Jennifer Greene - A Baby In His In-Box

It wasn’t the same as her wanting him.

His hand fell. Then both hands jammed into his pockets, buried out of sight as if he was trying to bury that impulse to touch her. “Molly, this whole story isn’t done. There hasn’t been time to talk to you—I haven’t even had a chance to try and explain—”

She shook her head quickly, firmly. “You don’t owe me any explanations, and I’m well aware you’ve just had your life turned upside down. But so has that baby. Love him, Flynn. And honestly, I need to go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She latched the door closed on her way out. No slam. Not even the sound of a click. She was just gone. Faster than the light bulb switched off, and leaving him with an odd, scratchy feeling in his throat.

Abruptly, though, Flynn heard a crash. He pivoted on a heel and hightailed into the living room. The floor lamp by his leather reading chair was lying on the ground, the shade rolling and punctured. The accident could have happened by osmosis, but somehow he suspected another culprit. As a point of fact, if the baby were hurt, he was going to have to shoot himself. And how could such a tiny kid manage to topple a sturdy five-foot lamp?

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