Wendy Warren – Do You Take This Baby? (страница 8)

The discomfort began in his gut and spread. He pasted a glib smile on his face, as he always had in moments like this. “I’m academically lazy.”

“The brain is like a muscle. It grows and becomes stronger when you use it. If you ignore academics, you may as well cut your head off.”

“But my face is so pretty.”

Her outraged expression both shamed and amused him. Choosing to focus on the amusement, he laughed. A big dumb-jock laugh. “Calm down, Professor. We can’t all belong to Mensa. Every hive needs drones.”

“Oh! That is a terrible way to look at one of the greatest gifts you’ll ever have—your mind.”

She had no idea how ludicrous that comment was. If his mind had come with a return policy, he’d have traded it in long ago.

“How do I make another song play?” Standing beside them, Vivian tapped on his phone.

She was right; the music had stopped. He let go of Gemma. Her creamy skin reddened as she took a step back.

“Sorry,” she said. “I don’t know why I went on like that.” She shook her head. “Sorry.”

He didn’t want her to be sorry. Pretending school didn’t mean anything to him had always been easier than caring. That didn’t mean she should lower her standards. He’d be disappointed if she did. “You’re a teacher. You’re supposed to be irritated by someone like me.” He smiled, but it didn’t change his plummeting mood. “I’d better head home.”

“Home? But they’re serving dinner in—”

“I can’t stay. I already told Scott.” Turning from Gemma to reclaim his phone from a reluctant Vivian, he tapped the little girl’s nose gently with his finger. Violet presented her nose, and he tapped it, too. “I will see you two ladies tomorrow. Save me a dance.”

The girls beamed. “What about Auntie Gem?” Violet inquired thoughtfully. “She likes to dance, too.”

Ethan looked at Gemma, who appeared confused. “Dancing doesn’t seem to agree with us,” he observed softly. “Maybe tomorrow we could try again and improve our track record?”

Her smile was uncomfortable, but she nodded. “See you at the wedding.”

With a tip of his head, he strode from the ballroom, reminding himself that this part of his life—this crazy time with a baby in his house and more contact with people from his past than he usually had—would be over soon. This summer, he’d return to training camp, which was, at least, a world he understood. Being glib worked there. He’d be able to keep things light and...what had Vivian said? Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy. Which was how he liked his life.

He would stop thinking about Gemma Gould and her intimidating brain. And her calming presence. And her beautiful awkwardness.

They were oil and water, and even he knew that combo didn’t mix. Sometimes, though, when Ethan was with Gemma and there were few other people around, he had the strangest sensation that, for once, he wasn’t alone.

* * *

The next evening, Gemma felt like a plump pink sausage in a bridesmaid’s gown clearly meant to be worn by a woman several inches taller and at least two cup sizes smaller. Women like Elyse’s other ten attendants, for example.

Seated at the long bridal table amid the rest of the exquisite wedding party, Gemma felt restless. Ethan was to her right, currently engaged in discussing football with the other groomsmen. As discreetly as she could, she reached beneath her armpits and gave the strapless bodice of her fuchsia gown a healthy tug. Oh, was she going to be glad when the final kernel of birdseed was thrown and the happy couple drove away in their glossy white limo. Despite her sister’s constantly voiced worries, the ceremony had been perfect, and the reception was under way without a hitch. Still, seated at the elegantly appointed table while servers poured wine from vintage labels and placed dishes of filet en croûte before the laughing guests, Gemma couldn’t help but feel twinges of grief.

She frowned, idly plucking chia seeds off her house-made soft breadstick. Her own wedding, had it not been called off, would have been last month. A full year and a half before the date, she’d already chosen her gown (winsome chiffon skirt, no train), her location (on the beach in Manzanita) and the food (casual-but-authentic Mexican—crab-and-tomatillo quesadillas, street tacos, carnitas...yum). She and William would have had only one attendant each, and her four-year-old nephew could have worn a pair of swim trunks and his favorite Ninja Turtle floatie instead of the toddler tux he kept trying to struggle out of tonight.

“Whoa, what did that breadstick ever do to you?”

Ethan’s bemused voice jerked Gemma’s attention to the crumbles of bread over the table. “Dang.” She wiped bread crumbs off the white linen and into her palm, depositing the mess on her bread plate as a waiter placed her dinner in front of her. “Thank you.” She smiled at the server, then looked glumly at her meal. Pastry-covered filet mignon, wild mushrooms and Yukon gold potatoes in a dill-and-Gruyère cream sauce and an individual spinach soufflé—there had to be three thousand calories on that plate.

While everyone around her tucked in, Gemma mentally calculated the odds of living long enough to hook a man and become a mother if her heart was pumping dill sauce through her veins.

“Something wrong?” Ethan spoke close to her ear.

She glanced at him. Men, she thought, but didn’t say out loud. Men are the problem. In a dove-gray tuxedo that perfectly complemented his golden hair and tanned skin, Ethan had already drawn more attention than the bride. Betcha he could go home with any number of women tonight. Some of the willing ones were probably married. Love was too difficult for some and too easy for others.

“This food is a little rich,” she said.

“Aw, no. Don’t tell me you’re one of those.” He wagged his head tragically.

“One of what?”

“Bird women. The ones who barely taste their food and don’t take it to go, because they don’t have a dog, and there’s no way they’re going to eat anything more interesting than a celery stick, anyway.”

Gemma gaped at him. “You’re kidding, right? Do I look as if all I eat is celery?”

Apparently, he took her words as an invitation to let his gaze roam leisurely over the parts of her he could see while she was seated. He even leaned back a smidgen, as if he was trying to get a look at her bottom. When she glared at him, he grinned.

“You look good.” He nodded to her dinner. “Eat up.”

“I’ve seen your girlfriends,” she said. “Three of them standing together wouldn’t fill out a pair of size-eight jeans.”

“You keep track of the women I date?”

“Of course not.” She managed to sound highly offended. “My mother buys gossip magazines when you’re in them.”

He grinned. “I know. She has me autograph them when I’m in town. Between you and me, I think she’s selling them on eBay.” He nodded, sliced off more meat, chewed, then tried the cheesy potatoes. Gemma’s stomach growled. She picked up her fork and was about to give in to temptation when he observed, “So you read about me when you come home on weekends, then. I’m flattered.”

Abruptly, she retracted her fork. “That is not what I mean. My mother likes to discuss topics of interest to her. She shows me the magazine articles. I don’t seek them out.” Ooh, liar, liar, pants on fire. Raising her chin, she amended, “I have never bought a rag mag.”

That was true, actually. If she saw Ethan on the cover of a magazine, she would read it while standing in line at the market. No money ever transferred hands.

“From what I’ve seen,” she told him, “you prefer to date women whose physical attributes directly correlate to the norm in print and other media. A norm that is dangerously out of touch with a standard attainable for the average healthy American woman.”

He reached for another breadstick—his third—and lathered it with the sweet Irish butter Elyse had requested. “Could you say that again? In English this time, Professor.”

“You date skeletons!” She wanted his breadstick so badly she nearly grabbed it out of his hand. For the past two months, Elyse had begged her to diet. Her best efforts had led to a loss of four measly pounds, which would be back again before breakfast tomorrow. She needed food. She wanted food.

The breadstick, gorgeously buttered, hovered between them. She pointed. “Are you going to eat that?”

Flashing his most gorgeous smile, he held it out. “I’m happy to share. And happy you’re going to eat. I like you the way you are.”

Unexpectedly her heart filled the hole in her stomach. He liked her. The way she was.

Don’t get carried away. He offered you a breadstick, not a diamond ring. Who could blame her, though, if after a lifetime of being the “smart” sister, it felt good to have a man like Ethan pay her a compliment?

Accepting the breadstick, she took a ladylike bite. Mmm, yummy.

“Why didn’t you get married, Gemma?”

Coughing as the breadstick paused in her windpipe, she took a slug of wine. “What do you mean?” she asked when she could talk again.

Ethan’s blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Elyse and Scott came to Seattle for a home game and mentioned you were engaged. Had the rock and everything.”

Swell. She poked at the beef en croûte. “I wonder how they cook this steak without burning the pastry?” she mused aloud to change the subject.