A Daddy For Baby Zoe?. Fiona Lowe

biscotti,’ Mario said firmly, opening the fridge and lifting out the bottle of milk.

      ‘I don’t need—’

      ‘Don’t even think about fighting Italian hospitality, Meredith,’ Raf said, rolling his eyes. ‘You’ll never win. Dad will feed you until you waddle.’

      She grimaced. ‘I’m eight months pregnant so I already waddle.’

      ‘Do you?’ The words were laden with query and utterly devoid of sarcasm. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’