A Baby In His In-Box by Jennifer Greene

Author:Jennifer Greene
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2011-06-06T16:00:00+00:00

Seven

“Mol! Shake a leg!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming...” Molly jogged into her kitchen in stocking feet. She’d dressed flustering-fast in her favorite navy blue striped suit, but she hadn’t had time to put a face on yet, and she was still plugging in earrings. She stopped dead when she saw the spread Flynn had laid out for her. “Good heavens, I thought you were just going to make some coffee and feed the baby. You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”

“Sure I did. I figured you needed a good breakfast for strength—since I personally know the slave driver you work for. And I owed you a thanks for letting us sleep over. Breakfast is served, ma’am—all I need to know is how you like your coffee.”

“Black is fine.” She wanted to chuckle at the state of her kitchen. Almost. Flynn must have seen something in her expression because he abruptly cleared his throat.

“Now I realize your kitchen looks like it needs a garden hose and shovel to recover, but just cover your eyes. I’ll take care of that later. I had a little help putting this together.”

“I can see that.” She saw the baby, the room, the messes, but she also saw the devil-may-care glint in Flynn’s eyes. It had taken her a long time to figure out that easy, wicked humor of his covered up a different man entirely. When Dylan called him “Da” earlier, Flynn had been as rattled as a buck caught in a hunter’s spotlight. He’d looked panicked, but something raw and painfully vulnerable had been in his expression then, too. Not now. McGannon had defenses thicker than brick walls. He was back to joking, back to charm, and seemed determined to keep her too busy to bring up anything that happened earlier.

He hustled her into a seat, slapped a fancy omelet garnished with orange slices in front of her, then followed that up with a splashing hot mug of coffee. Someone had folded a napkin just so, decked out the table with the vase of silk flowers stolen from the living room and found her white linen table mats. Molly suspected it was the waiter—the one with the three beads of sweat on his forehead and a kitchen towel hanging drunkenly from his pocket.

Her oasis of formal dining was quite a contrast to the rest of the room. The smell of burned toast hovered in the air. Pans and cutting boards and debris were piled in her sink like a minimountain. The baby was on the floor on a blanket, eating Cheerios and toast and milk picnic-fashion. Judging from the state of the blanket, Molly guessed at least one mug of milk had spilled, maybe two. Most of the toast jam was on Dylan’s face and sleeper. At some point earlier, a pint-size mouse must have gotten into her cupboards, because soup cans were still rolling on the floor.

“Wow, are you a big help, short stuff!” Dylan let loose a string of babble in response to this praise.

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