SEAL's Pregnant One-Night Stand (Bronte Security Services)

9

At his front door, Ian turned to Sofia, a wry smile on his lips. “This makes me feel like a teenager again.”

“Trying to sneak back into the house in the early hours without disturbing anyone?” Sofia had been thinking the same thing and couldn’t help an answering smile. “Shhh!” she added.

“You shhh!” Ian retorted in a whisper, sticking his head inside the house. “Want me to go first, check if the coast’s clear?”

Sofia answered by pushing him in before any of his neighbors saw her in pajama pants and a too-big coat.

“Dad?” came a confused voice from the hallway.

Busted.Sofia followed Ian and shut the door behind her. She doubted Gavin noticed her, focused as he was on his father.

“Where were you?” Gavin demanded. “You weren’t here, and I was looking for you.” In an old tee and jogging pants, his hair sleep-rumpled, he looked younger than his years, and removed from the cool, uncaring freshman he tried to be. “I called you and it went to voicemail!”

They’d had to turn their phones off in the hospital—and they’d both forgotten to turn them back on.

“I had to go out and I didn’t want to wake you,” Ian replied.

“Huh, once again, it’s one standard for you and a different one for me.” Gavin scowled. “If I pulled a stunt like that, you’d ground my ass for another week!”

“Gavin, I…” Ian left out his breath in a sigh. “I should have left a note or called when I realized how late I’d be getting back. You’re completely right. I’m very sorry that I didn’t.”

“You—” Gavin took a step back, squinting at his father in amazement. His eyes widened as Sofia stepped out from behind Ian.

“Hi, Gavin.” Sofia gave a half-wave. “Or good morning, really.”

“Ms. Popov?” Gavin rubbed the knuckles of both forefingers into his eyes, then peered over at where Ian was helping Sofia out of his coat.

“Son, let’s get you some breakfast while I explain,” Ian suggested, ushering Sofia along and guiding Gavin with a hand at the small of his back.

“Let me.” Sofia needed to help and wanted Ian to be able to give his full attention to his son.

“You don’t know where stuff is,” Gavin said, a slight question in his voice and eyes when he looked from her to his father.

“No, I’ve never been here before,” she reassured him. “But a kitchen’s a kitchen.” She pointed at the stove and icebox, then the cupboards. “I’ll find things.”

An easy task in this well-organized and tidy kitchen. Sofia found bread, then whisked a beaten egg with milk and dipped the slices in. She felt the two Campbells’ eyes on her as she fried the mixture in a pan and cracked another egg into a pot of boiling water. As she cooked, she listened to Ian explain about the fire.

“Do you both want juice?” she asked, breaking the silence that followed this. Getting affirmatives, she poured three glasses. The coffee machine tempted her, but she knew she shouldn’t indulge. She filled the kettle and put it on, hoping the larder contained herbal tea. She plated the food and placed it on the table for Gavin. “Here you go. Hope you enjoy it.”

“Thank you,” Gavin said as he looked at the plate, with its two slices of egg bread topped with a poached egg. “What is it?”

“It’s called grenki.” Sofia found him the salt and pepper. “It’s a Russian breakfast food. My grandmother taught my mother, her daughter-in-law, how to cook it, and Mom used to make it for me.”

“It’s like French toast?” Gavin took up his knife and fork. “But you didn’t put any sugar or vanilla in? And there’s an egg on top?” He cut into it, perhaps to test it was really a poached egg and not a dollop of whipped cream.

“It’s savory instead of sweet. You can top it with a variety of things. I used to like ham and cheese on mine. Savory’s better for when you have work to do—it gives you more power. Sweet things are for the weekend, to help you have a sweeter and more relaxing day.” Or so her Russian grandmother had insisted.

With a “Huh,” Gavin cut off a slice and tested it, his suspicious expression turning into a smile when he tasted it. He had a second slice waiting before he’d finished chewing the first. “Thanks,” emerged in between forkfuls.

“Sofia, please sit.” Ian pulled out a chair for her. “Someone else will do the cleanup.”

“You!” Gavin spoke thickly through a mouthful and pointed his knife at his father. “I’ve got school!”

“Don’t speak with your mouth full,” Ian reproved his son. “And yeah, you do, so do you want me to drive you? I’m not taking S—Ms. Popov. She’s called in a sub for the day, as you can understand.”

Sofia knew the answer would be no—a parent giving a high schooler a ride to school was social death for the student.