Baby In The Making. Elizabeth Bevarly
would be more profitable.”
“They would be,” she said. He waited for her to elaborate. She didn’t. He was about to ask her to when she told him, “Turn around, so I can make sure the back darts are aligned.”
He did as she instructed, something that left him looking out the apartment’s solitary window. He didn’t know why, but it really bothered him that Hannah only had one window from which to view the world. His West Chelsea penthouse had panoramic views of Manhattan and the Hudson from floor-to-ceiling windows in most rooms—including two of the three-and-a-half baths. Not that he spent much time at home, but his office in the Flatiron District had pretty breathtaking views of the city, too. No matter where Yeager went in the world, he always made sure he had a lot to look at. Mountain ranges that disappeared into clouds, savannas that dissolved into the horizon, oceans that met the stars in the distant night sky. Some of the best parts of adventure travel were just looking at things. But Hannah lived her life in a square little room with one window that opened onto a building across the way.
“You know, I don’t usually have to put darts in a man’s shirt,” she said. “But the way you’re built...broad shoulders, tapered waist...”
Yeager told himself he only imagined the sigh of approval he heard.
“Anyway,” she went on, “I think this looks good.”
She ran her hand down the length of his back on one side, then up again on the other, smoothing out the seams in question. The gesture was in no way protracted or flirtatious. Her touch was deft and professional. Yet, somehow, it made his pulse twitch.
She stepped in front of him, gave him a final once-over with eyes that still looked a little haunted, and told him, “You’re good to go.”
It was one of his favorite statements to hear. Yeager loved going. Anywhere. Everywhere. Whenever he could. Strangely, though, in that moment, he didn’t want to go. He told himself it was because, in spite of the relative ease of the last few minutes, there was still something about Hannah that was...off. He’d never seen her be anything but upbeat. This evening, she was subdued. And that just didn’t sit well with him.
Before he realized what he was doing, he asked, “Hannah, is everything okay?”
Her eyes widened in now unmistakable panic. She opened her mouth to reply but no words emerged. Which may have been his biggest tip-off yet that there was something seriously wrong. Hannah was never at a loss for words. On the contrary, she was generally one of those people who had a snappy reply for everything.
He tried again. “You just don’t seem like yourself tonight.”
For a moment she looked as if she was going to deny anything was wrong. Then she made a defeated sound and her whole body seemed to slump forward.
“Is this about the weird news you got today?” he asked.
She nodded, but instead of looking at him, she lowered her gaze to the floor. Hannah never did that. She was one of the most direct people he knew, always making eye contact. It was one of the things he loved about her. So few people did that.
“What kind of news was it?”
She hesitated again, still not looking at him. Finally she said, “The kind that could not only completely change my future, but also confirmed that my past could have—should have—been a lot better than it was.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
At this, she emitted a strangled chuckle completely devoid of humor. “Yeah, I know the feeling.”
Maybe the wine had affected her more than he thought. Probably, he ought to just drop it and pay her for his shirt. Definitely, he should be getting the hell out of there.
Instead he heard himself ask, “Do you want to talk about it?”
At that, she finally pulled her gaze from the floor and met his squarely...for all of a nanosecond. Then she lifted both hands to cover her beautiful silver-gray eyes. Then her lips began to tremble. Then she sniffled. Twice. And that was when Yeager knew he was in trouble. Because Hannah crying was way worse than Hannah panicking. Panic eventually subsided. But sadness... Sadness could go on forever. No one knew that better than he did.
She didn’t start crying, though. Not really. After a moment she wiped both eyes with the backs of her hands and dropped them to hug herself tight. But that gesture just made her look even more lost. Especially since her eyes were still damp. Something in Yeager’s chest twisted tight at seeing her this way. He had no idea why. He barely knew her. He just hated seeing anyone this distraught.
“Holy crap, do I want to talk about it,” she said softly. “I just don’t have anyone to talk about it with.”
That should have been his cue to get out while he still had the chance. The last thing he had time for—hell, the last thing he wanted—was to listen to someone whose last name he didn’t even know talk about her life-altering problems. He should be heading for the front door stat. And he would. Any minute now. Any second now. In five, four, three, two...
“Give me one minute to change my shirt,” he told her, wondering what the hell had possessed him. “Then you can tell me about it.”
* * *
While Yeager changed his shirt, Hannah moved to the love seat, perching herself on the very edge of the cushion and wondering what just happened. One minute, she’d been double-checking the fit of his shirt and had been almost—almost—able to forget, if only for a moment, everything she’d learned today from Gus Fiver. The next minute, Yeager had been offering a sympathetic shoulder to cry on.
Not that she would cry on him. Well, probably not. She didn’t want to ruin his shirt. But she appreciated his offer to hang around for a little while. She hadn’t felt more alone in her life than she had over the last few hours.
She’d taken Gus Fiver’s advice to close Cathcart and Quinn early, then had sat with him in the empty shop for nearly an hour as he’d given her all the specifics about her situation. A situation that included the most stunning good news/bad news scenario she’d ever heard. Since then she’d been here in her apartment, combing the internet for information about her newly discovered family and mulling everything she’d learned, in the hope that it would help her make sense of the choice she had to make. Maybe someone like Yeager, who didn’t have any personal involvement, would have a clearer perspective and some decent advice.
She watched as he changed his shirt, doing her best not to stare at the cords of muscle and sinew roping his arms, shoulders and torso. But in an apartment the size of hers, there wasn’t much else to stare at. Then again, even if she’d had the frescoes of the Sistine Chapel surrounding her, it would still be Yeager that drew her eye. So she busied herself with filling her wineglass a third time, since the two glasses she’d already consumed had done nothing to take the edge off.
“You want a glass of wine?” she asked Yeager, belatedly realizing how negligent a hostess she’d been.
Also belatedly, she remembered she’d picked up the wine at Duane Reade on her way home from work. She reread the label as she placed it back on the table. Chateau Yvette claimed to be a “wine product” that paired well with pizza and beef stew. It probably wasn’t a brand Yeager normally bought for himself. But it was too late to retract the offer now.
“Yeah, that’d be great,” he said as he finished buttoning his shirt.
She retrieved another glass from the kitchen and poured the wine. By then, Yeager had draped the plastic back over his new shirt and was sitting on the love seat—taking up most of it. So much so that his thigh aligned with hers when she sat and handed him his glass. She enjoyed another healthy swig from her own and grimaced. She honestly hadn’t realized until then how, uh, not-particularly-good it was. Probably because her head had been too full of Omigod, omigod, omigod, what am I going to do?
“So what’s up?” he asked.
She inhaled a deep breath and released