Countdown To Baby

“I miss my mom, too.”

The simple and palpably sincere statement brought a lump to her throat. She remembered Geoff’s mother—a beautiful, classy, kind-hearted woman who had been known as a tireless contributor to local charities. At only forty, Violet Bingham had died of a massive heart attack. That was almost ten years ago. Cecilia had been a relatively new employee of the clinic, but even then she had seen how the tragedy had devastated the family and the community.

People who knew him well said that Geoff’s father, Ron, would never get over the loss of his young wife. Cecilia had always considered it a shame that handsome, charming, still-vibrant Ronald Bingham should spend the rest of his life alone.

Maybe it was the moment of bonding or maybe it was the thought of the empty rooms waiting for her that made her say, “Would you like to come in for coffee? Or if you’re too tired, I—”

“I would love to come in for coffee,” he agreed before she could even finish the sentence. “I’ll just go lock my car first.”

Hoping she wasn’t making a gigantic mistake, Cecilia turned toward her front door.

Trying to be subtle about it, Geoff studied Cecilia’s home curiously when he followed her inside. The love of bright colors revealed by the red dress she had worn this evening was echoed in the decor of her living room. The sofa looked new—a splash of bright graphics on a deep-red background. The few wood pieces were old—a mix of refinished and fashionably distressed antiques.

On the walls hung framed prints of impressionistic paintings. The jewel-toned throw pillows scattered about the furniture had probably been hand crafted. It was a room that had been decorated by someone with excellent taste and limited funds. He liked it better than many expensive and professionally decorated rooms he had been in.

He made note of the framed photographs grouped on the mantel. Most of them were of Eric, from infancy through adulthood. Eric lying on a bear rug, blowing out three candles on a birthday cake, posing in Boy Scout and baseball uniforms, beaming in cap and gown. A dark-eyed brunette who could only be Cecilia’s mother appeared in a few of the photos, looking stiff and camera-shy. Cecilia was pictured even less, either because she didn’t like being photographed or didn’t care to display pictures of herself.

It was obvious that she adored her younger brother. Geoff was quite sure that his own sister had no similar photographic shrine to him. He and Mari had always gotten along well enough, though they had been too busy and focused on their careers to connect much during the past decade. Since their mother’s death, actually.

Violet had been the glue that held her family together. Their grief over her loss had caused them to drift apart, throwing themselves more fully into their activities to dull the pain.

Cecilia motioned toward the couch. “Have a seat. I’ll put the coffee on.”

He placed a hand on her arm. “I have a confession to make.”

Her eyebrows lifted in question. “What?”

“I don’t really want any coffee.”

She tilted her head to study his face, her expression hard to interpret. “Is that right?”

“I don’t even like coffee.”

“So you came in because…?”

“Because I wasn’t ready for the evening to be over.”

The admission certainly didn’t seem to surprise her. Nor did it appear to perturb her. She had to have known when he’d followed her home that the moment would come when she would have to decide how she wanted their evening to end.

Maybe she had made that decision when she invited him in. She glanced at his hand where it rested on her arm and then looked back up at him through her thick, dark lashes. The smile that played on her lips was neither shy nor hesitant, but the smile of a woman who knew what she wanted. And tonight, it seemed, she wanted him.

“Then maybe we can make it last just a little while longer,” she murmured, sliding her free hand up his chest.

His pulse rate sped up in anticipation. “Just for a little while,” she had said, making it clear that she wasn’t expecting more from him than this one night. She was no starry-eyed ingenue who would take his attentions too seriously. No hungry, wannabe socialite hoping to secure a country-club future by snagging a most-eligible bachelor.

Perhaps that was why he’d had such a good time with her tonight. She’d had no expectations, no demands of him. He hadn’t been trying to sell her anything or charm anything out of her, and the same had been true in reverse. He had been free to be himself—to eat what he’d liked, to talk without overanalyzing his words, to laugh and dance and sometimes sit quietly and listen

to the music.

Damn, it had felt good. He wanted to hang on to that feeling for a bit longer. He released her arm only to slide both of his own around her. “I suppose you’ve been told that you have beautiful eyes.”

She gave him a look that was a mixture of amusement and reproach. “You’ve been refreshingly natural all evening. Don’t start spouting corny lines now.”

He laughed, though it hadn’t really been a line. She did have beautiful eyes. And an absolutely amazing mouth. And a body that seemed to have been tailored to fit nicely against his.

“Okay,” he promised. “No corny lines.”

She seemed to give that vow a moment’s thought, and then she shook her head and slid her arms around his neck. “Oh, the heck with it. Tell me more about my eyes.”