Do You Take This Baby?

by Wendy Warren

  “This food is a little rich,” she said.

  “Aw, no. Don’t tell me you’re one of those.” He wagged his head tragically.

  “One of what?”

  “Bird women. The ones who barely taste their food and don’t take it to go, because they don’t have a dog, and there’s no way they’re going to eat anything more interesting than a celery stick, anyway.”

  Gemma gaped at him. “You’re kidding, right? Do I look as if all I eat is celery?”

  Apparently, he took her words as an invitation to let his gaze roam leisurely over the parts of her he could see while she was seated. He even leaned back a smidgen, as if he was trying to get a look at her bottom. When she glared at him, he grinned.

  “You look good.” He nodded to her dinner. “Eat up.”

  “I’ve seen your girlfriends,” she said. “Three of them standing together wouldn’t fill out a pair of size-eight jeans.”

  “You keep track of the women I date?”

  “Of course not.” She managed to sound highly offended. “My mother buys gossip magazines when you’re in them.”

  He grinned. “I know. She has me autograph them when I’m in town. Between you and me, I think she’s selling them on eBay.” He nodded, sliced off more meat, chewed, then tried the cheesy potatoes. Gemma’s stomach growled. She picked up her fork and was about to give in to temptation when he observed, “So you read about me when you come home on weekends, then. I’m flattered.”

  Abruptly, she retracted her fork. “That is not what I mean. My mother likes to discuss topics of interest to her. She shows me the magazine articles. I don’t seek them out.” Ooh, liar, liar, pants on fire. Raising her chin, she amended, “I have never bought a rag mag.”

  That was true, actually. If she saw Ethan on the cover of a magazine, she would read it while standing in line at the market. No money ever transferred hands.

  “From what I’ve seen,” she told him, “you prefer to date women whose physical attributes directly correlate to the norm in print and other media. A norm that is dangerously out of touch with a standard attainable for the average healthy American woman.”

  He reached for another breadstick—his third—and lathered it with the sweet Irish butter Elyse had requested. “Could you say that again? In English this time, Professor.”

  “You date skeletons!” She wanted his breadstick so badly she nearly grabbed it out of his hand. For the past two months, Elyse had begged her to diet. Her best efforts had led to a loss of four measly pounds, which would be back again before breakfast tomorrow. She needed food. She wanted food.

  The breadstick, gorgeously buttered, hovered between them. She pointed. “Are you going to eat that?”

  Flashing his most gorgeous smile, he held it out. “I’m happy to share. And happy you’re going to eat. I like you the way you are.”

  Unexpectedly her heart filled the hole in her stomach. He liked her. The way she was.

  Don’t get carried away. He offered you a breadstick, not a diamond ring. Who could blame her, though, if after a lifetime of being the “smart” sister, it felt good to have a man like Ethan pay her a compliment?

  Accepting the breadstick, she took a ladylike bite. Mmm, yummy.

  “Why didn’t you get married, Gemma?”

  Coughing as the breadstick paused in her windpipe, she took a slug of wine. “What do you mean?” she asked when she could talk again.

  Ethan’s blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Elyse and Scott came to Seattle for a home game and mentioned you were engaged. Had the rock and everything.”

  Swell. She poked at the beef en croûte. “I wonder how they cook this steak without burning the pastry?” she mused aloud to change the subject.

  “Too personal?” The deep dimple in his left cheek appeared. “Even for old friends like us?”

  Gemma held her hands up in surrender. “Okay. Yes, I was engaged. We were supposed to have gotten married last month, but we called it off. End of story.” Sort of.

  “Your wedding was supposed to have been last month?” He whistled beneath his breath.

  “It’s fine. We ended it a long time ago.” Shrugging blithely, she sawed at the beef.

  “How long?”

  “Almost a year.”

  He considered that. “How are you doing tonight?”

  It wasn’t the question that made Gemma set her knife and fork to the side of her plate, but rather his tone. How was she doing? He’d asked it so plainly, no hesitation, no lurking reluctance to hear the answer. Most of her family, except for her mother, tiptoed around the topic as if it were a land mine. “I’m all right,” she answered quietly. “But sometimes I wish—”

  “Ethan Ladd, you’d better save me a dance tonight.” A hand glittering with rings clamped Ethan’s shoulder. “I haven’t seen you in so long, I almost forgot what you looked like.” Throaty laughter punctuated the statement as a platinum blonde with long straight hair crouched beside them in a sequin-encrusted dress that hugged her body so tightly a bead of perspiration couldn’t have fit between the material and her skin.

  “You remember me, don’t you? Crystal McEvoy.” She batted outrageously fake lashes. “Senior year prom? Best date of your life?”

  Ethan turned his head slowly to observe Crystal. “Sure, I remember you.” He leaned back and draped an arm at the back of Gemma’s chair. “You know Gemma Gould?”

  “Hi.” Predictably, Crystal glanced at Gemma only long enough to appear polite, then shifted her attention back to Ethan. “You save a dance for me.” She put a hand on his thigh, obviously trying to lay claim to a lot more than a dance. “We can pick up where we left off.” Crystal trailed her fingers over Ethan’s chest and shoulder before she walked back to her table, swaying her hips the entire way.

  “Where were we?” Behaving as if the previous moment hadn’t happened, Ethan looked at her, not Crystal.

  Whoa. Was he going to ignore the fact that he’d practically been groped by a woman he hadn’t seen in a decade and a half? “Uhm...” She couldn’t remember what they’d been discussing prior to the other woman’s arrival.

  “You were telling me about your engagement,” he prompted.

  Talk about being dumped by her fiancé after that exhibition? Not happening.

  Crystal’s perfume lingered in the air, but it wasn’t strong enough to overpower Ethan’s pheromones. Gemma had always known when Ethan was at her parents’ house, even if she’d just walked in the door. Everything about the house changed. It smelled like soap and aftershave and...him. Like right now.

  “You okay?” Ethan asked as the bride and groom’s first dance wound down. “You look flushed.”

  “You’re right, it’s hot in here.” She waved her hands at her face.

  “It’s probably not any cooler on the dance floor, but you want to give it a try?”

  Dance? With her and not Crystal or one of the bachelorette bridesmaids? Gemma felt as if the hottest guy in school had just asked her to homecoming—genuinely this time.

  “Oh, Gemma, good, you’re done eating!” Her sister Lucy appeared at the banquet table, bouncing baby Owen in her arms. “Hi, Ethan,” she greeted. “Gem, they’re about to open the dancing, and Rick and I haven’t danced without the kids practically since our wedding. Would you hold Owen while I get out there with my husband? Pretty please?”

  Lucy was indescribably lovely, with translucent ivory skin, a dancer-like long neck and shiny dark hair she wore simply in a perfect bun. She did look tired, though.

  With a rueful glance at Ethan, she replied, “Sure,” even though she thought she might tear up in disappointment.

  Lucy blew her an air kiss. “You’re a peach.” She beamed at Ethan. “She’s such a peach. Okay, baby boy, over the table and into Auntie Gem’s arms.” An old pro at hand
ing off kids, Lucy didn’t bother to walk around the table; she merely passed Owen over the stemware. “He’s fed and dry. We’ll just dance to a couple of songs. Thank you, thank you,” she said sincerely as she sped to her husband.

  Gemma dangled the eight-month-old above her lap. The baby tried to grab her nose.

  “Nasa-fa!” he said.

  She turned to Ethan. “That’s Owen-speak for ‘nose.’”

  “Quite the conversationalist.” Ethan nodded, but didn’t smile. And now Crystal was wriggling their way.

  “Oh, Ethan,” she sang.

  “Come on.” Abruptly taking her arm, Ethan helped her to her feet.

  “Where are we going?”

  “For a walk.”

  Guiding her past an unhappy Crystal, whom he didn’t even acknowledge, Ethan led them out of the ballroom. With Lucy’s baby in her arms and Ethan’s hand firmly beneath her elbow, Gemma felt less like a maiden aunt and more like—just for a wee sec—a wife and mommy. Thinking about the man beside her cast in the role of loving husband and baby daddy, she realized how easily that fantasy could become a habit.

  Chapter Four

  As Ethan propelled Gemma away from the reception, he could practically feel the tension drain from his body. The noise, the crowd, the many pairs of eyes not-so-covertly trained on him—it made stepping through the broad double doors feel like freedom.

  Up a short flight of stairs sat a private alcove and a hearth crackling with a lively fire. With a hand resting lightly at Gemma’s lower back, Ethan steered her toward an overstuffed love seat.

  “Here?” He made the pretense of asking, but was already loosening his tie.

  “Perfect.” Sinking onto the cushions, she kicked off her high heels and tucked the burbling baby into her lap. Her feet were bare, toenails some wild shade of neon orange with sparkly stars, and he couldn’t help but smile as she curled them over the edge of the coffee table. Even her feet were fun.

  Sitting beside her, Ethan made himself comfortable and propped an ankle on his knee. “How old is this guy?”

  “Owen is eight months old today, aren’t you, old man?” Gemma bounced the baby on her legs, smiling as he shrieked with joy.

  “He’s cute.” The compliment sounded lame, but until recently his experience with babies had been limited to his teammates’ kids. He’d admired them from a safe distance when they were infants, enjoyed them more once they were old enough to roughhouse or to joke around with. Now that a baby had been dropped into his own lap...hell, he was half convinced they were aliens.

  “So, uh, how long before these little guys settle down?” he asked.

  “Settle down?”

  “Yeah, you know, when do they stop crying?”

  Gemma laughed. “Gee, I don’t know, maybe when they’re eighteen?”

  He felt like an idiot. “Okay, when do they stop crying 24/7?” For the last two months, he had witnessed misery personified as his sickly, scrawny nephew struggled to adjust to...pretty much everything.

  Gemma didn’t immediately answer, seeming to give his question serious thought. “What’s the baby’s name again?”

  “Cody.”

  “You’ve taken him to the pediatrician?” she asked.

  “Of course,” he snapped, then ducked his head. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound defensive, but we’ve been to the pediatrician four times.” He was afraid he must be doing every damn thing wrong, or why wouldn’t the screaming have, at the very least, lessened by now? “The last two times, I went to Portland for second and third opinions. They all say the same thing.”

  “And that is?” Gemma asked softly.

  The very thing he didn’t want broadcast all over Thunder Ridge. Ethan dragged his free hand over his mouth and considered Gemma. He didn’t understand why, but somehow he knew he could trust her with the whole story. “The baby I’m taking care of is my nephew.”

  “Samantha had a baby?” She posed the question matter-of-factly, neither surprised nor appalled, which he appreciated.

  “Yeah. I’m sure you remember from high school that Sam had a drug problem. Still does.” His sister and Gemma had been in the same class, though Gemma had hung out with the brainy crowd while Sam had been part of the Goth scene. Spent most of her school lunch hours under the bleachers getting stoned.

  “I’m so sorry,” Gemma murmured, her hand rhythmically circling Owen’s back. “Was Samantha’s baby born addicted?”

  Ethan could tell the compassion in her voice was the real thing, not some fabricated platitude meant to blanket her curiosity. He nodded. More and more often, he felt rage rise when he talked about it. “He’s a crack baby. And he’s having a pretty tough time getting through withdrawal.”

  “That’s so hard. On both of you,” she commiserated. “But there is actually some good news. I’ve read about this. Over the years people have found that, even though the first weeks and months can be hellish, crack babies generally thrive over time. Developmentally, they have just as much potential as anyone else. Much more than a baby whose mother drank during pregnancy.”

  Her confidence ignited a tiny spark of hope—the first he’d felt. The folks at DHS had said something similar, but coming from Gemma, he believed it. “How do you know about this stuff? Aren’t you an English teacher?”

  “Yep. And I had an exceptionally bright student who did his master’s thesis on his personal experience born as a crack baby. The paper was so good I asked him to read parts of it to the class. There wasn’t a dry eye in the room when he was done.”

  One of the pediatricians had handed Ethan a thick photocopied study on drug-addicted infants. The papers had been less than useless to Ethan. The social worker had asked him to attend classes on babies and children whose development was interrupted, but as soon as Ethan had heard the word class, he’d made up an excuse to wriggle out. And so every time the baby cried, he felt the heavy weight of fear and failure. His sister had destined her son to a jagged, painful beginning, and Ethan’s own shortcomings made him worry that his nephew didn’t stand a chance.

  Gemma’s story about her student gave him a glimmer of hope. He was hungry to know more.

  Owen grew suddenly cranky, and she dangled him so that he was dancing on her lap.

  “That student of yours,” he ventured. “He’s really...smart, is he?”

  “Absolutely. He’s one of the brightest stars in our lit program. Try not to worry too much.” The smile she sent Ethan shot warmth straight to his heart. Smoothing a wild patch of hair at the back of Owen’s head, she offered, “This little guy here had colic for the first two months. Lucy had to ask my mother more than once to come rescue her and Rick in the middle of the night when they were too exhausted to see straight. I helped out on weekends, too, and let me tell you, this guy could have taken down Supernanny. Now he’s the picture of health. Right, buddy boy?”

  Owen blew a wet raspberry, slapping her arms with glee. When she nuzzled the baby’s neck, his giggles rang out and his feet pumped like pistons.

  Ethan wished he could be half as successful with Cody as she was with Owen. He’d never pictured himself with a child, not his own and certainly not anyone else’s. His early years hadn’t taught him about the care of kids.

  “Anyway,” he said now, dragging himself away from his fascination with Gemma’s instinctive parenting skills, “I hope you’re right. I’ve burned through two nannies already. The third one phoned during dinner just now, sounding miserable and wondering where to find fresh batteries for the baby swing.”

  “Two already quit?”

  “Cody’s crying can wake the dead.” Even he wasn’t sure he could take three more months of sleepless nights and ringing ears.

  As if the word cry was a cue, Owen clouded up and got weepy. Gemma must have noted the dread on Ethan’s face, because
she explained quickly, “He’s looking for his mama. I can always tell by the way he tries to cram his fist into his mouth.” Rooting in the diaper bag, she came up with a bottle. “This should do the trick for a little while.”

  Not only did Owen stop crying, his eyelids closed. Disbelieving, Ethan blurted, “Why don’t you have kids? You’re great with them.”

  She grinned. “All I did was give him a bottle.”

  “No. You’re a natural with babies, and your nieces are crazy about you. You’re the Pied Piper. Do you want any of your own?”

  The grin dropped before she forced it back. Laughing awkwardly, she asked, “Any of my own what? Rats or babies?” Her gaze flew to his, then skittered away equally quickly. “That was Pied Piper humor,” she mumbled.

  He saw it then—the flash of pain in her eyes, the tightening around her mouth. He’d touched on a sore spot, one that was obviously none of his business and that she’d prefer to avoid. Ordinarily, Ethan happily steered clear of personal topics. That way, he could justify keeping his own life private. Plus, he didn’t like messy emotional moments. Not his thing. Even now, he could feel his cortisol spike in response to the thought of Gemma being hurt. Tallying his options, he counted two: A) rescind the question; or B) make a glib, distracting comment and pretend the moment hadn’t happened.

  He chose option C.

  “So who called off the wedding? You or your fiancé?”

  * * *

  Gemma felt herself blanch. “Wait. How did we get back to that topic?”

  “Before Crystal interrupted us,” Ethan persisted, “you were going to tell me more about your fiancé.” He gave her the look that People magazine, in its “100 Most Beautiful People” issue, had said “could charm a hungry boa constrictor.” “Anyone you were going to marry must be a pretty interesting guy. But I’m guessing you called it off.”

  She wanted to lie. Oh, boy, did she ever. Swirling her fingers in the downy curls on her nephew’s head, she equivocated. “What makes you think so?”

  “You’re picky.” Eyes narrowed, he attempted to wow her with his powers of clairvoyance. “My guess? The day you went to look at wedding dresses, you had a hard time choosing something, and suddenly you realized your indecisiveness about the dress reflected how you felt about your fiancé. He was a smart guy, nice enough, but you knew you couldn’t live with the way he ate corn on the cob.”