Vicki Thompson: Her Best Friend's Baby

He cleared his throat and glanced at her, his eyes moist. “I guess you don’t know me. There were those few days before the wedding, and then the last visit, for the procedure.”

She nodded. “Arielle kept saying the two of you would visit Austin, but you never came.”

“No. She really liked New York.”

“I know.” She looked into his eyes and knew they had to get out of this house or they would both break down again. “You said something about shopping.”

He nodded. “Your food supply leaves much to be desired.”

She decided to ignore the insult. At least he hadn’t specifically started in on her about the sweets. “Do you want to go out looking like that?”

“Like—” He looked startled, and then he rubbed a hand over his chin. “Maybe I should shave.”

“Unless you want to frighten old ladies and small children.”

The ghost of a smile flitted across his mouth. “I’d rather not.”

She’d forgotten that he had a wonderful smile. This wasn’t a real version of it, but it reminded her why she’d taken a liking to Morgan when she’d first met him. When he smiled, really smiled, he put his whole heart into it. His whole heart wasn’t in it now, but she could hardly blame him for that.

“Come on upstairs and I’ll find you a new razor,” she said. “You’ll have to lather up with soap instead of shaving cream, though. And the razor will be pink. I hope that doesn’t offend you.” She started out of the kitchen.

“Nothing could offend me more than I’ve offended myself.”

Whirling, she threw out both hands in exasperation. “Good Lord, will you stop?” She’d never been a patient person under the best of circumstances, and he was sorely trying what little patience she could find this morning. “We were both under a hideous strain, and we comforted each other! I thank God you were here to tell me in person! Don’t you thank God that you had someone to run to, someone who loved Arielle as much as you did?”

His throat worked. His dark eyes filled. “Yes. I thank God for you, Mary Jane. I will thank God for you for the rest of my life.”

She looked into his eyes and something happened to her heart, making it go all squishy and warm and tender. Wow. The guy packed a wallop. She needed to get him moving or she was liable to do something really embarrassing, like move closer and kiss him. Like suggest they go upstairs for something besides that razor…

“Shaving,” she said. “We can get through this, Morgan, if we just put one foot in front of the other.”

“Maybe you should get the razor and bring it down. I can shave in the half bath.”

“You can, but the light’s no good in there. And the mirror distorts a little. Believe me, I know these things, having stared into both mirrors more times than I should probably admit. Come on.” She started up the stairs.

“That’s okay. I’ll use the half bath.”

One hand on the railing, she turned and gazed at him. She wondered if he was one of those stubborn men who turned everything into a power struggle. If so, the sooner he left Austin, the better. “I hate to say this, Morgan, but you are being a pain in the ass. I’ll bring the razor down if you insist, but what damned difference does it make where you shave?”

He cleared his throat and looked away. “I just think…it would be better if I stayed down here. And out of the…bedroom.”

Oh. As she gripped the railing and considered the implications of what he’d said, she couldn’t hold back a small feeling of triumph. He’d liked his experience with her last night. He’d liked it so much that he wanted more. Maybe Morgan wasn’t all brain, after all.

“I’ll get the razor,” she said, her step much lighter as she went upstairs.

AT MARY JANE’S suggestion, they’d driven across town to an area she seldom visited to have breakfast and shop for groceries. Morgan thought it was a smart move. Mary Jane didn’t want to run into anyone she knew until she had herself more emotionally together, and he didn’t want to run into anyone who had known Arielle. After all, his wife had spent the first twenty-two years of her life in this town.

Taking another sip of his coffee, he sat across the table from Mary Jane in the booth of a small neighborhood restaurant and watched her not eat. She made a show of it, cutting her omelette into bite-size pieces, sipping her juice, putting a little pepper on her food. His plate looked as untouched as hers, but he wasn’t pregnant. She needed to eat.

“Look, I know you’re not hungry,” he said at last. “But you need to try.”

She glanced at him. “Couldn’t I swallow twice as many of those prenatal magic bullets you’ve prescribed for me?”

He shook his head and felt a smile trying to work its way through his pain. “They don’t work very well if you don’t have food in there, too.”

She sighed and took a bite of omelette into her mouth. Chewing and swallowing, she made a face. “It’s cold and the cheese has congealed.”

“Then I’ll order you another one.” He lifted his hand to signal the waitress.

“You most certainly will not!” She shoveled in another bite. “I’m eating. See? Eating.”

“That’s silly. They can throw that away and get—”

“Put your hand down.” She reached across the table and grabbed his wrist, smacking his hand on the table. “We are not going to put the waitress and the cook to more trouble because I dawdled over my food and let it get cold. They’ll think something was wrong with it. It’s not good karma to send your food back uneaten.”

“But you weren’t eating it.” The back of his hand stung where she’d whacked it against the table, but it was the warm grip of her fingers around his wrist that really bothered him. Her fingers against his skin reminded him of how she’d clutched his shoulders last night while he buried himself in her. He forced himself to stay focused. “The food would have gone back to the kitchen eventually, anyway.”

“Nope.” Her blue gaze held his earnestly. “I would have asked for a doggy bag. Nobody’s insulted if you ask for a doggy bag.” She looked at his hand on the table. “Can I trust you not to try to get the waitress over here?”

“Guess so.”

“All right, then.” She released her hold and went back to eating her cold omelette. “It’s a matter of professional courtesy.”

“I can see that.”

She paused and glanced pointedly at his plate. “Eat up.”

“But I’m not—”

“Hungry? I don’t think that’s the issue. You need your strength.”

He pushed his plate aside. “I’ll ask for a doggy bag.”

“Oh, no, you don’t. If you’re going to force me to eat this cold food, you can do the exact same thing. Start chewing.”

“We’re not in the same boat.”

She shoved his plate in front of him. “We’re in exactly the same boat. I may be physically carrying this baby, but you are the father.”

And the only parent. He went still, bracing himself for the blow if she decided to point that out. She didn’t. She was incredibly sensitive. He hadn’t known that about her. There were lots of things he hadn’t known about her, like the silken welcome she provided for a man in bed. That was one thing he’d be better off not knowing, and the one thing he’d never forget.

“Let’s say you let yourself get run down,” she said. “You weaken your immune system, and there you are, a sitting duck for every bug that cruises by. So you have one illness after another, getting even more run down, and then, when this little girl is born, you’re too full of germs to be in the delivery room, let alone ready to function as her father.” She pointed her fork at him. “What do you say to that, Mr. Pediatrician? Is that fair to anybody?”