he asked.
“No. That’s my father when he was just a little boy. And that’s his mother. My abuelita.”
He replaced it and chose the one of Manny in his baseball uniform.
“That’s my brother, Manuel. He loved sports.”
Mark studied the photo for a while. “What kind of accident did he have?”
“It happened at the warehouse where he worked. A freak industrial accident, they told me. Involving a forklift.” She laid the magazine across her lap and tried to focus on something more pleasant. Something that didn’t remind her of her brother’s death, the lawsuit. Something that didn’t trigger thoughts of Erik Kramer, the attorney who’d volunteered to handle her interests in the workman’s compensation case. The jerk.
Mark replaced the silver frame, then turned away from the shelves. “I’m sorry your family isn’t around for you now.”
She shrugged and mustered a smile. “I have a lot of happy memories. Of the good times. And the unconditional love.” She ran a hand along the contour of her tummy, caressing her child. “And I have a new baby to look forward to. Life goes on.”
He merely studied her, looking skeptical. Hopeful. Concerned. A hodgepodge of emotion she found hard to decipher played havoc with his expression. But it didn’t do a thing to lessen the attraction that continued to build—in spite of her circumstances.
Dios mio, the man was handsome. Or maybe she found him more appealing, now that she’d gotten to know him better.
It felt weird to have him here. But at the same time, it was kind of nice. And she found it hard not to stare.
He slipped off his black leather jacket, hung it over the back of the recliner and sauntered toward the sofa. He’d dressed casually today, sporting a pair of worn jeans and a long-sleeved chambray shirt.
As he drew close, she caught a whiff of mountain-fresh cologne, menthol shaving cream and peppermint toothpaste. It was a taunting scent. Mesmerizing in a way. Her gaze locked on his, her pulse kicking up a notch. Did he know? Could he sense her inappropriate interest?
He cleared his throat. “It’s nearly nine o’clock, so we’d better think about breakfast.”
The husky sound of his voice, more graveled than usual, made her wonder if he’d ever been a smoker. If so, he’d given up the habit.
“You’ve got to be hungry,” he added.
She was. But she hadn’t realized it until now.
“Can I get you anything?”
“I’ll have a glass of milk. For the baby.”
He walked to the kitchen, opened the fridge and pulled out a carton of milk. Then he rummaged through the cupboards, looking for a glass. She could have helped him out, she supposed, telling him where to look, but she watched him instead, her interest and curiosity piqued. There was something about a man in the kitchen. Especially that man.
There was so much she didn’t know about Mark, other than he was a reporter who’d once been a local boy.
“Do you still have family around here?” she asked.
His movements slowed. “Yeah. My parents.”
That was nice. “Do you see them often?”
“No.” He filled the glass until the milk frothed at the top. “My folks and I had a falling out years ago.”
“That’s too bad.”
He shrugged. “We were never that close anyway.”
“Have you tried a reconciliation?” She knew the value of a family, the value of turning the other cheek. Of appreciating each individual personality, in spite of the differences. And the value of appreciating what you had, while you still had it.
“We talk, if that’s what you mean. But we aren’t very close. And I like it that way.” He brought her the milk. “Do you have anything I can use to make breakfast?”
He was going to cook? By himself?
Her father and brother couldn’t have fixed themselves a meal—maybe because Abuelita had claimed the kitchen as her territory. And even after she passed away, they hadn’t stepped foot near the stove. So, at the age of ten, Juliet had taken over. And eventually she became a pretty decent cook.
“I have eggs and bacon in the fridge,” she told him. “Orange juice, too. And the coffee is in the small canister on the counter.”
“Okay. I’ll fix something for us to eat. You just rest.”
Actually, she thought watching Sir Rumpled Knight in the kitchen might prove to be entertaining.
And touching.
If she let herself dream, she could imagine falling for a guy like Mark. But Juliet knew better than to let any romantic, fairy-tale notions take root. Her heart had already borne more than its share of grief, and there was no need to set herself up for a fall that was easy to foresee.
Besides, Juliet came from sturdy stock. She was a survivor. And she didn’t need to be rescued, didn’t need anyone to look after her once the baby got here.
Especially not a globe-trotting reporter who’d made it clear that he was just passing through.
She returned her attention to the magazine she’d been reading, to the article on breast-feeding dos and don’ts.
And she remained focused on the words—until she caught a whiff of burning bacon and heard the squeal of the smoke alarm, as it ripped through the room.
Chapter Four
“Dammit!” Mark shut off the flame under the frying pan and turned on a fan that didn’t work.
A giggle erupted from Juliet, who sat on the sofa, but he ignored it as he hurried to place the smoking skillet in the sink, dump out the grease and burnt bacon and turn on the faucet. The water hit the hot pan, roaring and sputtering like someone had entered the gates of hell.
As the smoke alarm continued to blast, he looked up at the archaic safety device that didn’t have an on or off switch, then swore under his breath as he hurried to open the window, to let fresh air into the room, to allow the smoke to dissipate. All the while, the alarm continued to shriek like a drunken banshee.
By this time, Juliet’s giggle turned into a laugh, triggering a rush of embarrassment. Frustration. And anger at himself for getting distracted.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
Grabbing a dish towel from the countertop, he began fanning the smoke away from the kitchen, hoping it would clear the air and make the stupid alarm shut up. When that didn’t seem to work, he reached up, jerked open the plastic contraption and removed the batteries.
Silence.
Except for Juliet’s
