Assignment- Baby Page 6

  "Okay. Fine with me." She tossed her hair and, seemingly placated, went about her business. Would he put two and two together?

  After a long silence, she said, "I'm going to take my lunch break now," and marched toward the door, hoping not to trip over her strange new self-restraint. But an important thought occurred to her. "Oh, and I've decided you and Sophie are welcome to stay with me. You don't have to pay me, but if you insist just come up with a reasonable amount."

  Before she could make it out the door, he grabbed her arm and spun her around. Surprised, she stared into his eyes.

  He gave her a loaded, teasing smile. "Maybe we could barter services for lodging?"

  The old single-minded Hunter had reared his sexy head. She wasn't about to fall for that too-familiar charm. Calling his bluff, she said, "Five hundred a week. No perks." She removed her arm from his grasp and slipped out the door without looking back.

  "Thanks," he called after her. "What's for dinner?"

  * * *

  That evening, Hunter left Sophie with Amanda while he drove home for more baby supplies and clothes.

  While Amanda sat stiffly, Sophie sat contentedly on her lap. She tried not to breathe in her baby freshness or study her pudgy perfection. The tiny girl tugged at her heartstrings, but Amanda couldn't indulge herself. It's only temporary, she reminded herself. There's no point in getting attached. Her gaze darted around the room rather than watch the baby for one more moment. Now she understood how Hunter felt. What the heck should I do with her?

  Her instinct told her to smother her with kisses and fuss over her, to love her up and make silly noises and play peek-a-boo, but she couldn't allow herself to do that. Sophie wasn't hers. Neither was Hunter.

  Just that morning she'd noticed how much the baby enjoyed jumping. At a loss for what to do, she held her at a distance, pulled her up by the waist, and let her bounce on her thighs. Soon, all Sophie needed to hold on to were Amanda's fingers. When Sophie locked her knees, her plump little legs felt strong and ready to support her.

  As a nursing experiment, Amanda placed her on the floor beside the coffee table to let her anchor herself and stand. She knew at this age some babies were strong enough to hold themselves up and balance all by themselves. After a few bounces, amazingly, Sophie stood still for one full moment without the help of anything, before she plopped down on her padded bottom and crawled away.

  Amanda's heart burst for Jade. She'd missed a key moment in her daughter's development. She shook her head. No, she hadn't. Jade would be home soon enough, and she would see it for herself for the first time. All Amanda had to do was keep her mouth shut.

  "Come on, let's give you a bath," she said, and she swooped Sophie up and headed for the guest bathroom.

  * * *

  A pleasant, prurient memory of Mandy standing before him that morning in nothing but French-cut panties and a spaghetti-strapped undershirt looped over and over in Hunter's mind while he drove home. Nothing had been left to his imagination. He'd especially liked the fresh-out-of-bed hair. It had made him want to smooth it into place…made him want to do a few other things, too.

  He admitted to watching each step when she had shuffled quickly back down the hall. Derrieres that great were rare. Nature's beauty should be admired, he'd always said, and that belief was as firm as Mandy's backside.

  So why did he feel compelled to stick around his house to copy some of the CDs for the class instead of rushing back to Mandy's? Because living with Mandy would be unadulterated torture. And, since he was in stalling mode, he decided to stop at the market on the way back to get some of the things he liked to eat. If they were going to be living together, he might as well enjoy it.

  * * *

  Hunter made a point to time his dinner with Mandy's that night. As he recalled, she preferred to eat late. After he'd gotten home and unpacked, he heard her puttering around in the kitchen and sprang into action.

  Mandy looked over her shoulder and shot him an embarrassed smile when he entered the room.

  "Hey." He nodded a greeting. He suspected she was thinking about their morning encounter. He didn't want her to know he was, too, though he definitely still was.

  "Hey, Hunt." She sounded less than enthusiastic.

  He paused at the familiar nickname before reaching into the freezer to pull out the "meat loaf and taters" ready meal he'd just bought.

  "Thanks for putting Sophie to bed."

  "No problem."

  Seeing that she had a glass of wine going, he opened the refrigerator and retrieved a beer—another of his purchases. He unscrewed the lid and took a long draw from the bottle, waiting for conversation to sprout.

  Mandy washed, dried and scattered wads of romaine lettuce into a large bowl, then glanced over her shoulder. "Want to eat together?"

  "Sure. Why not?" he said, suppressing his pleasure.

  She lifted her wine, sipped and crinkled her nose with a sweet smile. "Listen, I've got oodles of lettuce here—would you like a salad with your meat loaf meal?"

  The last time he'd heard the word "oodles" was when they were married. It was one of her favorite expressions. I've got oodles of time. Want to make love? A quick melancholic pang took him by surprise. Ever since seeing her half-naked, his mind had been on one thing.

  "Don't mind if I do. Good thing I'm not drinking wine. I'm not sure which would work with this." He held up the frozen food box for her scrutiny. "Red or white?"

  She smiled again. "Beer it is."

  Two smiles in a row—he was on a roll.

  Hunter glanced at the microwave heating instructions as he popped the container inside. He squinted at the numbers on the oven and poked a few buttons, then leaned against the counter and folded his arms while his dinner cooked.

  "I noticed in the diet portion of the syllabus that you don't allow alcohol for the participants, but it's a known fact that a glass of wine a day can be good for your heart."

  "That's true, but I don't want to encourage anyone with a drinking problem to drink."

  "Didn't you screen every participant?"

  "Yes, but sometimes people don't admit to overdrinking."

  "Hmm. What are you going to tell the class when they see your diet journal?"

  "If you're trying to bother me, I'm not going to let you. No mushrooms for you, right?" she asked.

  Mandy was still great at changing topics she didn't want to discuss. "Right." At least she hadn't forgotten about his aversion to mushrooms. He wondered if she'd be surprised that he still remembered the recipe for her special salad dressing.

  Mandy reached for a plastic container inside the refrigerator. No doubt it was the secret salad sauce, which automatically made his mouth water. He watched her bend over as he tugged on his beer, noticing she'd traded in yesterday's jogging shorts for sweatpants. He could still make out the outline of her French-cut panties, and tried not to feel like a lowlife for noticing. But he couldn't quite tear his eyes away.

  She closed the fridge and slipped a crusty bread roll into the toaster oven to heat. She caught his gaze. He scratched his neck and pretended he'd been looking at the wall calendar.

  The microwave beeper dinged. His manly meal was done.

  Mandy snatched the bread from the toaster oven and headed for the table.

  Hunter carried her wine over and offered to top it up. She shook her head, but mouthed thanks.

  "Everything in moderation, eh?" Now they'd sat together, he felt compelled to start a regular conversation. "Is the Serena Vista Urgent Care much different from Mercy's ER?"

  "Oh, the sun and the moon." She forked a large bite of salad into her mouth and chewed.

  "You don't get emergencies there, do you?"

  "Sure we do. But the real traumas go to the local hospital instead of our clinic. One time this guy gave me a finger," she said.

  He nodded. "What is it with people these days? So rude." He took another swig of beer.

  She smiled, and it pleased him, though it stopped his
train of thought for a second.

  "No." She grinned. "He literally tried to hand me his finger."

  "Hmm." He chewed on a potato. His head shot up when her comment sank in. "You're serious."

  "Yeah. He'd sliced it off at work. Poor guy. If he'd gone straight to the hospital ER, they may have been able to save it. What a mess. There was blood all over the place. I had him drop it into saline and sent for our on-call surgeon, who was working over at the local ER."

  Hunter cut a slice of meat loaf, studied it and made a face before placing it into his mouth. Only half a glass of wine and Mandy had really lightened up. Maybe it was his charming personality? The lack of tension between them was refreshing, even if the conversation was unappetizing.

  "Sorry. Didn't mean to gross you out," she said, taking a big bite of salad and chomping down.

  "Nah. You know nothing much bothers me. I could tell you stories from my residency that would turn your stomach."

  "I know. And you used to," she said, after another large bite. "All the time." He remembered Mandy didn't mind talking with her mouth full. "You know, there's probably two days' worth of salt allotment in that single frozen meal." She pointed with her fork toward his microwave-safe plate, making an obvious topic segue.

  He glanced at the huge bite he was about to shove in his mouth and suddenly, between the finger story and the salt issue, no longer felt hungry.

  They continued the meal in silence, while he picked at his salad and some bread. Even her delicious poppy seed dressing hadn't brought his appetite back.

  When they'd finished eating, the two of them worked like a team, shoulder to shoulder, washing and drying the dishes. It was a routine they'd practiced to perfection during their marriage and easily slipped back into. The silence agonized Hunter, but for the life of him he couldn't think of a single thing to say. It forced him to focus on the ticking of the clock on the wall and the warm, damp scent of lemon soap in the sink…and the nearness of Mandy.

  This would have to stop. Maybe living with Mandy wasn't such a good idea after all. He stepped away to finish drying the salad bowls.

  She placed the last dish in the cupboard and moseyed into the living room, where she plopped down to read from a stack of medical journals. Hunter was left to fold and hang the damp dish towel.

  "Don't forget to record your dinner in your journal," he said, feeling bereft of all social skills and like a complete idiot.

  "Oh. Right. Thanks for the reminder." She didn't even glance up.

  He scratched his chin and searched his mind for any thread of pithy conversation. Nada. The scene was turning into agony.

  He'd brought his laptop to her house and planned to copy the rest of the music CDs tonight. He'd quickly learned that, once asleep, Sophie would doze through anything, and since it would be agony to stay in the same room as Mandy without watching her every move, he decided to work in his bedroom.

  He started for the hall, but stopped abruptly to make one last attempt at witty repartee.

  "Do you want me to make the decaf tomorrow? Or should I wait for the padding of your large fuzzy slippers?"

  Hunter glanced over his shoulder, waiting for Mandy's response, and watched her squirm. Her big blues opened wide over the medical journal. She knew exactly what he was thinking. A subtle, pleased twitch formed at the corners of his mouth. She made a stealthy but noticeable reach and threw a small couch pillow at him.

  He caught it deftly.

  "You can make it, smart-ass, since you seem to get up before I do," she said with unwavering eyes.

  "Blame Sophie for that." He held up the pillow. "Now I get why they call these things throw pillows," he said, before he flung it at her like a Frisbee. She dodged, but it lightly pinged the top of her head. She squealed, and he hit the hall as if making a final sprint for the finishing line.

  A quick flashback from the past had him in the middle of a wild chase through their old house, with Mandy hot on his trail. She'd caught him and jumped onto his back, laughing and kicking, and like a stallion he'd carried her piggyback-style to their bed, where he'd thrown her onto the mattress and joined her, pouncing on top.

  A flurry of sexual images snapped through his mind until he put a stop to them. Standing outside his bedroom door, he listened for any promising sound coming from the living room—a guy could always hope—but he didn't hear a single creak.

  Things weren't the same and never would be.

  So much for the past and its misleading memories, he thought as he closed the door.

  * * *

  Amanda took a deep breath and tried to slow down her heart. She'd let her guard down and slipped into old familiar habits with Hunter. It had seemed so easy. Yes, she had tried to entice him into a pillow fight—they'd used to have them frequently. He'd followed her lead and fired back. But when it had been her turn to respond, something had held her back. Memories? Nah.

  Heart palpitations.

  Twice during dinner she'd felt a spurt of them. She knew the warning signs: first the heart fluttered off and on, slipping into an unsteady rhythm, then the episodes would grow closer, until they linked together and became a marathon run of palpitations. It had only happened twice in the last year, and there had never been anything obvious that had set it off, but since her diagnosis, she'd hoped the medicine she'd been taking would keep the unstable beats at bay.

  When Amanda had finally been diagnosed with Wolff-Parkinson-White syndrome six months ago, she'd thought she faced her worst nightmare. The condition was an extra electrical pathway in the heart, which could cause a rapid, life-threateningly fast beat. The frustrating part was that nothing in particular seemed to set it off, and some people could go their entire lives without a significant episode or any need of treatment.

  Her parents had never bothered to tell her she'd been followed for a heart condition when she was a child. How could they have withheld such vital information? After years of mild yet distressing symptoms, which she'd thought were anxiety attacks, she'd finally confronted them. They'd just shrugged their shoulders as if to say, You were a preemie—what could we expect but that you'd have problems?

  Even now she found it difficult to forgive them. And her parents had yet to forgive her for her mother's kidney damage.

  The old nagging thought of her parents doubting her capabilities had always had Amanda fighting to prove herself her entire life. Ever since her premature birth, when no one had expected her to survive, right on through her high school graduation, when her mother and father had assumed she'd get a low-entry job instead of going to college, they'd doubted her.

  She shoved the hurtful thoughts back into a distant corner of her mind, needing to concentrate instead on the fact she was having more palpitations.

  It had taken her internist over a year and several tests to pinpoint the real source of her frequent palpitations, and showing up in ER with a heart rate of two hundred beats a minute had finally clinched it.

  Amanda took several slow, cleansing breaths, then performed the Valsalva maneuver by holding her breath and bearing down. This trick was known to slow down the pulse. She couldn't control WPW once it started any more than she could stop the sun from rising, but she tried to preempt it with the Valsalva maneuver. Once the heart impulses got on the wrong path, the pre-excitation beats rapidly marched on through, until they either mysteriously stopped on their own or an external electrical shock in the ER stopped them.

  Tonight, if it went that far, she hoped for the mysterious former version, never wanting to go through the process of cardioversion again.

  Maybe she should tell Hunter about her condition? But if she did, he'd treat her just like her parents did—as if she was fragile and incapable of handling her job and life. No. She'd keep her personal problems to herself for now. They were no concern of his.

  There was one surefire way to fix WPW. She shuddered at the thought. It was invasive, and she definitely didn't want that procedure. Especially after the time she'd sent a twe
nty-one-year-old patient off for electrophysiology studies—EPS: a similar procedure to what she'd need—and the normally routine test had ended in disaster. He'd died on the table. Coupled with her mother's angiogram experience—another similar study—Amanda had become extremely hesitant about ever fixing her heart. Besides, her internist had promised that most people with WPW lived normal lives and rarely had episodes of severe tachycardia.

  Nervously pulling at her sweatshirt, she clutched tight, until she realized the rapid beats had disappeared. Her heart rate was back to normal. Maybe the Valsalva had helped?

  She took another deep breath, loosened her death grip on her shirt, and checked her pulse through the next minute. Yep. She was back to normal. Thank heavens.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE next morning, at the Serena Vista Clinic parking lot, Hunter looked particularly attractive in his running attire. His shirt fit tight across his chest and hinted at the muscles Amanda had witnessed firsthand the other night in her living room. She swallowed and pretended she didn't notice him. Instead, she led the class through a brief stretch and warm-up routine, using a piece of music he'd suggested. It reminded her of an old boxing movie she'd seen in reruns on TV, but the musical theme definitely pumped her up.

  Everyone smiled as they went through the exercises, which made her grin—until her eyes settled on Hunter. Again. He was a picture of near perfection, lunging and stretching his long hamstrings.

  After last night's scare, though there was never anything in particular that would set off WPW, her fear of developing symptoms again made her decide to take it easy.

  "Hunter," she said, edging him off to the side of the class, "will you take the joggers?"

  "Why the sudden change in plan?"

  "I'm feeling a little under the weather."

  Several small groups had assembled around the parking lot. One group chatted, another stretched, and a third laughed along with the class clown, Jack Howling.