Flirting with Temptation - By Kelley St. John Page 0,100

not to let her back in, Babette turned and started down the hall, then met Paul Stovall getting off the elevator as she was getting on.

“Babette, where are you going?”

“According to my grandmother, I’m going to exercise my inherited gumption.”

He smirked, and she thought he looked extremely debonair. No wonder Granny seemed so taken with him, and he was kind too, taking care of her and Jeff last night after she’d nearly killed them both with cinnamon rolls. Well, not killed, but she had prayed for death a few times during the night. She’d bet Jeff had too, since he’d eaten a whole roll. She hadn’t even eaten half, and had thought her world was ending.

She realized she hadn’t made any effort to get on the elevator, and Paul was still standing there, using his body against the frame to keep the doors open.

“Babette,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“She’s right. You need to use your gumption.”

“Sure I do.” She stepped into the elevator and wondered what in the world she’d say when she got to his condo and saw him with Kitty, the woman he wanted to see. Then the doors closed, and her reflection shot back at her from the mirrored finish. “Ohmigod.”

Her hair was one big matted red mess, like a troll doll, but with more curls and less frizz. At least she wasn’t a frizzy troll doll. Her eyes were puffy and swollen, her lips were uncommonly pale, and she was wearing a sleep shirt with “I’d give up chocolate, but I’m no quitter” printed on the front. She lifted the shirt. Good, she had on panties. But that was it.

And Kitty, as usual, had been flawless in a crisp pantsuit. Yeah, gumption was really going to do the trick.

The elevator dinged, and she stepped out. Her stomach clenched, and she wondered if it was still the after-effects of humongous over-yeasted cinnamon rolls, or nerves. Probably both.

She swallowed, decided that if her grandmother could proposition her grandfather in a barn at seventeen, then she could stand on her own against Kitty Carelle. She moved quickly down the hall, feeling the cool floor tiles against her bare feet. Granny could have at least offered some socks.

Then she got to his condo and knocked before she had a chance to reconsider.

Babette’s stomach clenched again. “Please,” she begged her queasy body. She didn’t want them to open the door and find her hurling in the hall.

The door opened, and Kitty gawked at her. She looked mad, and Babette wasn’t about to ask why. There were way too many possibilities.

“I need to tell Jeff something.”

“Be my guest,” Kitty said, opening the door wide and waving her hand. “I believe he needs to tell you something too.”

Babette entered and immediately saw Jeff, sitting at the kitchen table, showered and dressed and sipping on something, while he peered at her over the edge of his cup. She glanced back at Kitty, still standing there and eyeing her. Her first impulse was to apologize for giving him a blow-up cinnamon roll for breakfast yesterday, but then she’d have to explain that to Kitty, and she really didn’t want to go there. So instead, she said, “How are you feeling?”

“Okay.” A single word. No more, no less. And he had barely moved from the cup to say it, so that Babette still hadn’t seen his entire mouth.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly.

“What was that?” Kitty asked, closing the door and stepping toward them.

“I said I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what, Babette?” Kitty asked. “What is it you’re sorry for, because I’m definitely curious.”

“I’m sorry for . . .”

“For?” Jeff asked, eyeing her. Thankfully he put the cup on the table. He was beautiful, and Babette’s throat went dry.

“Yeah, Babette,” Kitty repeated. “You’re sorry for . . .”

“For telling you I could get you back with Jeff, when I knew deep inside that I couldn’t.” She turned from Kitty back to Jeff. “I couldn’t, because I love you. I’ve been in love with you since the last time we were together, and I don’t know why it took me so long to realize it.” She shook her head. “But you want commitment, and I’ve been trying to prove to you that I can commit to something, to my job, so you’d see that I can, and that I want to commit fully to you. But then I couldn’t do it, because committing to this job,”—she looked at Kitty—“meant helping her get you back. And I couldn’t. Then you asked her to come

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