Her friend continued rattling on. “Is she just a love to hold? That’s such a cute stage, and—”
“Bye, Cynth.” Molly clicked off the call and, desperate now, immediately dialed another familiar number. This time a wailing baby sounded in the background. “Dana. I’m hoping against hope you’ll tell me I don’t want a baby.”
The baby’s crying cut off. “Sorry about that,” Dana said. “It’s bottle time. What did you say?”
“I met this man—” Molly cleared her throat and started again. “There’s this baby that needs a nanny. Temporarily. I was thinking of taking the job. Tell me I shouldn’t.”
A long silence. “Go back to the man part”
Molly bit her lip. “The man part is inconsequential, except for the fact that he needs help with the baby.”
“Where’s his wife?”
“No wife. He’s not even the father.” Molly sighed impatiently. “Listen, it’s a long story, but the bottom line is he needs help and Daisy Ann is gorgeous and—”
“I don’t think you should do it.”
Molly’s jaw dropped. “What?”
“Didn’t you ask me to talk you out of it?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“No buts. You’re on vacation. Babies give you a headache.”
Molly rubbed Daisy Ann’s warm back. “Baby showers give me a headache.”
“Whatever. What’s this man’s name?”
“Weaver. Weaver Reed.” Molly bit her lip and inhaled a breath of baby scent. “Don’t you think I should be the nanny? You know I’m good with babies.”
“You’re great with babies. What’s this Weaver look like?”
Molly stroked the fringe of hair at the back of Daisy’s head. “Six feet plus. Dark hair. Great body. Great smile.”
“Don’t do it.”
“But it would only be for a few weeks. Maybe even less.”
“What about saying goodbye to the baby after a few weeks? Wouldn’t that be hard?”
Daisy’s wisps of hair tickled Molly’s knuckles. “It would be hard to say goodbye now,” she whispered.
“There you go,” Dana answered briskly. “All the more reason to forget this nutty nanny idea.”
Molly frowned. “It’s not so nutty. You know I go stir-crazy in the summer. You said yourself I’m great with babies.”
In Dana’s silence, Molly could picture her friend’s skeptically raised brows.
Molly frowned deeper and curled her hand protectively over the baby’s head. “I don’t care what you say. I’m going to do it. I’m going to tell Weaver I’ll be the nanny for Daisy Ann.”
The silence on the other end of the phone changed. It took on a triumphant quality.
Molly squeezed shut her eyes. “Something’s wrong here. I know I called you up to talk me out of this. But I was worried you’d probably encourage me to do it.”
“Fooled you.” Humor laced Dana’s voice.
“Yes. I’m getting it now,” Molly said slowly, just beginning to see how she’d been manipulated. “When you tried to convince me not to do it, I ended up admitting how much I wanted to.”
“There’s a reason I majored in psychology and you didn’t” Dana laughed outnght. “I’m good at it and you’re not.”
Weaver let the sun soak into his skin as he sat on Molly’s porch steps. So tired…His eyelids drifted closed, and he heard Patch grunt as the dog settled down beside him.
Nice of Molly to change the baby. Nice Molly. He grinned a little to himself. Good to get his mind back on track. If he had a prayer of her agreeing to be the nanny, he had to think about her professionally, not pruriently. He grinned again. Hey, I wasn’t aware I even knew that word. Maybe having a teacher around was a good influence on him.
Pattering of footsteps. A tiny aa—hem. In the interest of keeping his thoughts professional, Weaver kept shut his eyes.
She aa—hemmed again. “You asleep?” she whispered.
Oh, he wanted to be. Oh, he wanted to be sleeping in cool sheets and then wake up and look into her cool silver eyes. Wake up and warm her gaze with soft caresses, with the brush of his tongue against her shoulder—
Eyes closed was not working.
He lifted his lashes. “I’m awake.” Molly stepped over Patch and then clattered down the porch steps to face him. With Daisy snuggled in her embrace, she looked at him apprehensively, two spots of color on her cheeks.
“What’s up?” he asked.
Still, she hesitated.
He straightened. “Daisy doesn’t have a diaper rash, does she? The nanny left this goopy stuff, but I think Daisy doesn’t like being buttered up, and it gets under my fingernails and—”
“No diaper rash.” Molly bit her lip. “But you had her clothes on backward.”
Weaver shrugged. “I’m not too familiar with baby female clothing.”
She smiled a little. “Ah, I see. Make it grown-up female clothing and you’d be an expert.”
He refused to grin back. He refused to think about him pulling off Molly’s T-shirt. Of him unsnapping her bra with a flick of his fingers. Of her breasts swinging toward him—He groaned.
Her smile faded. “What’s the matter. Do you feel okay?”
“No,” he said. “I’m dizzy.”
After another minute’s silence, her two front teeth clamped down on her lower lip again.
She had something to tell him, obviously something she was unsure about. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
She rubbed Daisy’s back. She shifted from foot to foot, then scratched one of her long, runner’s calves with the toe of the other sneaker.
“Baby’s asleep,” he said, noticing the infant’s head had fallen onto Molly’s shoulder.
“Oh. Oh.” She seemed pleased at the interruption and walked toward the baby jogger. In slow motion, an obvious attempt to leave Daisy undisturbed, Molly bent over and lightly deposited the baby in the seat.
Stop looking. He didn’t, of course. He let his gaze freely roam those turn-on legs, slender hips, the long, fragile curve of her back. But he also noticed the gentle way her hands draped the blanket over Daisy, and noticed the attention Molly paid to adjusting the sunshade so the baby was protected.
She turned back around and crossed her arms over her chest. “I was thinking…maybe I could be Daisy’s nanny.”
Weaver’s heart leapt, like Michael Jordan on his way up for a slam dunk. He swallowed it back down. “You will?” Steady, boy.
“If you want me.” She looked toward Daisy Ann, a gentle smile breaking over her face. “If you think she’ll like me.”
“Want you? Like you?” Weaver rose to his feet and took a couple of steps toward Molly. “I could kiss you!”
Obviously alarmed, she tried to move back but was blocked by the oversize front wheel of the baby jogger.
“On the cheek,” he said with mock affront.
Her smile turned embarrassed, and she shuffled forward, tilting her cheek toward him and holding out her hand.
Weaver wanted to laugh at the gesture. Covering all the bases, that was Molly. Holding out for a handshake, yet submitting to his playful bid for a kiss.
Just a firm grip and a quick buss, Reed.
Her hand disappeared in his. The fine skin of her cheek made him cross-eyed as he moved closer.
A knee-high doggy force nudged him firmly. Pushed him forward. Molly’s surprised gaze swung toward his, bringing her lips his way. He and Molly made contact. Bumped each other. Lip to lip.
4
Mouth to mouth. A real kiss. The action so startled Molly that she froze.
Weaver didn’t move away, either, and their lips stayed pressed together, stayed warm against warm. Molly felt the tiny bristle of whiskers at the edge of his mouth—an image of him shaving, shirtless, flicked through her mind—and then he tilted his head, pressed deeper.
Me! Me! Me! Nerve endings clamored for attention like first-graders on a Monday morning. She felt the brush of his tongue on
her bottom lip, the sensation of his breath on the skin of her cheek. Her heart pounded the beat of passion-boom, boom, boom.
Must’ve been the wakeup call, because suddenly Weaver jerked back. He straightened and stared down at her, his breath labored.
His hands dived deep into his pockets. “When can you start?” A pained expression scrunched his brow, and he cleared his throat.
Weaver held his breath. Damn that accidental liplock. She wouldn’t cancel her offer because of his purposeful deepening of the kiss, would she? He hoped she’d go along and just pretend it never happened, because he couldn’t think of another way to deal with the thing.
“Tomorrow,” she said.
He tried not to stare at the shape of her mouth. Tried forgetting the smooth texture, the sweet taste.
“I’ll start tomorrow morning.” Her gaze left his face, and she turned her head to look at the snoozing Daisy.
Weaver released an inward sigh. Ignoring the arrival of the Fourth of July on a June afternoon seemed to work for Molly, too. He grasped the handle of the baby jogger and turned it toward the sidewalk. Yeah, she wanted to pretend the fireworks hadn’t happened, he thought
Unless she hadn’t felt them.
His male ego did a quick double take. Nah. Just one look at her flushed cheeks and her darkened lips told him that the sparks had showered Molly, too.
That didn’t mean he shouldn’t forget about the whole thing, though. He should forget it.
Would forget it.
Nah.
As she walked to Weaver’s the next morning, Molly mentally adjusted her imaginary uniform. It was nurse’s whites or a nun’s habit or something, anything, that would keep her perspective on the job.
She had agreed to be a temporary nanny. That meant providing care. Not caring.
That sweet little girl wasn’t hers, and the man, well, the man had nothing to do with the job at all!
The accidental kiss and her heated response to it were warnings that she intended to listen to. Don’t get involved. Take care of the baby. Ignore the man.
But of course he opened the door, and she couldn’t check her immediate leap of interest. She ran her gaze from his bare feet, up legs in threadbare blue jeans, to his T-shirt stretched across his chest, on to his stubbled chin, his sexy mouth, his feverish eyes—
Feverish eyes? “What’s the matter, Weaver?” Two spots of color dotted his cheeks, and his eyes were heavy but overbright. “Are you sick?”
He blinked at her, slow. “I can’t be sick,” he said stubbornly. “I don’t have time to be sick.”
Patch surged forward on the leash in her hand and licked Weaver’s fingers. “You’re certainly not well,” Molly said.
He took two steps back and slid down onto the bench in the entryway, as if he couldn’t stand any longer. “I’m just tired.” The back of his head bumped the wall with an audible thank. “Is it tomorrow already?” The question seemed to make perfect sense to him.
“It’s tomorrow and I’ve come to take care of Daisy Ann,” she said briskly, reminding herself of her job and her one and only charge. “Where is she?”
“Just had a bottle and is napping in her crib.”
“Go to bed, then,” Molly said, unhooking the leash from Patch’s collar. “I’m here now.”
He tilted his head. “You’re here now. That’s nice.” He stood up, weaved a little.
Molly grasped her hands behind her back to keep from reaching out to him.
He turned to walk down the hall toward what must be the bedrooms, keeping one hand against the wall. “You’re here. Nice. Nice. I’m going to bed now.”
“Take some aspirin,” she called out. “I’ll bring you some lunch later.”
“Don’t have to do that,” he mumbled.
She sighed. “I know.”
“You’re here for Daisy.”
She sighed again. “I promise to remember that.”
The last door on the right shut behind Weaver, and Molly started her new job—her temporary nanny job—by familiarizing herself with the house.
Patch stuck close to her side, his warmth against her legs reassuring. The house was older, like her parents’ house, with hardwood floors and real plaster walls that echoed the dog’s clicking toenails. A large living room, formal dining room, white-tiled kitchen and a family room occupied the front portion of the home. Molly ventured down the long hallway only far enough to peek in the first bedroom, where she found Daisy sleeping in her crib.
She exchanged a warning look with Patch, and then they quietly walked from the bedroom back to the kitchen. Molly surveyed the cluttered counter space. “He’s not much of a housekeeper, huh?” she asked the dog.
Patch let out a big yawn agreement, then flopped to the floor.
Pots and pans, albeit clean, were stacked on top of the stove. Bottles and cans of formula occupied an entire countertop. On the opposite counter sat the microwave, door open. Inside was a scorched box of congealed…
“French toast?” Molly guessed, peering at the contents. “Pancakes?” She looked at the untouched breakfast then back toward Patch speculatively.
Don’t even think about it. The dog’s aversion to the leftovers was written across his face. Unless it includes sausage.
Molly sighed and tossed the box in the garbage. “Wonder if he had dinner last night—” She broke off the thought, trying to break off her concern, as well. Just Daisy Ann. Hadn’t she become overinvolved with a temporary man before?
She busied herself tidying up. A couple of layers down she located instructions for Daisy’s bottle preparation and a feeding schedule, both written in Weaver’s bold, slashing handwriting—she recognized it from the Everything Must Go! flyer.
Then Daisy cried. Both Molly and Patch scurried down the hall before the sound might disturb Weaver. The baby blinked at Molly as she lifted the warm weight into her arms, but settled against her naturally enough, after one or two more small whimpers.
Molly turned away from the crib to run—smackinto a wide, bare chest.
Weaver stared down at her, apparently undisturbed by the fact that he was entirely naked except for a pair of silky boxers. “Oh. Yeah,” he said, as if just remembering who she was and why she was there.
His hair was mussed, and if possible, the shadow on his jaw had darkened in the last hour. “Yeah,” she echoed. His blue boxers had a humorous saying squiggled in white all over them. Sunday. Monday. Any Day. Any Way. Molly didn’t think it was all that funny.
Daisy chortled, though, craning her neck to look at Weaver. To give herself some breathing room, Molly placed her palm against his solid chest and pushed. He didn’t budge, so she said the first thing that came into her head. Her concern for him, naturally. “You’re so hot.”
“I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” The words sounded hoarse, and even though he battled a fever, his half grin managed to crimp her insides.
She pushed against his disturbing heat again. “Move. You’re breathing germs all over Daisy and me.”
He quickly stepped back, then weaved on his feet, the way he’d done when she’d arrived. One arm still holding the baby, Molly wrapped her other hand around his massive forearm. Her fingers dug into the hard sinews to steady him.
“Ouch,” he said.
Molly quickly removed her hand.
He half smiled again, then moved back a few steps so he could lean against the doorjamb. “Finding everything you need?”
She wanted him to go back to his bedroom. She needed him to go away so she could concentrate on being the impersonal, competent nanny. Daisy squirmed in her arms, and Molly automatically turned her, facing her toward Weaver. The baby wriggled again and let out a frustrated squeal.
Weaver made a funny face at the baby, lifting his eyebrows in a Groucho leer while crossing his eyes. Daisy stilled, then smiled and squealed again, a delighted squeal.
A huge chunk of Molly’s resolve crumbled away. He made another silly fa
ce, and Molly made herself look over his shoulder instead, shoring up her weakening good intentions by reminding herself what she was here for.
And what she wasn’t here for.
The temporary nanny wasn’t here to drool over the temporary man.
Daisy crowed again with delight.
“I don’t see how you’ll be able to leave her.” Without volition, she said the thing that bothered her most.
He stilled, and his gaze cut toward her. “I’ll make sure she’ll be happy. I’ll find someone related to her.”
“But not you.”
He shrugged. “I’m no family man.”
She’d heard that one before. And learned that when a man said he didn’t want a baby and a home that she should listen.
So she shouldn’t be interested in Weaver. She shouldn’t want to take his temperature, or serve him chicken soup, or bathe his fevered brow. She certainly shouldn’t want to kiss him.
And as if he sensed her disapproval, he abruptly straightened and headed through the doorway. “Call me if you need me,” he said.
He didn’t even linger long enough to hear her whispered, “I won’t.”
Daisy Ann fell asleep after her lunchtime bottle. Hoping to throw a load of Daisy’s things in the washer, Molly resisted an urge to cuddle the sleeping baby and put her down in her crib instead. As she turned to tiptoe out, an open chest in the corner of the room caught her eye.
Molly knelt before it. Smelling of cedar, it was a typical hope chest, intended for the keepsakes of a bride. As she peered inside, Molly’s eyes pricked with hot tears.
There were keepsakes inside, all right. Personal things, all the things Molly suddenly realized were missing from the comfortably furnished house, were placed carefully inside the chest. Framed wedding photographs of Daisy’s mother and father. A picture of newborn Daisy. A wedding veil wrapped in tissue, a pink bubble-gum cigar, one of many that Molly imagined Daisy’s dad had proudly passed around.
Little and big mementos to link Daisy Ann to the parents she would never know.
Molly hunched her shoulder to dry her wet cheek against her T-shirt. Every item touched her, wrenched her heart, squeezed out tears. But as moving as the keepsakes themselves was the knowledge of the one who had so carefully saved them. Not some friend of Daisy’s parents, not the previous nanny.
Have Baby, Will Marry Page 4