Miracle Baby (Harlequin American Romance)

by Laura Bradford

  Shaking the inappropriate thoughts from his mind, Rory, too, stood, still holding on to her. “The first part is breakfast at the diner. The second part is to have you accompany me.”

  A wash of crimson blossomed across her cheeks. “I can’t. I—”

  “Have you eaten yet?” he asked in a rush, his mind running in circles as he searched for words that wouldn’t scare her away.

  “No, but—”

  “Neither have I.”

  “But—”

  “Look, being a carpenter is great. But doing the kind of work I do means I’m alone all day with no one to talk to but myself. And while I can be scintillating company the vast majority of the time, I could surely stand a little spice in my routine.” He ducked his head to the side in an effort to regain eye contact with the woman standing less than a foot away.

  After an awkward moment of silence, she finally spoke, her quiet voice sporting a hint of playfulness. “Scintillating, you say?”

  He inhaled deeply. “Yup.”

  “Then I guess you’re two for two this week.”

  “Two for two?” he repeated, his heart completely captivated by the tiny smile he saw flitting across her lips.

  “With wishes.”

  “Ahhh,” he said with a laugh. “You’re right. And you know something else?”

  She shook her head as he grabbed his keys and gestured toward the door. “No, what’s that?”

  “I could get used to this. Quickly.”

  Chapter Three

  It wasn’t long ago she’d prided herself on making smart decisions and having a cool head. But like everything else in her life, that, too, had obviously changed.

  Looking across the table at her breakfast companion, Maggie couldn’t help the incessant second-guessing that had plagued her from the moment Rory led her to his pickup truck in the parking lot of Lake Shire Inn.

  What on earth had she been thinking? She didn’t even know him. And what would Jack think of her sharing a meal with another man?

  He’d be glad you’re eating.

  As if on cue, her stomach grumbled, a sound so loud and so long it made the man on the other side of the table laugh.

  “Sounds like someone’s hungry.” Rory tapped the menu in front of him, his smile stretching across his face. “Which is a very good thing, because curing that is Delilah’s specialty.”

  Pushing a wayward strand of hair back toward her ponytail, Maggie cocked her head. “Delilah?”

  He nodded as his sapphire eyes inventoried their surroundings before coming to rest on her face. “Delilah owns this place. She’s been in business here for more years than I’ve been alive. She’s changed the interior, the display cases over by the door and even the menu on occasion, but satisfying stomach rumbles? That’s been a staple for as long as I can remember.”

  Maggie looked around at the bench-lined tables that dotted the quaint restaurant. In honor of the season, a tiny table-size tree surrounded by ketchup and mustard containers graced the wide window ledge above each booth.

  “Every Christmas season she decorates the place, adding something new. Last year was the themed trees at all the tables.” Rory beckoned to a robust woman who appeared to be squinting at them from a far corner. Within seconds, the sixtysomething woman was beside their table, a pad of paper and a pen in her hand.

  “Would you look at who’s finally decided to grace us with his presence?” Dramatically, the woman placed a hand at the throat of her powder-blue, button-down dress, a look of mock surprise on her gently lined face. “Why, Rory O’Brien, if I hadn’t had my vision checked just the other day, I’d think I was seeing things. But Dr. Rinaldi swears I’ve got the eyesight of a hawk. In fact, he says it’s so good I may get through another ten years without needing glasses. So it really must be you sitting here in my booth. Either that or you’ve got a twin broth—”

  The woman clutched the pad to her chest as her cheeks drained of all perceivable color. “Oh, Rory, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to say—”

  Maggie shot a glance across the table, saw the flash of anguish on Rory’s face. It disappeared quickly and he shook the apology aside. “C’mon now, Delilah, I’ve been in here,” he said in a teasing tone.

  Seeming to respond on cue, the woman continued the playful banter with a sniff of disagreement. “A week ago, maybe…”

  Rory winked at Maggie, all traces of pain gone from his eyes. “Delilah likes to keep tabs on her customers. Miss a day, she’ll overlook it. Miss two, she gets a bit cranky. Miss three, and she’s convinced you’ve defected to Larchmont.”

  “Larchmont?”

  “Larchmont is two towns to the east. Where Sam’s Diner is located.” He leaned across the table, his breath warm on her cheek. “But Sam’s got nothing on Delilah. Especially her Belgian waffles.”

  Maggie’s stomach grumbled again.

  “My Belgian waffles?” the woman prompted with a raised eyebrow.

  “And her eggs Benedict, her pancakes, her French toast and—” he sat back in the booth, lifted the menu from the table and handed it to the owner “—every other item she makes. Today, though, it’s her Belgian waffles I’m after.”

  “That’s better.” Delilah tucked Rory’s menu under her arm and nodded at Maggie. “And how about you, darlin’? What can I get you?”

  Maggie skimmed the menu, to no avail. She simply couldn’t focus. Couldn’t wrap her mind around the notion of eating an actual meal. “I don’t know. I can’t recall the last time I ate anything besides an apple….” Her voice trailed off as she looked from Rory to Delilah and back again, their raised eyebrows proof positive she’d spoken the words aloud. “Um, I’ll have a waffle, too.”

  The woman poised her pen above the pad. “How about I have the cook make you a half-size order?”

  “Half-size?”

  Not unkindly, Delilah nodded. “Rory, here, has an insatiable appetite. Where he puts it is anyone’s guess. But if you’re not used to eating, it’s best to take it slow. You know, let your body build back up again.”

  “That sounds good.” When Delilah turned toward the kitchen, Maggie sank back against the booth’s vinyl cushion. “I think you should have asked for a job description from my uncle before you agreed to renovate the inn.”

  His eyebrows furrowed. “Why?”

  She fiddled with the flatware on the paper mat and shrugged. “Because I imagine babysitting isn’t something carpenters often find themselves doing.”

  “Babysitting?”

  “Yeah, like you’re doing right now. With me.” Maggie released the fork and continued on folding her paper napkin. “My uncle can be a little transparent at times.”

  Rory shook his head and reached across the table for her hand. “Your uncle has absolutely nothing to do with us having breakfast together.”

  She leveled a look of disbelief in his direction as she pulled her fingers out of reach. “C’mon. I’ve known my uncle my whole life and I know all about his sweet—albeit meddling—streak. I know he put you up to this.”

  Again Rory shook his head. “No. All he told me was that you’d be arriving the day after Thanksgiving and that you’d be staying in his suite during the renovations. He told me I might not see much of you and that I should try to keep the noise to a minimum when possible.”

  “You’re supposed to renovate quietly?” She propped her elbows on the edge of the table. “Please don’t let my being at the inn affect your work. Really, I can handle the sound of hammering and drilling. It’s the sounds I replay in my head that—”

  She threw her shoulders back, causing her ponytail to sway against her neck. “Look, just do whatever work you need to do and don’t worry about me.”

  “That’s a mighty tall order when you look so sad.”

  She shrugged, the desire to talk to someone virtually overpowering. The fact that this particular someone was handsome and kind only made it—

  Don’t go there!

  Shaking off the memory of h
is warm arms wrapped around her as she sobbed through the pain of finding Natalie’s ornament, Maggie met his pointed gaze with her own, determined not to be lulled into a conversation that would only result in tears. “You mean like you just did five minutes ago when that woman mentioned a twin brother?”

  The second the words were out of her mouth she regretted them—regretted the hurt that momentarily dulled the sparkle in his eyes. She held her palms up. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I know what it is to feel pain and I know what it means to want to hold it close.”

  “Then you also know about the damage that can be caused by holding it close, yes?” Rory swiped a hand through his hair.

  “Damage? I don’t see that. It’s—”

  Delilah stopped beside their table and smiled at Maggie. “I swear I’m losing my mind. I forgot to get your drink order, hon.”

  “Um, a glass of milk sounds good, I guess.”

  “Milk it is.”

  Rory reached out and grabbed hold of her arm. “Delilah, wait. I want you to meet Maggie. Maggie Monroe. She’s staying at the inn.”

  Delilah’s brows furrowed. “I thought Doug had closed for business during the renovation work.”

  “He did. But Maggie is his niece.”

  A smile lit the woman’s eyes as she leaned in for a closer look. “Maggie? Little Maggie Rigsby?”

  She couldn’t help but laugh. “I—I guess. Though no one has called me that in a while.”

  Delilah clapped her hands together. “I remember when you were no higher than my knee.” The woman met Rory’s eyes and pointed to Maggie. “This little one was the shyest thing I’d ever seen. Hardly said boo. Her uncle would have to practically peel her off his leg on the rare occasion they came in for dinner.”

  Maggie remembered it well. Even though it was a lifetime ago.

  “You don’t remember Delilah?” Rory asked. “Or this diner?”

  “I only remember bits and pieces of that time.”

  “You remember the fires that kept you warm.”

  “Because that was one of the only things that took away the chill.” She shifted and smiled up at Delilah. “Actually, instead of the milk…could I have a hot chocolate?”

  “Coming right up.” The woman took one last look at her before heading off to fill the order.

  “Wow. It’s not often I see Delilah like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Surprised.” Rory leaned forward. “Delilah knows this town inside out and backward.”

  Maggie shrugged. “I don’t know what to say to that.”

  He laughed. “So tell me…what made the inn so magical to a shy little girl?”

  Tracing the lines of the Formica table, she considered Rory’s question and found the answer suddenly crystal clear. “It was safe. And it was warm. And it was happy.”

  His left eyebrow rose. “Safe?”

  “My parents were killed when I was five. One day I was a normal kindergartner with a mommy and a daddy, and the next I was living with an aunt who had six kids of her own.”

  For a moment he simply studied her, his expression morphing into one she knew all too well. But for once, the pity didn’t translate into the same anticlimactic apology she’d heard all her life. “Wow. That had to be rough.”

  “It was. At times. My mom’s sister tried, though, she really did. It wasn’t her fault I slipped between the cracks. That probably happens in most large families anyway. But I’d gone from being an only child who adored her parents to being one of seven in a family that wasn’t really mine.”

  “I didn’t realize your uncle was married. Or that he had kids.”

  She shook her head. “He didn’t. Uncle Doug is my dad’s brother. I got to visit him once a year. Most of the visits were to the inn during the summer, when the tourist season was in full swing. He’d turn the reins over to his office manager and spend the entire week with me. We’d set off in his boat early in the morning and not come back until dusk, his bucket filled with fish and my face aching from all the laughter. One time, maybe twice, I got to visit in the winter. And as much as I loved our time on the lake in the summer, I loved having the inn all to ourselves in the winter. Because then it was just us.”

  “And lots of fires in the fireplace?”

  “And lots of fires in the fireplace,” she echoed. “It was during my visits here that I finally found me. A me that had more courage and strength than I realized at the time.”

  He leaned back as Delilah approached with their breakfast. “Sounds like you found hope, too.”

  “Hope,” she repeated in a whisper. “I hadn’t really thought of it that way, but yeah…I found hope.”

  “Soup’s on.” Delilah lowered the tray of food to the edge of their table, divvying up their order with grace and speed. “Full order for you—” she plunked Rory’s Belgian waffle on the table in front of him “—and a half-size order for you.”

  Maggie peered down at the plate and the waffle nearly spilling over the sides. “This is a half-size order?”

  Plunking yet another waffle in front of Rory, Delilah nodded. “It sure is.” She lifted the tray and tucked it under her arm. “You kids need anything else you just holler, y’hear?”

  Maggie stared at the food in front of her, her stomach performing a simultaneous grumble and flip. “I can’t eat all this.”

  “Eat what you can.” Rory grabbed a miniature silver pitcher from beneath the table’s small Christmas tree and handed it to her, the high-wattage sparkle of earlier returning to his eyes. “Can’t eat a waffle without syrup. It’s the best part.”

  Fifteen minutes later Maggie pointed at her half-empty plate. “Do you know this is the first real meal I’ve had in…” She thought for a moment. “Well, let’s just say it’s been a long time.”

  A satisfied grin crept across his face. “And do you know this is the first time I’ve had a conversation with my meal in aeons? I mean, I love carpentry, I really do. In fact, I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. But the nature of the restorations I do has me working by myself ninety-nine percent of the time.”

  “And the other one percent?” she asked.

  “That’s just the two or three words exchanged with whatever delivery guy’s brought the lumber or specialized tool I need for a particular project.”

  “Surely you talk to more people than that, right?”

  His shoulders rose and fell with a lazy shrug. “Not really.”

  “What about your—” she glanced at his left hand, noting that his ring finger was bare “—girlfriend? Parents? Siblings? Friends?”

  She watched as he chased a bite of waffle around his syrup-soaked plate with a fork. “I’m not involved with anyone at the moment, haven’t been for a while. My mom passed on two and a half years ago, my father shortly after my—” He stopped, cleared his throat and shifted in his seat before diving back into the conversation in a slightly different place. “As for friends, well, I guess I had some at one time.”

  “At one time?”

  He nodded. “I pushed them away.”

  “Ahhh, yes. I know it well.”

  If he was curious about her statement, though, he let it pass. And she was glad. Despite the fact that they’d danced around two potentially heavy topics prior to the arrival of their food, breakfast with Rory had been surprisingly comfortable.

  Maybe even a little fun.

  The last thing she wanted was for that to change. Not now, anyway.

  “So, as you can see, having breakfast with you has nothing to do with babysitting and everything to do with my own selfish motives.”

  “And wishes?” she teased, as a burst of warmth spread throughout her body at his welcomed reassurance.

  Dimples formed in his cheeks as he met her eyes across the table. “And wishes.”

  “You wanna know something?” The question surprised her as it left her mouth.

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’m not sure it was an actual wish. I
t was really more of a promise to myself…but just this morning, before I came down to apologize, I made a pact with myself to eat something real for breakfast. And—” she gestured at her plate “—I did.”

  He studied her intently, an act she was surprised to realize didn’t bother her at all. When he finally spoke, his voice was gentle. “It’s like I said. A wish doesn’t always have to be a monumental, life-changing thing. It can be something small, something simple. The key is appreciating it when it comes true.”

  Unable to think of what to say, she simply nodded.

  He pointed at his chest and continued, his strong voice almost melodic to her ears. “I know it’s probably hard to imagine, but I used to wear a tie to work. My wish, though, was to work with my hands. There was something about returning things to their original beauty that called to me when I wasn’t much more than twelve.”

  “I like to make things,” Maggie blurted, shocked by the admission. Sure, she’d always liked crafts and making things to brighten a home, but to say it out loud?

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. It’s probably silly.”

  “Making things with your hands doesn’t sound silly to me.”

  “Well, I can make seasonal wall hangings…and I’ve toyed with personalizing picture frames—you know, for special occasions.” She leaned her head against the booth, the once familiar tug of a smile lifting her mouth. “I’ve even sold some of my things at a few craft shows over the years.”

  “Ever think about opening an actual shop?”

  Had she? All the time. It was one of her daydreams as a little girl, one that returned periodically in adulthood. Now, though, she simply shook her head. Really, what was the point in saying or doing otherwise? It had been nothing more than a dream—one that belonged to a different time in her life.

  “You should. That kind of thing would be a hit around here.”

  She balanced her chin on her knuckles. “I remember this little craft shop in Missouri. I stumbled across it during an outing into the country. The owner had such a variety of things for sale and people were buying them left and right.”