Her jaw dropped, and the gerbil in her brain jumped on the treadmill. “I broke his nose for cryin’ out loud.”
“And cooperated fully with the police—after you regained consciousness. I’m not blaming you for his getaway.”
“Gee, how big of you,.” She moved toward the door and hoped her legs didn’t collapse.
“I had to ask.” He rose and readjusted his pigtail.
“No, you didn’t.”
“Okay. Just remember I brought Lamar’s every week, so I can’t be a total jerk, right?”
“You think you’re pretty sure of what I’ll say, aren’t you?” She turned the knob.
“Yep. I’ve been around. I’m a damned good judge of character.”
She opened the door. “Merry Christmas, Ryder.”
****
Fresh from her bath, smelling of violets, Baby Quinn lay in the middle of the bed, kicking and cooing, the poster-child for contentment. For the moment, at least.
And it might be only a moment.
“Want to talk to your mama, Sweetheart?” To hell with waiting for Quinn to call at 10:30. If Ryder was still in her office, he’d overstayed his welcome. Pierce punched AUTODIAL, dangled his clean handkerchief in front of the baby, laughed when she squealed loudly. “That’s a yes.”
“Ryder just left.” Quinn’s voice sounded thin.
Pierce traced the tip of the handkerchief across the tiny nose he loved.
A loud meeooow interrupted a gurgle.
“Ole Jealous Eyes wants in the bedroom.”
Quinn laughed and he wished he could make her laugh again. She rarely laughed these days. Hardly even smiled. She never talked about marriage. He didn’t either. No freakin’ way he’d sign on as an invalid-husband. But Quinn worried about saddling him with a baby who cried more than she slept.
“Our gal’s on the bed, and Mrs. Taylor informs me Floyd has threatened to call the Humane Society.”
Quinn giggled. “You are insane.”
“Mrs. Taylor figures Floyd, as a hero and all, thinks he should get first dibs on the bed.”
Idiot. Pierce mentally kicked his ass for the oblique reference to the day he hated but couldn’t recall. Then Quinn snickered, and he shut that window into his soul. He knew about Floyd’s heroism from her. The rest he’d blocked out. He prodded her once more about the meeting with Ryder, but didn’t push when she changed the subject. She’d tell him when she was ready. Too bad he wasn’t ready to bring up marriage.
“Any chance you can come home early? Mrs. Taylor’s begging for quality baby-time.”
“The doctor says—”
“I’m not fantasizing sex, Quinn. Holding you’s probably the best therapy for my head right now.” Bastard that he was, he didn’t hesitate to punch her guilt buttons.
“I’ll probably fall asleep.”
“Good. That’s probably the best therapy for you right now.” Especially if her dreams didn’t haunt her. “Let Floyd stay on the bed, and I bet we can dissuade him from calling the Humane Society.”
An anemic chuckle, then she said, “It’s worth a try.”
****
Sun streamed in the window behind Quinn’s desk. Too tired to get up and close the blinds, she let the heat lull her. God, her eyelids weighed a ton. Surrendering to temptation, she laid her head on the desk and faced the warm, golden rays. Just for a few minutes.
Or long enough to review the upcoming holidays. The goal was to keep the festivities simple, so why did she feel so out-of-control? Weepy? Overwhelmed? Her mother arrived tomorrow afternoon. Pierce’s parents would show up Christmas morning. Yet she’d shopped for no gifts. Had no gift ideas for anyone—not even Pierce. Her mind raced and her stomach churned.
Eyes watering from the glare, she lifted her head and stood. Thank God, she’d written bonus checks—fat checks—for Sami, Leah and Janelle. They deserved the checks. They’d seen her wig out over Michael. They’d heard most of the gory details about the scene in Pierce’s bedroom. They’d held the fort while she went to St. Louis to bring Baby Quinn home, then managed the end-of-year business demands while she spent day after day after day in the hospital with Pierce. Her three right-hands deserved gold and silver and diamonds, but maybe, just maybe, they’d appreciate their bonuses more if she threw in an unexpected vacation...
When she yanked open the door between her office and the reception area, their chatter and soft laughter stopped. Pressing her back against the door jamb, she wiggled her fingers.
“Santa’s been keeping a list. He’s impressed, I’m grateful. So go home and don’t come back till next year.”
They whooped and hugged her and ad libbed a chorus of Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.
She walked them to the elevator and teared up only once when Leah declared, “I bet the worst is over, Quinn.”
“I can live with that.” She gave high fives all around and retreated to her office on a cloud of youthful optimism.
By the time she reached Pierce’s house twenty minutes later, she’d made two phone calls—one she considered the most important call of her life. The first went exactly as she wanted. Mrs. Taylor jumped at the chance to spend the night with Baby Quinn. Giggling like a teenager, the housekeeper promised to trick Floyd into forfeiting his cushy spot on Pierce’s bed. And of course she swore not to warn Pierce of Quinn’s early arrival. With any luck, he wouldn’t hear the garage door over Baby Quinn’s screams.
Shivers of excitement carried Quinn from the garage into the kitchen. A bottle of champagne on ice, two glasses, a platter of finger food and three fat candles sat on the nearest counter. Quinn laughed, danced a little jig and whispered, “Santa has come to town.”
Lord, she’d forgotten the fun side of surprises. If Pierce wasn’t surprised by what she had in store...she stopped and cocked her head.
Silence. Deep. Quiet. Natural.
I remember silence. She threw a triumphant fist in the air. No operatic cries or screams or shrieks. What better sign from the universe than Baby Quinn sleeping that her plan was destined to come off without a hitch?
She ran up the stairs, opening the top three buttons on her blouse, and called in a low, sexy cadence, “Honey, I’m home.”
“Honey, I’m speech...less...” Pierce’s slow easy grin widened as Quinn stopped in the doorway, hiked one corner of her skirt above her thigh and did a little bump and grind.
“My, what big teeth you have.” She leaned forward, giving him an eyeful of cleavage.
“C’mere.” He threw back the comforter, but Quinn continued her slow bump and grind toward the bed, where she pushed him back into the pillows.
“Who are you?” he asked, his voice hoarse, his eyes all pupil, his hands hot and demanding on her breasts.
“The woman holding you to your proposal—your two proposals. The woman who felt pushy marrying you while you were in a coma for two weeks. The woman who loves you. Has always loved you. Will always love you.”
“I don’t have a ring—”
She laughed. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll wear the pull-tab from a beer can—till we go shopping for a pear-cut diamond.”
“Pear-cut, huh? Sounds like you know what you want.” He nuzzled a spot behind her ear and she moaned shamelessly.
“Definitely. A family ceremony—your parents, my mother, Baby Quinn, Mrs. Taylor, and Floyd. In the living room. On Christmas Day. At dusk. Lights from The Plaza in the background—”
The buzzer on the front gate interrupted her fire-hose declaration. Chucking Pierce under the chin, Quinn punched the intercom, nodding as an unseen deliveryman from Monique’s, her favorite boutique on The Plaza, said, “Package for Pierce Jordan.”
She nipped Pierce’s lower lip, then said, “I’ll be right there.”
Pierce shook his head, but kept his hand on her nipple. “Must be a mistake. I haven’t ordered anything.”
“I’ve already picked out my dress. Actually, I asked Monique to send three. We’ll decide together.” She
kissed him, inserting her tongue into his mouth, keeping her eyes wide open, willing him to understand how safe she felt.
How many single mothers found a father for another man’s child? She didn’t know, she just knew Pierce had wanted the adoption at the lowest point in her life. He wasn’t a quitter, she thought, suddenly wanting to tell him again she’d always loved him.
Some men stuck through thick and thin.
Daddy and Michael did not.
Pierce did.
A sensation of floating carried her downstairs. She flung open the door, and the deliveryman took one look at her grinning at him like a sex doll and jumped backwards. He thrust an iPad at her for her signature, exchanged his electronic toy for a dress box, and jogged down the front stairs without looking back.
As she bumped the door shut, a three-by-five white envelope slipped off the box and fell face-down on the tiles.
Her heart missed a beat and the memory of the envelope in her kitchen surfaced. Knees weak, she stared at the envelope at her feet. Logic said it contained a congratulatory note from Monique.
“Helloooo?” Pierce’s voice broke through Quinn’s numbness.
She set the box on the floor and turned over the envelope. Her stomach lurched. She whispered, “Dèjá vu.”
Her breath came in ragged puffs. The envelope faded in and out of focus. She bent over it like a puppet on a broken string. Blood drained from her head, but she read the ornate computer script at a glance.
Sarah Quinn Alexander.
Her hand shook as if she was picking up a bomb. It took three tries before she slid a nail under the flap. The letters danced, but she managed to read the single sentence.
Tell Baby Quinn someday her daddy loved her and won’t forget her.
A word about the author...
Allie Hawkins lives just off the fast lane in Silicon Valley. She walks every day, writes every day, and dances Zumba every chance she gets.
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