The Texan's Baby Bombshell Page 13

She heard Adam swear, and then he took her arm once more as they crossed the street. Not letting go again until they reached the sidewalk on the other side. “There’s nothing for you to fear.”

  She lifted her brows. “Really? How can I be sure?”

  “Because I’m telling you.”

  “Like you told me how I left my son?” She set off toward the souvenir shop.

  “I told you I was sorry for that.” She could hear the regret in his deep voice. “I should have figured out a way to—”

  “You shouldn’t have to figure out anything! You’re just a nice guy who feels sorry for the old girlfriend with her memories chopped up like Sunday morning hash!” She earned a startled look from the young couple sitting on the bench outside the store and she yanked open the shop door, making the bell hanging over it jingle. She lowered her voice in deference to the other shoppers. “And my treating you as though you’re responsible makes me every bit as unreasonable as my mother ever was. Nobody left Linus with strangers but me. I did that. Now that I know, you don’t have to keep treating me with kid gloves.”

  “I’m not all that nice.” His jaw looked tight. “But until you remember why you left the way you did, the gloves aren’t going anywhere.”

  The shop was lined with aisles packed stem to stern with Durango-themed items. Jackets. Shirts. Baby clothes and dog bowls. She picked up a bowl and waved it at him. “Why am I having this conversation with you at all? You’re not the one I’ve betrayed the most.”

  She caught the price tag on the ceramic bowl and quickly replaced it far more carefully than she’d removed it. “Don’t mind me,” she said in the face of Adam’s silence. “You just get the added benefit of my venting with the price of admission. Do you still wear an extra large, tall?”

  “Yes.”

  She bent over a display of T-shirts, looking at the sizes. “Don’t sound so terse. It’s not everyone who can claim the same size they wore ten years ago. I sure can’t.”

  She crouched down and pulled a white shirt with a screen-printed mountain peak from a stack and shook it out for him to see. “Yes? No?”

  “Ah...no.”

  She turned the shirt so she could see the full front. She realized a puff of smoke was superimposed over the mountain outline. Beneath was scrolled “Durango High.”

  She rolled her eyes, refolding the shirt and setting it back on the stack. Still on her knees—she’d realized all of the “extra” sizes were on the lowest shelves—she moved past several more stacks bearing similar marijuana themes.

  “Would you rather he was the one who was here? Or are you still worried you’re afraid of him?”

  At his question her fingers spasmodically closed on another shirt. “He’s where he should be. With the baby. With...Linus.”

  It was more proof of her failings that she still stumbled over her baby’s name. That no matter how many times she thought it, no matter how many times she said it, Linus simply didn’t seem to fit.

  She shook out another shirt—navy blue this time—and held it up for his view.

  “I’ve worn worse.”

  The town’s name was blocked out in bright orange across the front. She eyed the garment. Then Adam’s broad shoulders. “Looks a little small to me.”

  He took the shirt from her when she stood and balled it in his fist. “It’ll be fine,” he dismissed. “There are other...people...who could be with Linus. Do you want Eric here or don’t you?”

  Everything inside her screamed no! She ran her palm over the fuzzy knit of a striped scarf. “It would get you off the hook.”

  His expression tightened.

  “Not that you’re on any sort of hook to begin with,” she added quickly. “No matter what you say, you’re just a decent guy who got caught up in all of this. Because the world is too small sometimes.” Afraid of seeing the confirmation on his face, she dashed the scarf around her neck and looked in the mirror hanging on the end of the aisle. “Green and yellow stripes. Never were my colors.” She reached out to replace the scarf and Adam grabbed her hand.

  He pulled her closer. “Just answer the damn question, Laurel. What do you want? Do you want him here instead? Yes or no?”

  “No,” she whispered, too startled to lie. “I want you here.”

  His shoulders seemed to relax. “All right, then. Matter closed.” He let go of her and walked up the next aisle. “Do you need anything while we’re here?”

  Her knees felt wobbly. “I’m already in your debt.”

  His lips tightened again. Her knack for causing that particular look was becoming an art form.

  “Pajamas,” she admitted hurriedly. “Or a nightshirt. An extra tall Durango High shirt would even do.”

  He was striding up the aisle, angling past a couple who were quibbling over salt and pepper shakers. She caught up to him where he’d stopped in front of a tiered rack hung with a variety of pajamas. “Choose.”

  A hand-printed sign was affixed atop the rack showing the price. Even the least expensive pair cost three times what his shirt did. “I’ll pay you back. One day.”

  “For God’s sake, Laurel. Just choose. My bank account can handle the excessive burden.”

  He sounded like he was about at the end of his rope. She blindly pulled a hanger from the rack and pushed it at him. “There.”

  He glanced at the pink and green flannel pants and hung them back on the rack. “You may not be an extra small anymore, but you’re damn sure not an extra large.” He swiped through a few more hangers, then extracted another set. “Anything else?”

  She shook her head and followed him to the register where a line of customers was already waiting. But even a few minutes gave her time for second thoughts. Flannel pants or not, the pajama top was little more than a spaghetti-strapped camisole.

  She tugged at her sleeve.

  “Stop worrying.”

  She dropped her hands to her sides.

  So what if the top left her arms bare? He’d already seen the scars. And it wasn’t as though she’d be modeling her nightwear for him.

  He had an Ashley, after all. Plus—mortifying as it had been—he’d already seen Laurel naked. He hadn’t exactly been overcome with desire.

  Her cheeks felt on fire. “I’m going to wait outside.” She hurried away before he could protest.

  The teenage couple was still sitting on the bench when she went back through the bell-jingling door. She turned her back on them and moved toward the curb.

  The door jangled twice more before Adam joined her on the sidewalk, with his purchases inside a paper shopping bag. If he was surprised that she hadn’t tried making a break for it, he hid it well. Instead, he pointed up the street. “Look at that. Hot-air balloons. Come on. They don’t look too far.”

  “You can take the trolley.” The couple from the bench had obviously overheard and had risen, joining them near the curb. “Should be here any second.” The young man jerked his thumb toward the old-fashioned trolley rumbling along the street toward them. “Runs every twenty minutes.”

  “There’s a trolley stop by the balloons. That’s where we’re heading.” As the girl spoke, the trolley glided to a stop in front of them, disgorging several passengers.

  Adam looked at her. “What do you say? Walk or ride?”

  His warm fingers were still enclosing hers. “Walk.” She felt breathless.

  The trolley driver was looking at them. “You coming?”

  “Maybe on the return trip,” Adam told him.

  The driver closed the door and the trolley rumbled off again.

  A second balloon—this one with red, white and blue chevrons—rose in the air. As they neared, Laurel spotted the ropes tethering the balloons to the ground, as well as the lines of people waiting for a chance to ride.

  “Have you ever been up in one?” she asked.

 
“Yeah.” He didn’t elaborate, but he let go of her hand when a streak of white-blond hair on stubby legs plowed between them.

  “Sorry!” A woman pushing an enormous stroller hurried past. “Abigail, you stop right this minute!”

  The tot skidded to a halt but the pure devilment on her face warned it probably wouldn’t last long.

  Laurel looked up at Adam, seeing the dimple flash in his cheek and she didn’t mind so very much then that he’d released her hand.

  Even before they reached the park, it was obvious there was some kind of festival going on. In addition to the tethered balloon rides, there were caricaturists set up with their easels and pencils. A table positioned beneath a bright blue tent was occupied by a woman painting flowers on a teenager’s cheek. Vendors with pushcarts sold pretzels and hot dogs and huge puffs of pink and blue cotton candy. Two food trucks did an equally brisk business.

  And everywhere Laurel looked, she saw couples holding hands. Families with children chasing about.

  It was festive and beautiful and still bright before sunset. And it made Laurel ache inside.

  The white-blond streak that was little Abigail tore across their path again and they waited while her mother and stroller chased in her wake.

  Adam’s head bent toward her. “Want an ice cream?”

  She looked up at him, ready to shake her head. But the light in his eyes lured a smile from her instead. “How can you possibly want an ice cream after that steak dinner?”

  His dimple appeared again and her stomach dipped and swayed. “Ice cream melts, sweetheart. Fills in the cracks.”

  She couldn’t help but smile. “Fine.” She waved her hand toward the cart several yards away where an old man wearing a crimson-and-white top hat was scooping ice cream into waffle cones. “Ice cream, then.”

  He took her hand again as they crossed the green grass.

  “Evenin’ folks,” the man greeted with a broad smile. “What can I getcha?” He had several tubs of different flavors inside his refrigerated cart.

  Laurel shook her head. “Nothing for me, thanks.”

  “Black walnut and pistachio,” Adam said.

  She tucked her tongue in her cheek. “Because just one nut is never enough?”

  “I like what I like.” He handed her the paper bag while he pulled out his wallet.

  “Man after my own heart,” the man said. “Waffle cone or cup?”

  “Cone. And she’ll have a scoop of that peanut butter ice cream in a cup.”

  Laurel opened her mouth to protest.

  “With chocolate sprinkles,” Adam added before she could.

  Her stomach actually rumbled. She did love peanut butter. But she still had to offer some kind of objection. “Maybe I want vanilla.”

  “When there’s peanut butter in the vicinity? Not likely.”

  He was right, of course. “I don’t need sprinkles,” she assured dryly when the vendor upended a perfectly round ball of ice cream into a small white cup.

  “Every pretty girl needs sprinkles,” the man countered, sweeping a scoop of chocolate shavings over the top. “Isn’t that right, sir?” He jabbed a small plastic spoon into the scoop and handed it to her with a flourish.

  “Every pretty girl does,” Adam agreed. He handed over the cash and then took the shopping bag from Laurel again.

  She almost regretted that she hadn’t insisted on a waffle cone, despite her dislike for them. It would have left one of her hands still free to be held.

  But he settled his wide palm on her shoulder, which she quickly realized was even better, despite the shopping bag in his hand bumping against her arm.

  They wandered to the far side of the park where even more vendors sold candles and soaps and handmade jewelry. She slowed as a display of gold necklaces caught her eye. They were similar to her L necklace, which had her wondering if hers had been handmade, too.

  Then they wandered closer to the clearing where the balloons were tethered.

  But in her mind, she wasn’t seeing the three colorful balloons right in front of her. Instead, it was hundreds and hundreds. Rising up into the air in a spectacular airborne ballet. “I went to the balloon festival once in Albuquerque,” she realized aloud. “When I was in high school.”

  “I know. You told me about it.”

  She pretended to focus on her ice cream. “I think it was one of the few times everyone was happy together. My parents with each other. My parents with me. Did I tell you that, too?”

  His hand tightened on her shoulder. Then he pressed a gentle kiss to her head. “Yeah.” His voice was gruff.

  A knot formed inside her chest and she suddenly felt like crying. Which she was determined not to do.

  Not on a beautiful summer evening when she had peanut butter ice cream in her hand and this man standing beside her.

  How many times had Dr. Granger reminded her that her faulty memory needn’t rule her present? That, against all odds, she’d survived a horrific accident. She could either disappear into anxiety over what she couldn’t yet remember, or she could move forward, living the life she’d been gifted.

  She lifted her chin, staring blindly at the balloons. Feeling the warmth of Adam’s hand. The lingering sensation of his kiss against her hair.

  I could love this man.

  The thought filled her. Lifted her. Just as certainly as the hot air lifted the enormous, gently bobbing balloons.

  “Want to try?”

  She startled, looking up at him. “Ah—”

  “Going up.” He nodded toward the trio. “There aren’t so many people waiting in line now.” His gaze seemed to look right into her. “We could take the ride if you’re—”

  “Yes.” She sounded so eager she was almost embarrassed. She tapped her spoon on her ice cream. She hadn’t even realized she’d been stirring it into mush. “What about this?”

  His eyes crinkled. “What about it?”

  “I doubt we’ll be able to take ice cream up with us.”

  “They did.” He gestured with his cone at the same couple who’d been sitting on the bench outside the souvenir shop. “But don’t worry. I would never make you sacrifice anything that has peanut butter in it.”

  “I could say the same thing about you and hops. If that ice cream cart would have had beer-flavored ice cream—” she shuddered “—you’d be all over it.”

  His grin widened. “True.” His hand fell away from her shoulder. “I’ve been working on Ashley to put a boozy float on the menu at Provisions, but so far, no luck.”

  Her nerves suddenly pinched. Ashley.

  She focused on her cup, mashing the ice cream even more. “She must miss you a lot.” Her voice sounded hollow to her ears and she prayed he wouldn’t notice. “Considering how often she texts you.”

  He bit off the side of his ice cream, reducing the round scoop by nearly half. “Think it’s her age,” he said after he swallowed. He looked wry. “She’s only twenty-three. Why make a two-minute phone call when you can accomplish the same thing in twenty text messages.” He grabbed her hand again and set off for the balloons, angling toward the table where a woman was selling the tickets.

  Five minutes later, the ticket lady was minding the shopping bag and they were approaching the wicker basket occupied by the balloon pilot—a boy who looked too young to even shave. “If you want that ice cream to stay ice cream, better eat it up quick,” he advised. “Gets toasty in here.”

  Adam took care of the rest of his ice cream in two bites, leaving only what was pushed down inside the waffle cone. He glanced at the contents of Laurel’s cup. “You always did stir it around until you turned it into ice cream soup. Go on. Drink it up. I know you want to.”

  She managed a smile and quickly swallowed down the milkshake-like remainder and tossed the cup in the trash bin before stepping into the wicker baske
t. It felt alarmingly insubstantial and she nervously latched onto the side. Several fuel tanks were strapped in the interior and she suddenly wondered who in their right mind had ever thought a hot-air balloon seemed like a brilliant idea.

  The pilot—“I’m Bobby, nice t’ meetcha”—gave a brief safety spiel and asked if either one of them had questions.

  Laurel shook her head, mostly because she hadn’t really heard a word he’d said in the first place.

  And then she felt a fresh rush of heat from the burner above them, and braced herself for God only knew what.

  Only there was no yank as they left the ground. No crash as flimsy wicker gave away beneath their feet.

  Instead, there was only the simple sense of floating. As easily as a feather drifted on a breeze.

  She looked up, up, up, into the balloon. The brilliant colors of the exterior seemed even brighter from the inside. Then she looked out over the side of the basket.

  Even though they were leashed to the ground, they still seemed to be rising incredibly high. The tethering ropes grew taut. She knew there was a breeze but couldn’t feel even a whisper of it. It was so amazing she actually forgot to clutch the basket like it was her only lifeline.

  The entire town and the glittering river that wound around and through it seemed like it had been laid out just for them. “It’s so beautiful,” she breathed, looking around to find Adam.

  He was smiling down at her and her heart stuttered.

  She forgot the tethers. Forgot Bobby the balloonist.

  Forgot everything except Adam.

  “We’ve done this,” she realized aloud. Wonder was warming her from the inside out and she touched his chest with her fingertips. “You and I. We’ve done this before. Only there weren’t any ropes tying us to the ground.”

  He closed his hand over hers, pressing her palm against him until she felt the deep thump of his heartbeat. “Yes.” His voice was low. Hushed in the stunningly silent air. “And we’ve also done this.”

  Then he lowered his head and pressed his mouth to hers.

  Chapter Eleven

  Adam felt her quick inhale. The sudden stiffening that was just as suddenly an exhale as Laurel began kissing him back.