all Hunter had to do was figure out a way to keep them that way.
“Give me a second,” Callie called when it sounded as if whoever was at her front door would knock it off its hinges with their insistent pounding. Wiping the flour from her hands with her apron, she turned her CD player down and hurried from the kitchen to open the door. “What’s so important that—”
She stopped short at the sight of Hunter O’Banyon standing on her tiny front porch. Lord have mercy, but he was one of the best looking men she’d ever seen. He was dressed in a black T-shirt and worn blue jeans. The soft fabrics fit him like a second skin and emphasized the width of his broad shoulders and his narrow hips. When she glanced at his arms, the sight of his bulging biceps stretching the knit sleeves of his shirt sent a shiver of awareness straight up her spine.
Callie gave herself a mental shake. What on earth was wrong with her? And why in the name of heaven was she ogling the man as if he were a fudge-nut brownie with rich chocolate frosting?
“Are you all right?” His expression was one of deep concern.
“Of—” she swallowed hard “—course. Why wouldn’t I be?” Other than being embarrassed that her hair was piled on her head in total disarray, her shorts and T-shirt were the oldest things she had in her closet and she was coated with a fine dusting of flour, she was just peachy.
“I knocked for five minutes before you answered the door. I thought something might be wrong.” He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “Never mind. Do you have a few minutes? We need to talk.”
What could he possibly think they needed to discuss? And why did he have to show up after she’d received a phone call from her mother?
At least once a week since telling her mother she was pregnant they’d gone through the same old routine of her mother wanting to know who the father of Callie’s baby was and why she was so insistent on keeping the man’s identity a secret. Frustrated beyond words with her mother’s persistence, by the time Callie had ended the phone call, she’d already measured the ingredients for several dozen sugar cookies and had pulled the box of oats from the cupboard for a double batch of chocolate-chip-oat-meal cookies.
Some women cleaned house when they were upset. Callie baked.
“Do you mind if I come in?” Hunter asked, returning her to the present.
“I’m sorry. Please come in.” She stepped back for him to enter her small cottage. “I was just baking some—oh no! My cookies!” Remembering the peanut butter cookies she’d put into the oven just before hearing him pound on the door, she made a beeline for the kitchen with him hot on her heels.
“Damn! When you make cookies, you don’t fool around, do you?” he said, looking around.
Taking the baking sheet from the oven, she placed it on the top of the stove, then glanced at the table and countertops. Plates of cookies covered every available surface.
Shaking her head at the sight, she nibbled on her lower lip. She must have been more upset over her mother’s phone call than she’d realized.
“Would you like some milk and cookies?” She grinned. “I have plenty.”
“No kidding.” His deep chuckle caused a wave of goose bumps to sweep over her skin. “What are you going to do with all of them?”
“They won’t last long around George and Corey.”
She opened a cabinet to get something to store the cookies in, but the feel of Hunter’s broad chest pressed to her side as he stepped forward to reach for several of the plastic containers on the top shelf sent a charge of excitement skipping over every nerve in her body. When he handed them to her, then stepped back, she had trouble drawing her next breath.
Unnerved, her hand trembled as she took the containers from him. “Th-thank you.”
He gave her a short nod, then moved farther away. “I think I will take you up on that offer of some milk and cookies.”
Pouring them each a glass of milk, she set one at the far end of the table and started to sit down at the opposite end. Hunter was immediately behind her, holding the chair, and his close proximity unsettled her so much that she almost turned over her glass.
What in blazes was wrong with her? She not only felt as jumpy as a frightened rabbit, she’d suddenly turned into a major klutz.
When he sat down across from her, he studied the plates of cookies between them. “What do you suggest I start with first?”
“I like the oatmeal cookies, but that’s probably because I use chocolate chips instead of raisins,” she said, reaching for one of the tasty treats.
He nodded as he took a cookie from one of the plates. “I’m kind of partial to peanut butter myself.” Taking a bite, his eyes widened. “Corey and George weren’t exaggerating—these are some of the best cookies I’ve ever tasted.”
As they munched on the cookies, Callie wondered what it was he thought they needed to discuss. For the life of her she couldn’t think of anything so important that he’d pay her a visit on her day off.
“What did you want to talk to me about?” she asked, hoping the sooner he stated the purpose for his visit, the sooner he’d leave. She desperately needed to regain her composure.
Taking a deep breath, he set his empty glass on the table, then caught her gaze with his. “I’m concerned that your job might be a little too much for a woman in your condition.”
She laughed. “Contrary to what you might think, pregnancy is not a disability.”
“I understand that,” he said, nodding. “But at times I’m sure it’s extremely tiring.”
“I’m not going to pretend that it isn’t.” She rose to place their glasses in the dishwasher, then started stacking cookies in the containers for freezing. “But there are also times when we’ll go for a day or two without an emergency call and I’m exhausted from sheer boredom. Besides, my obstetrician doesn’t have a problem with me working as a flight nurse, so if you’re worried that it’s too strenuous for me, don’t. Corey and George are both very conscientious and won’t let me do any heavy lifting. And when we’re not out on calls, I make sure to take regular naps.”
“Yes, but there’s other things to be considered, such as turbulence or pilot error,” he said as he handed her plates full of cookies to be stored in the plasticware.
“I trust George. He’s a good pilot.”
“I’m not saying he isn’t.”
She snapped the lid shut on the box, then started filling another one. “What are you saying?”
He rubbed the back of his neck as if to relieve tension. “Aren’t you worried about having to make a rough landing or a possible crash?”
“Not really.” She couldn’t for the life of her figure out why he was so overly concerned. Every pilot she’d ever known considered flying the safest mode of transportation. “In the event that something like that happens, I’m in no greater danger because I’m pregnant than I would be if I wasn’t.”
“But—”
