Read Online The Baby Invasion (Destiny Bay-Baby Dreams) by Helen Conrad - Free Book Online
Authors: Helen Conrad
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would look like in a little black dress with diamonds in her earlobes. He had a feeling she would be a knockout.
She put down the cloth and looked at the pot, sighing. “Well, this is going to be a letdown from steak, I’m afraid. But I fixed it for dinner and it’s all I have.”
She turned and found him much too close, and suddenly she realized he had the longest dark eyelashes.
“I hope you like soup,” she said, her voice husky.
“Soup is fine,” he replied, but his gaze never left hers and though he didn’t touch her, neither did he back away.
She knew they were standing too close together, knew she should move back, or say something. It was awkward to be standing here this way, but she couldn’t move. It was as though there was a magnetic ring around him, and she’d gotten stuck to it.
She wanted to touch him, touch his face, smooth back his hair. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t said anything. Was he waiting for her to take the lead? To show him what she wanted, how much she would allow?
His eyes were dark, she couldn’t read them. But she could feel the physical tug between them, the force trying to pull them together. It excited her, made her pulse beat faster. It would be so easy to sway a little, lean toward him, end up in his arms.
And in his bed. And in his life, just long enough for his leaving to break her heart.
A shiver of dread passed between her shoulder blades.
No!
She was going to be strong. She’d gone over all the hazards, she knew them well enough by now. She wasn’t going to let herself— and her family—in for that sort of anguish.
The sound of something loud and gooey making big, wet bubbles broke the spell. They both turned to look at what was on the stove, seeming to forget all about the magic that had been growing between them.
Cathy moved to turn down the heat. She lifted the lid to stir the concoction.
“Your dinner calls,” she said lightly.
Watching, Scott grimaced. The sounds had not been good. “What is that?”
She threw him an apologetic smile. “It’s your soup, I’m afraid.” She lifted the lid again so he could take a peek. “I hope you like split pea.”
“Split pea soup?” He leaned forward and sniffed the air. “I used to love split pea soup. My mother always made it on cold winter nights.”
“This was the first time I’ve ever made it.” She pulled out a ladle and a large, deep soup bowl and began to dish it up. “Personally, I think it’s horrible stuff.”
Watching her, Scott became nostalgic. The scent of the soup, the steam rising from the pot all combined to bring back a wave of comfort such as he hadn’t felt in a long time.
“I used to love it. But nobody makes it like my mom used to. She soaked the peas for days and then threw in a huge ham bone with big hunks of ham still clinging to it.”
Cathy looked up and nodded. “That’s what I did.”
He looked more closely. “You’re kidding.” He took the bowl from her and set it on the kitchen table. “This does smell good,” he noted doubtfully.
She watched him, her arms folded across her chest, a smile hovering on her lips. “It looks and tastes like green slime to me,” she murmured softly, waiting to hear his verdict.
He took a sip and his face relaxed in ecstasy. “Green slime! No way. Ambrosia!”
She made a face.
“Ambrosia, huh? Well, I’m glad you like it.” Straightening, she went to the breadbox and took out a pan she’d left there. “At least these corn muffins I made to go with it are pretty good. Would you like one?”
“Corn bread?” He frowned, his spoon poised for another sip. “Don’t you have any French bread?” He swallowed the soup and waved the spoon in the air. “You always eat French bread with split pea soup.”
“Do you?” She shook her head, teasing him just a little. “How lucky you’re here to teach me the finer points of the etiquette of split pea soup.” She went back to the breadbox. “You’re
She put down the cloth and looked at the pot, sighing. “Well, this is going to be a letdown from steak, I’m afraid. But I fixed it for dinner and it’s all I have.”
She turned and found him much too close, and suddenly she realized he had the longest dark eyelashes.
“I hope you like soup,” she said, her voice husky.
“Soup is fine,” he replied, but his gaze never left hers and though he didn’t touch her, neither did he back away.
She knew they were standing too close together, knew she should move back, or say something. It was awkward to be standing here this way, but she couldn’t move. It was as though there was a magnetic ring around him, and she’d gotten stuck to it.
She wanted to touch him, touch his face, smooth back his hair. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t said anything. Was he waiting for her to take the lead? To show him what she wanted, how much she would allow?
His eyes were dark, she couldn’t read them. But she could feel the physical tug between them, the force trying to pull them together. It excited her, made her pulse beat faster. It would be so easy to sway a little, lean toward him, end up in his arms.
And in his bed. And in his life, just long enough for his leaving to break her heart.
A shiver of dread passed between her shoulder blades.
No!
She was going to be strong. She’d gone over all the hazards, she knew them well enough by now. She wasn’t going to let herself— and her family—in for that sort of anguish.
The sound of something loud and gooey making big, wet bubbles broke the spell. They both turned to look at what was on the stove, seeming to forget all about the magic that had been growing between them.
Cathy moved to turn down the heat. She lifted the lid to stir the concoction.
“Your dinner calls,” she said lightly.
Watching, Scott grimaced. The sounds had not been good. “What is that?”
She threw him an apologetic smile. “It’s your soup, I’m afraid.” She lifted the lid again so he could take a peek. “I hope you like split pea.”
“Split pea soup?” He leaned forward and sniffed the air. “I used to love split pea soup. My mother always made it on cold winter nights.”
“This was the first time I’ve ever made it.” She pulled out a ladle and a large, deep soup bowl and began to dish it up. “Personally, I think it’s horrible stuff.”
Watching her, Scott became nostalgic. The scent of the soup, the steam rising from the pot all combined to bring back a wave of comfort such as he hadn’t felt in a long time.
“I used to love it. But nobody makes it like my mom used to. She soaked the peas for days and then threw in a huge ham bone with big hunks of ham still clinging to it.”
Cathy looked up and nodded. “That’s what I did.”
He looked more closely. “You’re kidding.” He took the bowl from her and set it on the kitchen table. “This does smell good,” he noted doubtfully.
She watched him, her arms folded across her chest, a smile hovering on her lips. “It looks and tastes like green slime to me,” she murmured softly, waiting to hear his verdict.
He took a sip and his face relaxed in ecstasy. “Green slime! No way. Ambrosia!”
She made a face.
“Ambrosia, huh? Well, I’m glad you like it.” Straightening, she went to the breadbox and took out a pan she’d left there. “At least these corn muffins I made to go with it are pretty good. Would you like one?”
“Corn bread?” He frowned, his spoon poised for another sip. “Don’t you have any French bread?” He swallowed the soup and waved the spoon in the air. “You always eat French bread with split pea soup.”
“Do you?” She shook her head, teasing him just a little. “How lucky you’re here to teach me the finer points of the etiquette of split pea soup.” She went back to the breadbox. “You’re
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