The Baby Bump. Jennifer Greene

       “Do you usually flirt with women you think are pregnant?”

      “There’s no guy to stop me from moving in on you.”

      This time she had to chuckle—in spite of herself. “I was just thinking … you might be a card-carrying good guy. If I were ever going to trust a doctor again—which I’m not—it might have been you.”

      “I’d ask you out … but I’m afraid if we had a good time, you’d quit disliking me, and then where would we be?”

      She lifted her head and kissed him.

      Her lips. His lips. Like a meeting of whipped cream and chocolate. Not like any kisses, but the “damn it, what the hell is happening here?” kind.

      She pulled back and looked at him.

      When he got his breath back, he said, “Do we have any idea why you did that?”

      “I’ve been known to do some very bad, impulsive things sometimes.”

      “So that was just a bad impulse.” He shook his head. “Sure came across like a great impulse to me.”

      Dear Reader,

      I had enormous fun writing this story!

      For one thing, I rarely take on a heroine with a temper—a real temper—and Ginger gave me a run for my money when she let loose.

      And then there’s Ike, who’s determined to believe he’s a laid-back, easygoing kind of guy … when he so isn’t.

      En route, I had to visit a tea farm for research—this was really tough, sampling all those wonderful teas, seeing the eagles close up and having the chance to meet the owners of this extraordinarily special place.

      There’s also a character named Pansy in the book … I have no idea where she came from, but once she showed up on the page, she refused to be ignored.

      This is Ike’s story—the second book about the MacKinnon family—and I hope you love it as much as I loved writing it. Don’t hesitate to write me through my website, www.jennifergreene.com, anytime you want to pop in!

      All my best,

       Jennifer Greene

      About the Author

      JENNIFER GREENE lives near Lake Michigan with her husband and an assorted menagerie of pets. Michigan State University has honored her as an outstanding woman graduate for her work with women on campus. Jennifer has written more than seventy love stories, for which she has won numerous awards, including four RITA^® Awards from the Romance Writers of America and their Hall of Fame and Lifetime Achievement Awards.

      You’re welcome to contact Jennifer through her website at www.jennifergreene.com.

       The Baby Bump

      Jennifer Greene

      

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      To “my” librarians at the Benton Harbor and St. Joseph libraries. From the start, you encouraged me to write and nourished my writing dreams. You’ve always gone out of your way to help everyone in the community enrich their worlds through books. You’re the best!

       Chapter One

      Back when Ginger Gautier was a block-headed, reckless twenty-one-year-old, she’d have taken the mountain curves at ninety miles an hour and not thought twice.

      Now that she was twenty-eight … well, she couldn’t swear to have better judgment.

      Unfortunately she was eight weeks pregnant—by a doctor who’d claimed he deeply loved her just a day before he bought an engagement ring for someone else. So. Her judgment in men clearly sucked.

      She’d lost a job she loved over the jerk. That said even more about her lack of good judgment.

      Some said she had a temper to match her red hair. Friends and coworkers tended to run for cover when she had a good fume on. So possibly her temper might be considered another character flaw.

      But she loved.

      No one ever said that Ginger Gautier didn’t give two hundred percent for anyone she loved.

      When she passed the welcome sign for South Carolina, she pushed the gas pedal a wee bit harder. Just to eighty miles an hour.

      Gramps was in trouble. And she was almost home.

      The eastern sky turned glossy gray, then hemmed the horizon in pink. By the time the sun was full up, Ginger had shed her sweater and hurled it in the backseat on top of her down jacket. When she left Chicago, it had been cold enough to snow. In South Carolina, the air was sweeter, cleaner, warmer … and so familiar that her eyes stung with embarrassingly sentimental tears.

      She should have gone home more often—way more often—after her grandmother died four years ago. But it never seemed that simple, not once she’d gotten the job in hospital administration. Her boss had been a crabby old tyrant, but she’d loved the work, and never minded the unpredictable extra hours. They’d just added up. She’d come for holidays, called Gramps every week, sometimes more often.

      Not enough. The guilt in her stomach churned like acid. Calling was fine, but if she’d visited more in person, she’d have known that Gramps needed her.

      The miles kept zipping by. Another hour passed, then two. Maybe if she liked driving, the trip would have been easier, but nine hundred miles in her packed-to-the-gills Civic had been tough. She’d stopped a zillion times, for food and gas and naps and to stretch her legs, but this last stretch was downright grueling.

      When she spotted the swinging sign for Gautier Tea Plantation, though, her exhaustion disappeared. She couldn’t grow a weed, was never engrossed in the agricultural side of the tea business—but she’d worked in the shop as a teenager, knew all the smells and tastes of their teas, could bake a great scone in her sleep, could give lessons on the seeping and steeping of tea. No place on the planet was remotely like this one, especially the scents.

      Past the eastern fields was a curve in the road, then a private drive shaded by giant old oaks and then finally, finally … the house. The Gautiers—being of French-Scottish origin—inherited more ornery stubbornness than they usually knew what to do with. The word “plantation” implied a graceful old mansion with gardens and pillars and maybe an ostentatious fountain or two. Not for Ginger’s family.

      The house was a massive sprawler, white, with no claim to fanciness. A generous veranda wrapped around the main floor, shading practical rockers and porch swings with fat cushions. Ginger opened the door to her Civic and sprang out, leaving everything inside, just wanting to see Gramps.

      She’d vaulted two steps up before she spotted the body draped in front of the double-screen doors. It was a dog’s body. A huge bloodhound’s body.

      She took another cautious step. Its fur was red-gray, his ears longer than her face, and he had enough wrinkles to star in a commercial for aging cream. He certainly didn’t appear vicious … but she wasn’t positive he was alive, either.

      She said, “Hey, boy” in her gentlest voice. He didn’t budge. She cleared her throat and tried, “Hey, girl.” One eye opened, for all of three seconds. The dog let out an asthmatic snort and immediately returned to her coma.

      For years, her grandparents had dogs—always Yorkie mixes—Gramps invariably carried her and Grandma usually had her groomed and fitted up with a pink bow. The possibility that Gramps had taken on this hound was as likely as his voting Republican.