Bravo Unwrapped

by Christine Rimmer

  She slanted him another glance. “Are you trying to make me feel happy I came here?”

  “Do you think you could feel happy about it?”

  No way she would cop to that one. “Let’s go in. Okay?”

  “Whatever you want.”

  So completely not true. But since she felt downright affectionate toward him at that moment, she let the remark pass without a word of argument.

  “Dear, you haven’t touched your breakfast,” said Sidney Potter.

  B.J., seated next to Buck at one of several folding tables in the dining room of the town hall, looked down at her paper plate. It held two rubbery flapjacks drowned in syrup, a glob of dry scrambled eggs and a matched pair of greasy sausages.

  Her stomach did a nasty little roll at the sight.

  Swiftly, B.J. looked up and forced a big smile for Sidney, who stood across the table wearing rubber gloves and a chef’s apron and carrying a wet rag.

  “I’m a light eater as a rule,” B.J. explained. “And I had a huge dinner last night.” A lot of which she’d lost earlier that morning, but Sidney didn’t need to know that.

  “Breakfast is the most important meal,” Sidney declared with a firm nod of her wiry gray head and a sharp snap of her rag.

  “Oh, Sidney. That’s so true.” B.J. nodded right back, and wished the sweet old lady would go wipe some tables off.

  “Eat, eat,” said Sidney.

  So B.J. picked up her plastic fork and looked down at her plate again.

  No. She couldn’t do it. And it wasn’t a good idea to continue focusing on the congealing puddles of syrup, the soggy-looking…

  She glanced up again—fast—and sucked in a big breath through her nose.

  Sidney Potter’s eagle eyes were waiting. “Dear. You look a tad peaked. Are you feeling well?”

  “Just fine.” B.J. glanced brightly around. “Nice turnout.” The citizens of New Bethlehem Flat had shown up in full force for the Annual Methodist Ladies Auxiliary Pancake Breakfast. The rows of folding tables were half-full. People got in line, got their food, grabbed a seat, ate and then cleared out to make room for the next wave of happy pancake eaters.

  Sidney smiled her beatific smile. “Yes, we get a great turnout every year. We’re always so pleased—Buck?”

  Buck, seated to B.J.’s right, was having no trouble getting his food down. He swallowed a mouthful of pancake, took a gulp of coffee and lifted an eyebrow at Sidney to show he was listening.

  “I do hope you and B.J. will come on over to the service at ten.”

  “We just might do that, Mrs. Potter,” Buck said with a wink and went back to his pancakes.

  “Now, that would be lovely—and I’d best get to work, now hadn’t I?” Sidney clucked her tongue in a good-natured way and turned to the next table over where empty plates waited to be carried to the trash bins. B.J., still scrupulously avoiding eye contact with her plate, watched Sidney work her way down the table, clearing and wiping as she went.

  Across the room, Glory sat with a big group, Old Tony among them. Judging by certain physical similarities—lots of dark hair, dimples and brown eyes—B.J. pegged them as the Dellazola clan. Glory, looking a little glum, brightened when B.J. caught her eye. The girl waved. Old Tony looked over and gave B.J. a nod.

  And right then, Bowie, carrying his tray of flapjacks, eggs and sausage, reached the Dellazola table. The men, their expressions severe, nodded at him. One of the women slid over to make a space between herself and Glory.

  Glory shot upright, grabbed her tray, and headed for the trash cans lined up along the kitchen wall. One of the men—her father, Little Tony, B.J. guessed—shouted after her.

  “Glory, you get back here!”

  Glory pretended not to hear. B.J. watched her dump the remains of her breakfast, drop her tray with a clatter onto the steel counter, and march right out of the hall.

  Buck muttered, “Poor Bowie. Can’t catch a break—you okay?”

  “Of course.” She glanced over it him—and found him looking at her full plate.

  He met her eyes. “Mrs. Potter’s right. You do look kind of pale. And you haven’t touched your breakfast. As a matter of fact, I don’t think you’ve eaten breakfast since we got to California.”

  She thought, That’s right, Buck. The truth is, I’m having your baby. She said, “I’m fine. Just not hungry.”

  “Sure?”

  “Positive. So. Where are you dragging me off to today?”

  There was a moment, a scary one. She was certain he would insist on more discussion of the serious weirdness of her eating habits lately. Her stomach lurched and her heart did, too.

  But no. He let it go. “I thought we’d do a little hiking.”

  Relief flooded through her. She tried not to show it—which wasn’t all that difficult, considering what he’d just said. “Hiking. I hate hiking. Far too much sweating involved.”

  “You used to sweat on that Stairmaster of yours every morning.”

  “I still do. And I hate it, too. I only do it for my health—and to look halfway decent in my Chloé jeans.”

  “B.J. You’re going.”

  “I know, I know.”

  They hiked up two mountains that day—just B.J. and Buck. Lupe decided to take another pass. At the top, they stood and looked down at the picturesque town tucked into its canyon below.

  That was what you did when you hiked. You sweated and struggled to the top. And at the top, you looked down. B.J. had done a lot of hiking with L.T. during her childhood. She hadn’t much enjoyed it then and she didn’t care for it now.

  But she kept her bargain with Buck. She went. She sweated. She looked down at New Bethlehem Flat and nodded when Buck said how gorgeous it was.

  She also let him hold her hand. Once. When they got to the top of the second peak.

  It was a moment of weakness, that was all. Nothing serious. He reached over and his warm, firm hand closed around hers and…

  Well, for a second or two there, she didn’t want to let go.

  So she didn’t.

  Only for a minute or two…or five.

  No worries. A slight lapse, nothing more…

  That night was Halloween. They lit the rows of pumpkins on the walk and sat in the drawing room with Chastity, waiting for the trick-or-treaters. When the kids came, they took turns answering the door.

  At a little after ten, B.J. and Buck went out together to blow out the candles in the pumpkins. He tried to get her to linger on the porch with him, tried to lead her away from the porch light, into the shadows and the comfort of a wicker settee.

  She declined and went on up to bed, feeling pleased with herself and certain she wasn’t weakening toward him, after all.

  Nope. Not in the least.

  The next day, Monday, Lupe announced she was returning to New York. Her agent had booked her a couple of fashion shoots. Since the Bravo project would be going on into the following week, Lupe said she would take care of the two New York jobs and return next Monday to finish up the shots for Buck’s story.

  B.J. wanted to demand that Lupe stay. But her reasons were purely personal. Without Lupe, it was Buck and B.J., alone together, way too much of the time.

  Then again, it was already her and Buck, alone, most of the time. Lupe had taken all the shots of New Bethlehem Flat they could possibly need and, though she didn’t say it right out, B.J. knew the photographer had to be weary of tagging along while B.J. fulfilled her agreement with Buck.

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky and it’ll snow next week,” Lupe said. “Think about it. We’re going to need some seasonal-looking shots. What I’ve got so far just doesn’t say Christmas.” B.J. promised they’d come up with something and Lupe took off, leaving B.J. firmly resolved to be more guarded with Buck—on the physical contact front, especially.

  As a result of her vigilance, Monday and Tuesday passed with minimal incidents.

  Okay, there was another kiss. A little one, Monday night, on the porch after they
got home from dinner.

  Well, maybe a little more than little. She’d sucked his tongue inside her mouth before she realized what she was doing.

  But she’d pushed it right out again and pulled away. It ought to count for something, that she hadn’t let it go too far. And Tuesday, well, he held her hand once—and another time he put his arm around her.

  Though she tried to tell herself nothing was happening, these lapses were unsettling. Mostly because she enjoyed them far too much: the heat of his big body pressing close to hers, the thrill of his touch.

  All that.

  Bad, bad, bad.

  B.J. lay in bed awake late into Tuesday night, giving herself lectures, promising the ceiling that she’d never hold his hand again, that his arm would never again hook itself around her shoulder. Eventually, she did drop off.

  Then came the dreams—graphic ones.

  Dreams in which there was nakedness, panting and a whole lot of sweating. Dreams in which Buck’s hand did a lot more than reach for hers. Dreams with long, wet kisses in them. Dreams where she took him inside her, so big and hard and deep.

  Naughty dreams. Incredible dreams…

  She woke at seven, furious at her own libido—and, as usual, about to hurl.

  With a small cry of misery and abject frustration, she shoved back the covers and leapt to her feet. This would be a close one.

  She took off—racing to the door, throwing it open, sprinting down the hall. Luckily, she’d left her bathroom door slightly ajar the night before.

  She shoved it wide and threw herself at the toilet bowl. Dropping hard to her knees, she banged back the seat.

  The yarking commenced.

  It went on longer than usual, until her stomach was so empty, it ached. Pregnancy. Not for sissies.

  At last, when there was absolutely nothing left in there, she flushed and flipped down the lid, dragging herself upright and over to the sink a foot or so away.

  Elbows braced hard on the sink rim, she rinsed her mouth and sloshed water on her face. At last, with a groan, she lifted her gaze to the mirror above the basin.

  And saw Glory standing in the doorway behind her.

  B.J. wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Uh. Hi.” She straightened and turned.

  Idiot, she silently scolded herself. She should have shut the damn door as she went flying by it—but then again, there just hadn’t been time. If she’d paused even a fraction of a second, she wouldn’t have made it to the toilet. It had been that close.

  Calm, she thought. Easy. So she was feeling a little under the weather this morning. It didn’t have to mean anything. A twenty-four-hour bug. So what? No big deal. She pressed her hand against her stomach. “Feeling a little…sick, I guess. That’s all.”

  Glory blinked. “Holy Mary, Mother of God,” she said in a voice full of awe and understanding. “You’re pregnant, too.”

  Ten

  “What?” B.J. tried not to sound as appalled as she felt. No one was supposed to know. Not now. Not yet. B.J. shook herself and launched into a denial. “Glory, no. No, I’m—”

  “Oh, I should have known.” Glory came rushing in, shoving the door shut behind her. B.J. shrank back. Glory kept coming. “I mean, I knew there was something.” B.J.’s knees started to give way. Rather than collapse to the floor, she stepped to the side and dropped to the toilet seat. Glory patted her shoulder and kept right on talking. “The way you looked that first morning when I offered you coffee—that I-am-losing-my-cookies-right-this-instant expression. Oh, I know that feeling so well. And you still look kind of green. What can I do?”

  “I, um—”

  “Wait. I know what.” Glory turned, snatched a washcloth from the stack on the lower shelf of the bath stand. She ran water on it, wrung it out, and came at B.J. with it.

  B.J. craned back. “What are you doing?”

  “It’s just a cool, wet cloth. I always like the feel of one, after I…well, you know—oh, come on. You’ll like it.”

  B.J. let out a weary sigh. “All right, fine.” She gestured for Glory to get on with it. The girl began patting her face with the cool cloth. It did feel good—soothing.

  But then Glory started in again. “It’s Buck’s, isn’t it? Oh, don’t answer. There’s no need to answer. I just know that it is. Does he know?” Glory stepped back and hit her own forehead with the heel of her hand. “Oh, of course he doesn’t.” She moved in again, patting with her wet cloth. “He’s much too…relaxed about everything. He’s having a fine old time.”

  “Uh. He is?”

  “Oh, yes. A great time, in his hometown, with the woman he loves.”

  Love? B.J. thought that was going a little too far. “Glory. Love is…maybe not the word.”

  “Yes, it is. Of course, it is—and I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “About?”

  “He doesn’t know, does he?” Glory stepped back again. “You don’t even have to answer. I don’t for a second believe that he knows.” She offered B.J. the cloth. B.J. shook her head. Glory sat on the edge of the tub. “Right?”

  B.J. gaped at Glory, absolutely certain that whatever she said next was only going to get her deeper into trouble. “Oh, God.” She groaned and covered her face with her hands.

  “B.J.?”

  What a mess. B.J.’s head swam and her stomach churned. She let out a tiny cry, braced her elbows on her knees and lowered her head between her thighs. She took slow, careful breaths.

  “B.J.? What can I do? Say something. Please?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Okay. All right…”

  And the bathroom, at last, was silent—except for B.J.’s careful breathing and a tiny moan of sympathy from Glory.

  B.J.’s stomach settled down a little. She dared to sit up straight again.

  “Better?” Glory asked. She looked so sweet and hopeful. Still sucking in air through her nose, B.J. gave a nod. “It gets better, it really does,” Glory promised. “I’m almost three months now.” With a soft, happy smile, she patted her stomach, which still seemed flat unless you looked really close. She glanced up. “You?”

  Deny it, B.J. thought. Tell her she’s got it all wrong. But when she opened her mouth, “Eight weeks” popped out. And then, after she said it, after she admitted it, she found, astonishingly, that she was glad she had.

  Glory beamed at her. “Think of it. Our babies will be cousins.”

  They would, wouldn’t they? Amazing. “Listen. Glory…”

  “Sure. What?”

  “I don’t want Buck to know. Not yet.”

  Glory’s slim throat moved as she gulped. “Okay.”

  “I don’t want anyone to know.”

  “Hey. It’s your decision. And you don’t have to worry about me. I know how to keep a secret—unlike some people I could mention.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Anything. Really.” Glory’s dark eyes were soft with sympathy, with total understanding. Gingerly, she spoke again. “I just have to ask…”

  “Go for it.”

  “Well, what are you going to do?”

  “Have a baby.”

  “Well, yeah, okay. By yourself?”

  “That’s right.”

  Twin lines formed between Glory’s smooth brows. “You will tell Buck? Eventually, I mean.”

  “Of course.”

  “Whew.”

  B.J. found she was vaguely offended. “You thought I wouldn’t?”

  “Well, I don’t know. For a second there, you had me worried. I mean, I do believe that a father has a right to know—no matter how much of a butthead he might end up being about it when he finds out.” Glory sighed, deeply. B.J. knew she was thinking of Bowie.

  B.J. said, “I do realize that Buck has a right to know. And in a month or two, I’ll tell him.”

  “Good—and then, of course, he’ll want to marry you.”

  “Too bad. Not happening.”

  “Why not?”

  “What do you mean, why not?
Sometimes getting married is no solution to anything. Look at you and Bowie….”

  “That’s different.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Sure, it is. You’re crazy for Buck. I can see it in your eyes when you look at him. You’re crazy for him—”

  “You said that already. Once is more than enough.” Was it that obvious? Oh, God.

  “—and Buck’s crazy about you.”

  “So? Same with you and Bowie.”

  “Uh-uh. I don’t think so.”

  “Glory, you said yourself that you’re in love with Bowie—and we both know that Bowie’s nuts for you.”

  Glory made a low sound, one heavy with doubt and irony. “Sometimes I think that Bowie’s nuts, period. Not Buck, though. Buck’s…normal.”

  “Oh, come on. Bowie’s normal.” B.J. paused to give that more thought. “I think…”

  “Exactly.” Glory grunted. “Lately, no one’s sure what Bowie is.”

  “But you are sure you’re not going to marry him.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Just as I’m sure I won’t marry Buck.”

  “But why not? Buck’s smart and handsome and funny. And he makes a living—and you’re rich, anyway. You two will never have money problems.”

  “Glory, money isn’t everything.”

  Glory waved her washcloth. “Rich people always say that.”

  “I just don’t think it can work between us.”

  “Because?”

  “Buck and I go way back. It didn’t work between us then.”

  “Why didn’t it work?”

  “You are so nosy.”

  “Yeah, I am. I really am. Tell me.”

  B.J. gave her the look, the one that sent all the underlings at Alpha scurrying off in terror.

  The look didn’t work on Glory. She only demanded, again, “Tell me.”

  B.J. relented enough to explain, “It’s a long, sad story. Just take my word for it. It didn’t work in a really big way.”

  “How long ago was that?”