“Boy, have I,” he said with effect. “Beginning with calling Marta before she was out of bed this morning to tell her what I wanted to do so she would help me get in. She let me borrow her key.”
Then he must have realized how emotional this had made her because he said, “This isn't supposed to make you cry.”
She was crying by then, though, as the tears became too much to contain and rolled down her cheeks. “They're happy tears, if that helps.”
“Well, a little, I guess,” he answered, closing the distance between them in two strides of those longs legs and taking her into his arms to comfort her.
Powerful arms that pulled her in close to his body where she could rest her cheek against his chest.
She didn't dare stay that way for long. Not when, almost instantly, other emotions found life, too. The kind that had spurred the night they'd spent together in Tahiti, the kind that had erupted during the heated kiss of the previous evening, too.
Struggling to keep control of something, Delia blinked back the moisture in her eyes and raised her head from Andrew's well-defined pectorals. “I'm getting your shirt wet,” she said, dabbing her damp cheeks with her fingertips.
“It's okay,” he assured, but he made way for the arms and hands that came between them and she increased the slight distance by standing straighter and taking another look around at the room.
Even on second sight it took her breath away.
“How did you do this?” she asked.
“You told me you'd hired a contractor and a decorator to do your remodel, and I saw the decorator's card near your kitchen phone when we were in there the other night. I recognized it because my stepmother has used that same designer. And I knew which room you were planning to use as the nursery—”
“I didn't think you were that interested.”
He merely frowned at that notion and continued with his explanation. “So when I got this idea, I enlisted my stepmother. I figured the decorator would do anything for her—Helen is a valued customer—and I was right. One call from dear old stepmom and your designer dropped everything today to work solely with me.”
“Impressive. But my decorator couldn't have done all this.”
“No, but she did know what you were leaning toward in here when it came to the colors and furniture. And she could put me in touch with your contractor. I did some wheeling and dealing—”
“With the contractor?” Delia interrupted Andrew a second time in astonishment. “The contractor is who's holding us up until the end of the month. You didn't get him in here today, did you?”
“I did. Him and his whole crew.”
“How?”
“I told you, wheeling and dealing. I found some common ground and used it. He's a motorcycle buff. I happened to own a vintage Harley-Davidson that I used as a bribe.”
“You got him to do this by promising to let him ride your motorcycle? That's all it took?” Delia asked.
“Not quite. He's now the proud new owner.”
Delia hadn't thought that Andrew could surprise her more than he already had, but that accomplished it. “You sold him a vintage Harley-Davidson motorcycle in order to get him over here today?”
“Sold would not be the right word. Let's call it an incentive gift.”
Delia's eyes widened this time. “You gave it to him? What must that have been worth?”
“This,” Andrew said with a nod to the room in general and without missing a beat, stunning her.
Then he said, “I'm not fooling around, Delia. I told you, I'm willing to do anything and everything it takes.”
For the first time, Delia believed him.
And something about that made her tear up again.
But she didn't want to cry anymore so she went back to what they'd been talking about before the motorcycle issue.
“Still, you did this in one day?”
“I had a whole parade of workers waiting around the corner while I watched your place from up the street first thing this morning. The minute you left for work, we moved in. Painting came first so gigantic fans could dry the walls, and then we went from there.”
Delia glanced at the evidence of his work, thinking about the effort that had to have gone into accomplishing this. “I think you're kind of amazing.”
“What? Only kind of?” he joked.
But before Delia could respond the doorbell rang.
“Pizza,” Andrew informed her. “I've had next to nothing to eat since I got up at five this morning and I was beginning to think you'd never come home tonight, so I ordered delivery. I'll go get it, you kick off your shoes and sit down, we'll eat up here and break the room in.”
Apparently he'd taken command today and was still in that mode. But Delia didn't mind. Actually, it was nice….
While Andrew was downstairs, Delia forced herself to leave the nursery just long enough to use the bathroom and make sure her hair was still caught neatly in its ponytail, her mascara hadn't run and that the simple black slacks and red sleeveless shell sweater she'd worn for casual Friday weren't too wrinkled. Then she did remove her black flats to toss them into her own bedroom before returning to the nursery in her bare feet.
She took away the two tiny chairs that were pushed into the kid-sized play-table so they could use it for their dinner and sat cross-legged on the floor to continue to study Andrew's handiwork until he rejoined her.
“You look like a little kid sitting there,” he said with a laugh at her when he did.
“You're the kid,” she countered. But she was only teasing him because as she watched his approach with their dinner in hand, it occurred to her that she was seeing him in a new light. One that didn't count the years difference in their ages. One that made her think that maybe there was more to him than she'd given him credit for.
He deposited their meal on the play-table and sat on the floor, too.
“You must be exhausted,” she said.
“I think I'll survive,” he assured.
Endless energy—an advantage of his youth, Delia thought as she doled out the salads, opened the pizza box and handed him a soda can.
“So,” he said once they were both situated with full plates of food. “Is everything okay or do you want to make changes? Because it's all right if you—”
“It's perfect. I don't want to change a thing,” Delia said without the need to even consider the possibility. “I still just can't believe you did it.”
“Hey, I had to do something to show up the esteemed Damon Simosa.”
His reference to the high school boy she'd told him about the night before made Delia laugh in spite of the bite of pizza she'd just taken.
“After all,” he continued in the same vein, “I don't see you doing menial labor to buy lipstick to wear for me, so I'm just trying to figure out how I can rate. Or is it only older men who do it for you?”
“Apparently it isn't only older men,” she said pointedly, tossing another glance at the nursery. “But there have been only older men until you, now that I think about it.”
“Really?”
Delia nodded. “'Fraid so.”
“On purpose?” Andrew asked after a drink of soda to wash down salad.
“Yes.”
“How much older are we talking about?”
“There's been a pretty wide range,” she hedged.
“Among the hundreds you've been involved with?” he teased.
“I'm guessing hundreds is closer to your number than to mine.”
Andrew toasted her with his soda can as if to concede.
“Honestly? You've been with hundreds of women?”
“Either the light in here is bad or you just lost all the color in your face,” he said with a grin that was too endearing not to get to her. “No, I haven't been with hundreds of women.”
“How many have you been with?” Delia persisted.
“Probably more than my share. But it isn't as if I keep score.”
“How many have y
ou been seriously involved with? Because those are the ones who count. Not people you've seen casually now and then.”
Andrew took another slice of pizza, since he'd polished off the first.
“Ones I've been seriously involved with…” he repeated. “In that case, I'm a virgin.”
“You haven't been seriously involved with anyone? Ever?”
“If I'm assuming that by seriously involved you mean have I been with anyone for a long period of time, considered marriage and proposed, then no. You're the first to hit two out of those three.”
“Oh, dear,” Delia breathed, a little alarmed to learn that just when she thought she was seeing more depth in him she might be mistaken.
Andrew must have noticed her concern because he gave her a reassuring smile.
“It isn't as if I've been down on marriage or anticommitment or anything. I just haven't stayed in one place for any extended period of time, and once you've been gone for months and you call the person you were dating before you left, well, you usually find that they've moved on.”
“But being gone for months was a matter of traveling for pleasure. You could have stayed in one place long enough to have a relationship if you had wanted to,” Delia reasoned.
“I guess I never met anyone who inspired that in me. There were a few women I asked to come along on trips with me, if that helps. Women I liked well enough to want things to continue with them. If they'd come, who knows? Those relationships might have developed into something serious. But no one ever took me up on the offer.”
“Not many people have the kind of freedom you've had,” Delia pointed out. “And when whoever you asked to go along couldn't leave for months, apparently you packed up and went anyway. Rather than staying around to let the relationships develop.”
Andrew watched her face, a bare hint of a smile playing about his lips as if she amused him. Then, after a moment, he said, “And what are you thinking? That I'd do that with you? That I'd get a notion to take off, ask you to, too, and if you wouldn't, I'd go anyway?”
“It seems possible,” Delia admitted, worrying about that exact thing.
“Okay, I'm guilty of never having been more than infatuated with anyone, so yes, I packed up and went anyway,” he conceded. Not on the defensive, though. More as if he were clarifying things for her. “But what I've done in the past doesn't mean it's what I'll do in the future. It only means it's what's already happened and what's already happened with everyone else has never been too serious. But now what's happening between us is serious and that changes everything that will happen from here on.”
Did he honestly consider what was happening between them serious? And if so, why? Was it only because of the pregnancy or were there feelings that were going beyond infatuation that were making it serious in spite of the baby?
Delia couldn't bring herself to ask. Or maybe she just couldn't bring herself to hear the answer. But he did get a gold star for the fact that he was approaching their relationship as something of more importance than any he'd had before.
“So what about you?” he said then, tossing the ball back into her court. “Not hundreds of guys, but no husband or real commitment that I've heard about for you, either. And you've had more time at it,” he added jokingly, successfully lightening the tone.
“No, no husband. Or serious commitments,” she answered, realizing that she didn't have a whole lot of room to judge Andrew's failure to commit when she'd never done it herself. And feeling slightly better about his history when she considered that.
“But there have been three guys who were long-term,” she added, seizing her only claims to even flirting with permanence. “And one of those might have gone the long haul if we hadn't been at different stages of our lives at the time.”
Delia had finished eating so she repositioned herself to lean her back against the solid base of the crib for support.
Andrew had another slice of pizza. “And all three guys were older than you?”
“They were. The first guy was five years older and the third guy was eight years older.”
“And you didn't marry them because…”
“It didn't get that far with either of them. They were both just guys I saw for extended periods of time—fifteen months and eighteen months respectively—until things just fell apart the way they do, and we knew the relationships weren't going anywhere so we called it quits.”
“Then there's the second guy,” Andrew reminded. “You skipped him, so he must have been the close-to-serious one and the oldest.”
Delia laughed at the accuracy of his guess. “You're good,” she said as if granting him an award.
“How old and how close to serious?”
“Daniel was seventeen years older than I was.”
Andrew's brows headed for his hairline. “Seventeen years older?”
Delia nodded. “And don't give me any armchair father-figure analysis,” she warned.
“Seventeen years?” Andrew repeated as if that were begging for comment.
“I was twenty-six, he was forty-three. He was well-educated, suave, sophisticated, established in his career, stable. He knew what he wanted and how to go about getting it—”
“And what he wanted was you?”
“He'd reached his career and financial goals. He was ready to settle down, get married, have a family, really devote himself to the next phase of his life.”
“With you.”
“With me,” Delia said, feeling the twinge of sadness she always felt when she thought of or talked about Daniel.
“But I assume you didn't feel the same about him,” Andrew said.
“I really liked him. I enjoyed his company. We had a lot in common and if the timing had been better I think we would have had a future together. But like I said, we were at different stages of our lives—because of the age thing.” She emphasized the phrase both she and Andrew had used frequently since discovering their own discrepancies in that department.
“Actually,” she went on, “it was an age-related thing. While Daniel's career was on cruise control, I was just getting Meals Like Mom's going and I was determined to make it work—that meant late hours, weekends, whatever it took. Daniel was a strict nine-to-fiver by then and he wanted someone to be at home when he was, someone whose job came second. But mine came first at that point and so we ended up saying goodbye.”
Andrew had finished eating and he crawled on all fours like a big jungle cat until he reached her side. Once he was there, he did an athletic sort of spin that landed him sitting next to her with his back against the crib, too. He took her hand in his, weaving their fingers together before resting them on his thigh.
Studying them, he said, “That isn't the same as you and I, you know.”
“No, I don't know that,” Delia answered, glancing at his striking profile. “Meals Like Mom's operates with or without me at this point. I keep late hours because I want to, not because I have to anymore. When the baby comes I plan to keep work to a minimum, to delegate, to set up my office so the baby can come to work with me. I plan to do everything I need to to be a full-time mom. It's what I want to do now. It's where I am in my life. But you… You'd still be on a beach in Tahiti if it had been your choice. And even though it hasn't been your choice and you're here now, it isn't a sure bet that you'll stick to this course. Especially when it wasn't a course you were ready to be on—and that goes for the job and for the baby. Definitely different stages of life,” she concluded.
Andrew shook his head, calmly denying that. “I think that the only thing that really matters is that we're here now—regardless of what got us here. You didn't plan this and neither did I. You've had a little longer to accept it and adjust to it than I have, but I think I've come up to speed pretty quick. I won't tell you that I'm still not having moments when I feel sort of overwhelmed. But I'm dealing with it. And the point is, we're sitting together in our baby's room—our baby's room. Same time. Same place. Same stage of life—we're going t
o be parents. You've embraced that. I'm in the process of embracing it. But that slight discrepancy doesn't put us far apart. And that's what's important.”
He went from looking at their hands to looking her in the eyes again. To smiling a smile that was even more endearing, more irresistible than the earlier one.
“And when it comes to our pasts,” he added, “think of it this way—I don't have any baggage or war wounds to rear up and cause trouble for us. I don't have any preconceived suspicions or mistrusts or expectations that you're going to do me wrong the way someone else did. And it doesn't seem like you do, either. That puts us on a pretty level playing field in that department, too. So age thing or no age thing, again—it seems to me that we're at about the same stage of life.”
He could be very persuasive. And it didn't hurt that all during that heartfelt speech he'd been stroking her hand with sensual brushes of his thumb. Putting her qualms to sleep even as he awakened little shards of glitter in her veins.
He raised her hand to his mouth then, kissing it gently, sweetly, before he looked into her eyes once more with such earnestness that it gave her confidence in everything he'd just said. It caused her to think that maybe she could trust it. Trust him. Such earnestness that, for the first time, she actually had a glimmer of hope that things between them really might work out.
But before she could tell him any of that, he kissed her and turned those little shards of glitter to bright, sparkling diamonds. Sparkling diamonds of desire that seemed to have been waiting just below the surface since he'd kissed her the night before.
And all Delia could do was kiss him in return. All she wanted to do was kiss him in return. Give herself over to it, to him, suddenly.
She raised her free hand to the side of his face, slightly rough with the day's growth of beard, drinking in the feel of whiskers and warm, taut skin over the sharp angles of that face she could see in her mind even though her eyes were closed.
His lips were parted over hers and she willingly parted hers, too. Willingly greeted his tongue when it came to toy with hers in that oh-so-sexy way he had, tip to tip, chasing circles, sparring just a little.
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