Her Secret, His Child

HER SECRET, HIS CHILD

was how to order it—or nuke it. And that occasionally he needed some. But his stomach wasn't finicky, didn't demand things in a certain sequence or combination. Like when he had cereal and a cucumber for breakfast, there were no complaints.

But a party. Now, there people expected particular kinds of food. Not only did they want those foods, they wanted them to go together somehow. Of course, nobody at the grocery store bothered to put signs on things to tell a guy what went with what. No color coding there. Nope, people just seemed to be born knowing that green beans didn't go on hamburgers. That lettuce was for salads. That pancakes weren't for making turkey sandwiches. Or maybe their mothers taught them.

Which would explain Kyle's ignorance.

Tossing his glasses down on the piles of folders hiding his desk, Kyle read again the memo he'd just received. He was in charge of the reception for the local chapter of the National English Honor Society. He'd been given a budget to provide a generous spread of hors d'oeuvres, decorations, a program. Faculty heads and dignitaries had been invited to attend, not only to welcome new and current honor society members, but also to be introduced to Kyle, the new head of the English department.

And how impressed they'd be when the food showed up a week early. And the decorations a day late.

And what about decorations? Had the dean seen Kyle's house? Other than his bed and desk, he used

TARA TAYLOR QUINN

cardboard boxes for furniture. Okay, maybe only until his shipment of chairs, sofas and tables arrived. But still, he knew less about decor than he knew about food. He didn't need decor to live.

And he was virtually color-blind.

Unburying his phone from beneath a stack of essays, Kyle dialed a number without looking it up.

"Hello?"

Just hearing her voice made him smile. "Jamie?" He had the perfect plan. If it worked, and he'd somehow make sure it did, he'd get his party and an excuse to see Jamie.

"Kyle?"

"See, you know my voice already."

"Don't flatter yourself," she said dryly, but he heard a hint of laughter. "I just can't think of any other man who'd be calling me at seven o'clock on a Monday morning."

"Oops." He grimaced as he verified the accuracy of her words. Yup, his office clock said three minutes past seven. "I was out running at four," he explained, "and I've been at my desk since five— kind of seems like midmorning to

me."

"You're at work already?"

"I had some things to get through. Like last week's mail, for one."

"I sure hope there wasn't anything too pressing in it."

Not unless you counted the honor society reception that was due to happen in less than a month.

"I put my bills on automatic payment as soon as the technology was invented."

HER SECRET, HIS CHILD

She did laugh then. "So I suppose there was a reason for your call? You didn't just dial the wrong number."

This was going almost too well. He'd known, after Friday night, that Jamie wouldn't be able to deny there was something special between them. But dared he hope that he wouldn't have to spend months undoing the damage he'd done by making love to her so prematurely five years before?

"I have a favor to ask."

"You need more accounting done?"

"I need a party."

"What?"