Jennifer Greene: Bachelor Mom

She finally trailed off. Spence understood he was expected to say something. And he would. As soon as he found his voice again.

He’d known she was beautiful. She just didn’t have a flashy type of beauty—or any awareness of her allure. Still didn’t.

But Spence did. And the changes in her tonight only put an exclamation on a declarative truth he already knew. Her hair had been short before, but now it was feathery, framing her face in soft spikes, giving her a tousled, sexy, French look. Something about her eyes looked darker, more dramatic. The new silk blouse wasn’t fancy, just a blouse, but the cream color set off her golden skin and the coral cameo she had pinned at the throat. The skirt was swishy and long and cruelly hid those damn fine legs of hers, but the style was pure female. Pure her.

“You look stunning,” he informed her seriously.

“Hardly that.” But she laughed, both nervously and with a little relief in there, too. “It was kind of fun. Just...goofing off. And you’ll never believe what happened.”

“What?”

“These two guys whistled at me on the escalator. You know what else?”

“What?”

“Another guy tried to pick me up in the parking lot. I was just walking toward my car when he was walking toward his. When he started talking to me, I thought he was just being nice, you know, the way friendly types wander into conversations when you’re stuck in lines or in elevators or wherever? But good grief, he asked me out. I almost had a heart attack.”

So did Spence. “Got a taste for the reckless life, did you?”

She chuckled. “Maybe not reckless on a parachute jumper’s terms, but I haven’t wasted an entire afternoon since ... well, since I can remember.”

“Getting out was good for you.”

“Yeah, it really seemed to be.” She seemed surprised when he wrapped her hands around a glass of fresh-squeezed limeade. In between breakneck pacing around the house, Spence had more than enough time to make it. And since she was still hovering by the door, close to her packages, he figured she was planning on leaving lickety-split unless he did something to stall her. “I should check on the boys and go, really—”

“You’re welcome to look in on the boys, but I bet it’d feel real good to kick your shoes off for a minute and relax?”

“Well...”

She was thirsty, he could see. And he didn’t have to coax her that hard into crashing for a few minutes on his saddle leather couch. She even slipped off her shoes and curled her legs under her. Either the shopping or turning herself into a sexy femme fatale had clearly temporarily zapped her quota of nervous energy.

His quota of nervous energy, by contrast, had soared somewhere near the stratosphere.

He switched on the lamp behind her, creating a soft pool of cream light, and kept a steady conversation going about his activities with the kids—dinner at Ponderosa, the three-against-one soccer game in the backyard, the finger-painting marathon the monsters had put him through at the kitchen table.

He had Gwen chuckling, but he also saw her gaze absently stray around the room. She’d been in his house dozens of times, but never in the formal living room before. Both of them had always been more inclined to pop in and out of each other’s kitchens for the type of casual, neighborly conversations they usually had. Now, though, she glanced around, noticing his Pakistani burgundy-and-cream rug, the Indian-carved teak coffee table, the Oriental prints on the walls and the man-size leather furniture.

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