“The only thing that takes care of it is delivering the baby, but it’s too soon. That’s why Dr. Bingham is putting Rachel on bed rest.”
Rachel and bed rest.
“I know.” Eli sighed, as if he’d read Andrew’s mind. “We’re on our way home now but Rachel wants to talk to you again.”
“Andrew?” Rachel didn’t sound at all like the take-charge woman he knew and loved. “I know you were coerced into running the Foundation but you had no idea it was going to be for more than a few days. I’m officially letting you off the hook. Mom and Dad can hire someone—”
“Don’t worry about it. The only thing I have planned for the next few months is a trip to St. Bart’s…and a race in Monaco. No one will miss me.”
The clink of silverware distracted him. Andrew had been so focused on the conversation he hadn’t realized someone was clearing the booth right behind him. He glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Miranda Jones walking away.
“If you’re sure…” Rachel’s voice faded and Andrew knew the reality of the situation was sinking in.
“All I want you to do is let Eli tuck you into bed with the remote control and your knitting needles. I’ll be over this evening with a gallon of mint chocolate-chip ice cream.”
“Andrew…thanks. I know St. Bart’s is a lot more fun than sitting behind a desk.”
“I’m praying for you,” Andrew murmured. “God wasn’t surprised by this—trust Him. He’s going to get you through it.”
He snapped the phone shut and stared out the window, knowing he had to take his own advice.
Okay, Lord, what’s up? Because if You wanted to work on building patience in Rachel, couldn’t You have picked something a little easier? Like a really long red light at the intersection?
He did a quick calculation. The baby wasn’t due until the end of summer. This derailed his schedule in unforeseen ways. He did have plans to go to St. Bart’s and he was sponsoring a new driver—but there were other commitments he couldn’t share with Rachel. Or anyone else.
The feet on the Elvis Presley clock on the wall began to dance, reminding him breaktime was officially over. He had to go back to the Foundation to tell the employees the good news—that the guy who had a reputation as a spendthrift playboy was about to take over the distribution of millions of dollars to worthwhile charities.
Judging from the cautious looks he’d been getting all week, everyone expected him to mess up. And it wasn’t as if he could put their minds at ease. Not without totally destroying the image he’d spent years cultivating.
Andrew passed the table a pack of teenage boys had taken over earlier and noticed the pile of change—mostly dimes and nickels—next to the ketchup bottle. That was all those kids could scrape together? They probably spent more renting a video game.
He looked around to make sure no one was watching and discreetly tucked a ten-dollar bill between the ketchup and mustard bottles, hoping it would put a smile on Miranda Jones’s face.
“Bye, Andrew. You have a good afternoon now.” Sandra popped up from behind the counter as he moved toward the door. “And come back soon.”
When Miranda peeked out of the kitchen and saw the empty booth by the window, she took the first deep breath her lungs would allow during the last hour. The exact amount of time Andrew Noble had been in the diner.
St. Bart’s. Monaco. And he’d dropped the names so matter-of-factly. As if he were going to the grocery store and then on his way home, he planned to swing by the Laundromat.
An ember of disgust flared inside her. People struggled to make ends meet while men like Andrew Noble went from one source of entertainment to another, spending money they hadn’t even worked for. A poster boy for the idle rich.
An incredibly good-looking poster boy….
Miranda tried to shake the thought away before it took hold and formed an image of perfectly chiseled features, tousled black hair and eyes a warm palette of soft greens and browns.
Too late.
Okay, he was good-looking. She could admit it. So was a mile-high slice of Sandra’s French silk pie. Solid proof that not everything that looked good was good for you.
And there was no point even thinking about Andrew Noble. The diner might be conveniently located down the street from the Noble Foundation but he wouldn’t be back. In the world he inhabited, filet mignon was the staple, not chicken-fried steak with a side of mashed potatoes.
Darcy came alongside her, waving a crisp ten-dollar bill. “This is for you. I already cleared tables four and five. And here I thought Mr. Gorgeous and Available would be the big tipper of the day.”
Miranda frowned. Table four had been Mr. Walrich, whose standing order of a piece of banana-cream pie and a cup of coffee garnered her a shiny fifty-cent piece as a tip. That left the boys at table five….
“Maybe it’s back pay for all the times they didn’t leave you a tip,” Darcy joked.
“If that were true, I’d be able to send Daniel to Harvard,” Miranda said, tucking the bill into her apron pocket. “But who am I to complain?”
“I sure wouldn’t be complaining if Andrew Noble had written his phone number on the five-dollar bill he left me,” Darcy said, a blissful expression on her face.
Miranda choked back a laugh, earning a pout from Darcy.
“What? It happened in the novel I just finished. I thought it was very romantic.”
“Men like Andrew Noble don’t work that way.”
Darcy crossed her arms. “How do men like Andrew Noble work, oh, Wise One?”
“Maybe he has his butler call your maid. Or maybe if you dropped one of your Birkenstocks on the sidewalk out front—”
“You think?” Darcy’s eyes went wide until she realized Miranda was teasing her. “Just because you don’t believe in happily ever after doesn’t mean you have to ruin it for the rest of us, Miranda Jones!”
She flounced away.
Miranda knew Darcy’s offended tone was exaggerated but the words still stung.
She didn’t believe in happily ever after.
Not anymore.
Andrew was lost in thought, alternately praying for Rachel, Eli and their unborn child, and wondering just how he was going to run the Foundation and keep his other…commitments.
He rounded the corner where he’d parked the car and stumbled over something. Since the startled gasp came from somewhere near his kneecap, he knew it was a small something. Or rather, someone.
“Sorry!” A boy about seven or eight years old sat on the concrete next to a bicycle. Or, more accurately, had been taken prisoner by it. The brown towel knotted around his shoulders had snagged in the chain.
Andrew
