughter was smiling.

“Bless you, Josiah,” Eve murmured. With slow, careful movements, she repositioned the port-a-crib so that she could easily keep an eye on it from the kitchen.

Eve had no sooner done that than a loud hissing noise demanded her attention. The water in the pot with the potatoes had finally begun to boil, and just like that, it was boiling over. The water splashed onto the surface of the electric burner and cascaded down along the front of the stove.

The last time that had happened, Eve suddenly remembered, the stove had short-circuited, throwing the oven portion out of commission for an entire day. She didn’t have an entire day to spare. She didn’t even have half an hour to spare, she thought, trying to bank down a wave of panic.

“No, no, no,” Eve cried, as if the urgent entreaty could somehow perform a miracle and send the water retreating like the Red Sea scene in the classic The Ten Commandments.

Grabbing a towel, Eve frantically stemmed the descending tide. In the background, she heard the doorbell ring.

Now what?

It was too early for either Adam or Josiah and his driver to arrive. People didn’t sell magazines door-to-door around here on Thanksgiving, did they?

She decided to ignore whoever was on the other side of the door. But the doorbell rang a second time. And Tessa, suddenly alert, began to run back and forth from the front door to the kitchen.

Now someone was knocking instead of ringing. She glanced at her dog as she made a second round-trip dash. “What is it, Lassie? Did Timmy fall into the well?”

Tessa barked, as if in response to the question.

Feeling harried, Eve looked over toward Brooklyn to make sure everything was all right, then hurried over to the front door.

She pulled it open without bothering to ask who it was. If it was a serial killer, the dog would protect her. Or so she hoped.

It wasn’t a serial killer. It was Adam. Early.

“Didn’t I give you a key?” she asked him, an irritated note threatening her voice. Her dog, apparently, was overjoyed at the early appearance and behaved as if she hadn’t seen him for months instead of a handful of hours.

Turning on her heel, Eve quickly returned to the scene of her pending disaster.

The scent of scorched surfaces and burned water faintly teased his nose as Adam followed her to the kitchen. Things weren’t going too well, he noticed, but wisely kept the observation to himself.

“Yes, but that’s only for emergencies, like if I think you’ve passed out and hit your head on something. Otherwise, I didn’t think you would want me just waltzing in.”

Thinking back, she realized that she had let him in each time. “You practically live here these days.” The only time he left was to go to work or get a change of clothes. That pretty much constituted him living with her. “Having you let yourself in wouldn’t have upset some delicate balance of power,” she assured him.

Pausing to pet the dog, Adam then went directly to the port-a-crib. Brooklyn began gurgling and kicking her feet. Her big blue eyes appeared focused on Adam.

Hardly a month old and she was already a flirt, Eve thought with a shake of her head.

“Hi, short stuff,” Adam teased, tickling the baby’s belly.

The sound of Brooklyn’s delighted laughter filled the air, warming Eve’s heart.

Walking away from the crib, Adam crossed back to the kitchen. His eyes swept around the room. Keeping a straight face, he asked Eve, “Need help?”

“No.” The word came out like a warning shot fired at a potential intruder. “I’ve got everything under control here.”

Rather than dispute her claim, Adam slid onto the closest stool. Propping his upturned palm beneath his chin, he just stared unabashedly at her.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“Waiting for your nose to grow,” he replied simply. “Happened in a fairy tale. Little wooden boy lied, his nose grew something awful.”

She held up her hand to stop him from going on. “I am aware of the fairy tale,” she informed him through gritted teeth, “and I am not lying.”

He gave her a knowing look, pretending to humor her. “Lucky for you, fairy tales don’t come true.” He slid off the stool and looked around. Enough was enough. It was time to get down to business. “All right, where do you want me to get started?”

She gave up the protest with a heartfelt sigh. “Do you have a magic wand?”

He laughed. “I don’t think you need that much help. Just a little,” he added, trying to bolster her morale. “Why don’t we divide up the work? Would that make things easier on you?”