Happily Ever All-Star: A Secret Baby Romance - Sosie Frost Page 0,37

laughed and hauled Jude away with the promise of a beer.

And then I was alone.

Presenting a casserole.

Pregnant.

And under the sudden scrutiny of my step-mother.

“Aurora?”

Regan appeared from the kitchen, not a hair out of place. Her proud, high cheekbones framed a dark countenance, both in skin tone and that chastising glance that surveyed me for any and all imperfection.

It didn’t seem fair that Regan had no flaws, no cracks in that perfect, ebony veneer. All I’d ever wanted was something I could use against her—a cracked tooth, tone-deafness, ugly shoes. I wasn’t that lucky. The best I could hope for was to be like her one day, though I’d probably die of hypothermia if I ever imitated her chill.

“Hi…Mom.” It had been twenty-five years since she’d married my father, and ten since he died, but the word still stuck in my mouth like a glob of peanut butter. “I brought a dish for dinner.”

“I’m serving a turkey.”

Oh, there was a thought the baby didn’t like. “I’ll have to gobble it right up.”

“You can put the casserole in the kitchen, though I don’t know how I’ll serve it. You do realize you’re late? Had you called, I might have saved room in the oven.”

“Sorry. We hit some traffic.” In the form of morning sickness, a door-less Jeep, and an angry police cruiser who had unfortunately followed a bit too close behind us. Fortunately, the cop tore up the ticket when Jude signed an autograph instead.

“You should have called,” Regan said. “It’s polite.”

“I will next time.”

“I needed you to call this time.”

I gritted my teeth. “I can dial you now, if you want?”

“There’s no need to be difficult.”

There was always a need. I brushed past her to the kitchen, but Regan followed.

I didn’t recognize the man sitting in the dining room, but suddenly Regan’s irritation made sense.

A handsome stranger shared a beer with Eric and Jude.

Well, this was going to be a disaster of biblical proportions.

No way the dinner guest was joining us to keep Grandma Mildred company, even if Regan’s mother scooted a bit too close to him.

“We were waiting for you,” Regan said. “Aurora, I’d like for you to meet Rick Washington…Doctor Rick Washington. He’s a cardiologist at McGrin Regional.”

Oh my god. It was a set-up. I caught Jude’s raised eyebrow. I didn’t need a cardiologist. Maybe a good OBGYN. Definitely a foot rub. But a date?

I was almost insulted. Didn’t Regan think I couldn’t find a man on my own?

“Hi, uh, nice to meet you,” I said. Why did he have to be so attractive? Tall. Black. Broad shouldered. Rick was a dreamboat, but my life had already struck the iceberg of catastrophe. “Um, excuse me...Rick. Mom, can you help me with this casserole?”

Regan was no help. “I can manage your casserole while you entertain our guest.”

“It’s actually a little tricky. I need to…add a few more ingredients.”

This didn’t please her. “You brought an incomplete dish?”

“No, it’s fine. I can serve it. But I’d like your help.”

“I’m sure you remember the kitchen layout. I know you don’t visit often—or at all—but you should remember your way around.”

“I can…but maybe you’ve…” Why did she have to make this so damn hard? “Moved the tongs while I’ve been away…”

“Oh for Pete’s sake, Regan!” Grandma Mildred snuggled between Jude and Rick at the table, happy as a toothless clam. She toasted the men, and I suspected it wasn’t her first mimosa. “Give Rory-Doll a hand. I’ll entertain our guests.”

And, to demonstrate, she tucked her wrinkled hand over Jude’s and squeezed.

At least it hadn’t been his ass. She’d need another drink before that.

“You haven’t changed a bit, Jude,” she said.

He gave her a flustered smile. “Neither have you, Mildred.”

“And Rick…” Grandma couldn’t sink her teeth into him, but she could give a wink of her lazy eye. She plucked at the jewelry around her neck. “Why don’t I tell you about the time my first husband, Rodney, gave me this pearl necklace.”

Oh, God. Not that story again, not before dinner.

Regan stiffened. “Mother.”

“It all started in 1957 when I met Rodney. He said he was an oyster diver, and, Lord have mercy, he proved it…”

“Mom.” I tugged her arm. “Kitchen. Please.”

Regan relented, marching us into a kitchen that somehow prepared a Thanksgiving-inspired feast without dirtying a single dish.

Was she a fairy god-mother or a pediatric surgeon?

My casserole clattered onto the counter, and the contents splushed into a mess of cheese, breadcrumbs, and sickly pale chicken. The broccoli would probably abandon the pan and sneak onto