Little Secrets: Secretly Pregnant

Emma smirked and flopped back against her seat. She supposed he was right. Instead of looking for clues, she glanced out the window to take in the view. When she turned back to Jonah a few minutes later, she noticed he was intently watching her instead of the landscape speeding by.

“I suppose the view bores you when you’ve seen it repeatedly.”

“Not at all,” he said. “I’ve just got something more intriguing to look at this time.”

Emma gasped softly, but didn’t know what to say. Instinctively, she held her breath as he leaned close to her and put his arm around her shoulder. She started to worry that he would be able to see down her top from this angle, but it was hard to focus on that when she could smell his cologne and feel the warm press of his leg against hers.

“Thank you for agreeing to have dinner with me.”

“You didn’t really give me a choice,” she replied, mostly in jest.

Jonah only shrugged. “I know. And I apologize for that. I guess I just wasn’t sure what to do when you kept turning me down.”

“Taking the hint was always an option.”

“Yes.” He laughed. “And I would have if your eyes were sending the same message as your mouth. But I could see you were conflicted, so I thought I’d give you a little push in the right direction.”

“Threatening to get me fired is not a little push. That’s blackmail.”

Jonah winced. “Agreed. It was a drastic step on my part. But I wouldn’t have called your boss, for the record. I was bluffing.”

Emma crossed her arms over her chest, realizing too late that it gave him a tantalizing view of her cleavage. His blue eyes flickered down for only a moment before returning to hers. She was surprised by his restraint.

“Even if you’re mad at me, by the end of the night, we will have kissed and made up,” he said confidently.

Emma couldn’t help but arch an eyebrow at him. “You’re just used to getting your way, aren’t you?”

“Usually.”

She eyed the full swell of his bottom lip as he spoke, remembering those lips as they sucked salt and lime juice from her body at the Mardi Gras party. The memory sent a flush of heat to her cheeks that she was certain he could see. She turned away from him, looking out as the sun started to set and lights began twinkling in the distance.

“Perhaps not this time,” she said, both hoping she was right and knowing she was wrong. Every minute she spent with Jonah, the more convinced she was that she wouldn’t be able to resist him much longer.

“Mr. Flynn, we’re about five minutes from landing.”

Jonah smiled and pulled away from her. “Excellent. See, now it didn’t take very long to get here, did it?”

Emma glanced at her phone in her purse. It had been a little over forty minutes. Not far enough for Boston. Too far for the Hamptons. She didn’t recognize the skyline, but it was a smaller town on the water. She could see the shore. Within minutes, they came to a gentle, bouncing landing on top of a bank building.

“We’re going to a bank?”

“Very funny. I’m actually friends with the president of this bank. He’s the only one that uses the helipad and said we were welcome to make use of it tonight. It’s that or fly all the way to the outskirts of town to the airport and charter a car to drive us right back here. This way we’re only a block from the restaurant.”

They slipped off their headsets and unfastened their seat belts. The pilot opened the door of the cabin and they stepped out onto the tarmac. “I’ll be waiting on you, sir,” he said.

“Thank you,” Jonah replied before taking Emma’s hand and leading her to the rooftop door. They took the elevator down to the lobby and exited onto a quiet street in a quaint-looking seaside village she didn’t recognize.

They walked about a block before she saw a taxi go by advertising a place that claimed to have the finest seafood in Newport. Newport, Rhode Island? She’d never been there before, although she knew it had once been a very popular summer retreat for the wealthy of New England. It was famous for its huge mansions only blocks from the sea.

Emma kept her suspicions to herself until they reached a building just off the harbor that looked like an old Georgian-style inn with white siding, dormer windows and the charm of an old-fashioned seaport village. The sign hanging overhead read Restaurant Bouchard & Inn.

“Here we are,” Jonah announced as they climbed the short staircase that led inside. “The best French restaurant I’ve found on this side of the Atlantic.”

The maître d’ greeted them, noted their arrival in his book and escorted them to a table beside one of the large bay windows. Once they were alone with their menus of the day, Jonah leaned across the table. “Anything you order here will be amazingly delicious and beautiful. Their chef makes food into art. Tasty art at that.”

Emma scanned the menu, desperately hoping her three years of high school French would assist her in not sounding foolish tonight when she ordered. Madame Colette would be so disappointed in her for mangling such a beautiful language. She had finally decided on a ratatouille ravioli starter and the rosemary lamb chops when the sommelier arrived at the table.

“Wine?” Jonah asked with a pointed look.