2 Months 'Til Mrs. (2 'Til Series) (9 page)

“Are you okay?” Catherine asked warily, wondering if she
knew more about what had happened between her and Fynn than she’d let on….

“I don’t know what has gotten into me. Please ignore
the ridiculous, sentimental sap before you.”

Mel appeared between them, back with their meals and a
java refill that Catherine accepted kindly and Drew, the certified coffee
junkie, waved away. She hadn’t even touched her first mug. The plates had
hardly hit the table when she commenced to eating, like a woman possessed.

“Is there something I should know about the coffee?
She didn’t poison it or anything, did she?” Catherine joked, thumbing toward
Mel who was on her way to the counter.

“I heard that, New York,” she hollered over her
shoulder.

“I think it’s a fair question,” Catherine whispered to
her tablemate. 

Drew shook her head, a twinkle in her eye. Then she
spoke around a large mouthful. “I had a whole pot at home; I’ll be peeing all
day if I have any more. Can you pass the salt and pepper?”

Catherine watched her friend as she salted and
peppered her eggs and then buttered her toast and slathered it with jam. Drew was
definitely moving at a full-pot pace, but she still smelled something rotten in
Nekoyah.

She’s pregnant again, and I haven’t even popped a
single puppy out.

Catherine felt like she was in the middle of a
population explosion. Everyone from her friends and family and mail carrier, to
her hair dresser, manicurist, and the cashier at the mini-mart where she bought
her milk—all pregnant or lactating. It only made sense that Drew would be pregnant,
too. Jealousy surged in an ugly way as she felt like she was treading water
while everyone else around her was swimming. At least she was no longer
drowning anymore since Fynn had thrown her a line.   

Catherine looked out at the land from her perfect
vantage point on the front porch. Fynn had a beautiful wedge of paradise here.
Sixteen acres of peace, most of it well-maintained woods, but smack-dab in the
middle there were three acres of clearing, a true yard, all of it set well back
from the road, down a winding gravel drive, and in the back, the grass gave way
to meadow before woods overtook the view again. If she’d thought it was quaint
and perfect in the spring, and heavenly in the summer, she hadn’t seen anything
until it was covered in white. Another light snowfall today had given their
little world the feel of an untouched canvas, new all over again, especially
seeing as how Magnus hadn’t even taken to the yard yet, preferring a cozy spot
by the fire to getting snow between the pads of his feet.

She remembered the very first time she drove into
Fynn’s life and saw this place, the sage green Cape Cod with four dormers
poking out of its cedar roofline and a front porch running its length, complete
with rocking chairs and an all-too-friendly golden retriever. At the time she’d
thought he was a brokenhearted widower with a brokenhearted daughter. At the
time she hadn’t pictured anything more than getting what she wanted and getting
out of here….  

Back in the day—that is, up until eight months ago—dating
a guy who owned his own house had freaked her out. She was sure that a
relationship that began that way would have her settling for his life, which
would in turn have her screaming out of the first date before the appetizers
were served. Why this hadn’t happened with Fynn she couldn’t say. Maybe she
fell in love with his house before even falling for him. Maybe she was so
pissed off at him and his curmudgeonly ways when she first met him that her
instincts were clouded. Maybe she was growing up. Whatever it was, the fact
that he had a home and a comfortable life in Minnesota hadn’t scared her one
bit, while a business executive with a house on Long Island had given her a case
of the runs, and she wasn’t even going to mention what that guy with a house in
Jersey had done to her innards.

And there was Cara, too. Only once had she dated a man
who had kids—okay, twice, but to be fair the second guy didn’t even know he had
a kid until his ex-girlfriend showed up at his door at three in the morning with
a baby on her hip. It would have made for great reality TV but as a third date?
She was halfway to bed with him when that little public service announcement
for safe sex had shown up. And the other guy was fresh off a divorce from the
woman who shared three kids with him. Serious baggage that she thought had
cured her of being in any relationship with a guy and some other woman’s kids. Not
that Cara fit perfectly in that category. Fynn and her mother, Renée, were just
good friends—not exes. And Cara wasn’t his….
And the woman is dying for
Christ’s sake.
What kind of person would she be to compare a relationship
with a man taking guardianship of a little girl who was going to be orphaned,
to one with a guy who divorced his ex-wife for cheating on him and then had to
share their kids with her for the rest of their lives?

Besides, if it weren’t for Cara, Fynn would never have
even had what Catherine was looking for when she hopped on that plane on a whim
last spring. Caramellie and her dollhouse would have been on a shelf in Troves
of Stuff antique shop like they were supposed to be. Her cockamamie plan to
track down her old toy would have gone off without a hitch. But it didn’t. And
the man who had pissed her off to no end when she first met him still got her
blood pumping now. She couldn’t believe that after all the bad blind dates and
beer-goggle bar hookups and that stint of online dating and one ridiculous
night of speed dating—ooh, and don’t forget that singles masquerade ball that
Tara dragged her to last January—she’d found love in Nekoyah, Minnesota.

She leaned against the porch railing and crossed her
arms over her chest, rubbing her arms to warm herself. The crisp air held the mingling
scent of the fire from the fireplace. She felt absolutely content. She was
always crazed getting here and depressed leaving, but here everything seemed so
perfect. Too bad there was that whole other life that anchored her to New
York—that pesky job, friends, money thing.

“You thinking about jumping?” Fynn asked.

She turned to see him standing in the doorway.
Now
that’s perfect. Just look at him.
His red flannel shirt was open over a
charcoal gray thermal undershirt, his jeans worn from age rather than fashion
sense. His golden blond hair was unruly as usual, a mix of windswept and
finger-tousled—her fingers, as she tried to feel every last inch of him and make
sure that he was real and that they had truly weathered the first serious hitch
in their relationship (ignoring the many hitches when they first met and he
thought she was entirely unhinged).

“It’s only about an eight-foot drop from the top of
the railing, so depending on what you’re trying to accomplish…” he offered
helpfully.

“I only wanted to break an arm or a leg. Something
that would keep me here. You’re a great nursemaid,” she said, rubbing at the
now egg-free place on her head, reminding him of the night they spent together before
they were even together, when he woke her up every hour to make sure her
concussion didn’t turn into a coma. That was the night she fell in love.

“By all means, jump away then.” He held out his hands,
giving her the floor.

She turned to look over the rail at the bushes below,
noticing the spikes on the holly leaves and turning back to him. “I don’t
really want to impale myself,” she said, sucking air through her teeth like she
really wanted to follow through but for that teeny little detail.

“Then why don’t you come inside.”

“You inviting me?” she asked coyly, giving him a lurid
once-over.

“If that’s all it takes.” He made a move to rip off
his shirt.

“Down boy,” she giggled, coming toward him and putting
a hand on his
tight
abs.

He looked down at her, not a trace of regret on his
face.

“First I have to make a quick phone call to check my
flight,” she assured him.

“I checked. All flights are going out as scheduled,”
he announced grimly.

“Dammit,” she muttered, brushing past him. She hadn’t packed
at all, hoping that the weather would work
for
her now—trapping her
where she wanted to be. She headed upstairs toward the master bedroom and
bathroom to get her shit together, and Fynn followed close at her heels.

“So where do you want it?” he asked mischievously,
coming up behind her in the bathroom, circling his arms around her waist and
reaching his hands up under her shirt.

“Fynn!” she squealed, jumping out of his clutches.
“Your hands are
freezing
.”

“I need you to warm them up.” His gaze was sultry,
blue eyes piercing.

“I have to pack first, okay?” she said brusquely, mad
at Mother Nature all over again.

She started grabbing things pell-mell off the counter:
toothbrush, moisturizer, makeup bag, deodorant. Fynn went back to his wandering
hands and
breathing
—hot against her neck.

“I’m serious,” she cautioned, but her voice was weak
just like her knees.

“So am I,” he said, pressing against her from behind
to show her just how serious.

“I don’t have time for this right now,” she snapped, a
final effort to fight his powers of persuasion. She pulled away from him—like
ripping off a Band-Aid, the quicker the better—cradling her things in her arms
and heading for the bedroom.

“You really need to chill out. Your flight isn’t for
hours,” he said, following her and leaning against the dresser drawer she
needed to get into.

“I don’t want to do this last minute.” She grabbed her
suitcase from under the bed, a full-size suitcase for one night because she had
certainly learned her lesson about packing extra clothes when traveling to
Nekoyah—
fool me once
.

“Will you do
me
the last minute?” he asked.

“I’ll do you when I’m good and ready.” She turned to
him. “Now move.”

Hands up in a show of submission, he moved just far
enough out of the way that she had to squeeze against him to get what she
wanted.

She opened the drawer and grabbed what little was in
there, turning to her suitcase.

“Hold on a minute.
This
stays right here.” He
pulled the red thermal union suit out from among the more feminine clothes.
“You don’t need it in New York.”

“But it’s cold—”

“You can have your lingerie, but I’m not going to have
you wearing this for any other man but me,” he said firmly.

She felt her nipples harden with the intensity of his
gaze, thinking of how she liked to cuddle in the fabric and how he liked to wrap
his whole body around her. The way the neck was hopelessly large and scooped
down, exposing enough of her chest that within moments of slipping into it he would
pounce on her, trying to slip it back off.

“Fine,” she relented gruffly, though she was
completely touched. She grabbed the union suit out of his hand and tossed it
back in the drawer.

“Are you almost done?” he asked hopefully.

“You know, I saw Drew this morning,” she said in
answer, trying to change the subject from sex, not just to distract him but herself
as well. “You never said anything to her about us?” she dug.

“No.” He sounded disinterested.

While she was relieved that her meltdown was on the
down-low, she couldn’t help but wonder… what if they hadn’t made up? When would
he have shared that with Drew? Or anyone? Or would he just let people assume
what they would when she no longer came around? Would he erase her so fully
that she would never be spoken of or thought of at all? There was that simmering
feeling inside again—the same one that had boiled up on Friday. The one that
was quick to point out how matter-of-fact Fynn was about… everything.

“Did she happen to tell you she was pregnant?” Now she
was just baiting him for some kind of reaction. Trying to get a rise out of him
beyond the waist.

“Excuse me?” His voice level and calm, no shock or
excitement at all, perhaps a touch of bemusement actually.

“Just wondering.” She shrugged her shoulders and began
organizing the things in her suitcase. He seemed imperturbable.

“She told you she was pregnant?”

“No,” she admitted.

“So you’re just floating a storyline? You ever think
of working for the tabloids?”

“I just had a hunch and since you are tighter than a
steel drum with information, I figured I would ask.”

“Well, the answer is no. My sister has not mentioned that
she is pregnant… probably because she isn’t pregnant,” he said definitively.

“Good to know,” she said, trying to be just as
unflappable, although she was quite certain she was right. She’d had some
recent close encounters with the pregnant kind and all signs pointed to
positive.

“What else did you do today?” he asked, sighing with
force at the certainty that he was not having sex anytime soon.

“While you were working?” she pointed out, bristling a
bit at the thought that she had taken a day off of work to come here but he had
still gone to work bright and early. Obviously building furniture and cabinets
didn’t allow for a day off—much like doctors were always on call, woodworking
was an intense industry. He was done before noon, so she couldn’t be too mad,
but she liked to submit the fact that she had never once mixed work and their
time together.

“Yes,” he said evenly, not getting the point.

“I shopped. Bought the makings for a fabulous dinner.
Pined away for you,” she added, fluttering her eyelashes coyly.

“You’re cooking dinner?” he asked, turning slightly
green.

“No, I bought the fixings for
you
to make
dinner.”

“Oh!” he chuckled. They both knew that she wasn’t good
kitchen material. Even having her do prep work was dangerous. She had grated
her fingers while shredding cheese, sliced her thumb while dicing onions, and
burned herself whenever she got within two feet of the stove. No, she didn’t
belong in the kitchen. Thank God Fynn could cook a small menu rotation or they
would starve.

She zipped up the suitcase, satisfied that she had
remembered everything, and then turned to him. “I’m ready to go.”

“You look a little chilled,” he said, worry in his
voice.

“I’m fine—”

“I think I need to strip you down and cover you with a
Fynn blanket,” he said huskily, pulling her against him.

“But what about dinner? We need to eat early.”

“You are my dinner.”