Page 14 of Baby Maker

"It did, because I was thinking about you."

Those azure orbs widen, along with his smirk. "You were?"

"Holy hell, not in that way." I scrub my face with my hands. "I was thinking about the visit."

Dr. Russo leans back against his chair, clicking his tongue against his teeth as he sips his coffee. "I liked the other option better."

There's no chance in hell my skin is remaining a normal shade after that comment. Even if he's joking, it sparks something inside me. Something I thought died twenty months ago. I'm sure it's nothing. Just innocent banter with a hint of flirtation.

Nothing to see here, folks. I'm not sure if that fact should relieve or disappoint me. My head tells me relief, but my heart? It's whispering something I can't quite make out.

"Can I ask you something, Calliope?"

"Of course, Dr. Russo." My gaze returns to his face, praying that I can maintain a neutral expression.

"Call me Keegan."

"Can I call you Keegey?"

"Absolutely not."

"Buzzkill. What do you want to know?"

He leans forward on his arms, moving more into my space. "Your paperwork says that you're a widow. Have you remarried?"

"God, no. I lost Nigel twenty months ago."

His expression somber, he nods in understanding. "I'm sorry to hear that. I can tell from your face that he was an amazing man."

"The very best."

"What made you decide to have a child now? I'm not judging; I'm simply curious. Are you involved with someone?"

"It's just me. Nigel battled pancreatic cancer for two years. It was terribly aggressive, but he never gave up hope. Even when I knew there was no chance, he would still sit and talk about our future. As if we were going to have one." I blot the dampness on my cheeks with my hand, surprised at their sudden appearance. "I'm sorry. I don't talk about him."

"Why not?"

"No one wants to hear the stories of a grieving widow. After six months, people expect you to bounce back to your old form. By the time you're twenty months out like I am, even your closest friends tire of the repeating sorrow reel."

"You refer to it like a prison sentence."

I grab up my napkin, embarrassed at my open display of emotion. What is it about this man and his direct but sensitive manner that pries apart the walls I so carefully erected after Nigel's death? Talk about an incredible bedside manner. "Isn't it? Perhaps that seems morbid, but that's the way I look at it most days. Until recently, anyway."

He has the most expressive eyes, but I can tell he isn't certain what I mean by my last statement.

To be honest, neither do I. Is it the idea of having Nigel's baby or the handsome and kind man with whom I'm sharing coffee? That's the thing with loneliness. You never know what triggers it, and often, you never realize what will soothe it.

"You think having a baby will bring back some of you joie de vivre?"

"One can hope. I'm sorry, Keegan. This is why I don't interact with people. I always end up talking about Nigel, and that kills any chance for fun. See? I ruined our little outing, too."

He reaches across the table, giving my hand a gentle squeeze. "No, you didn't. You helped me understand you more. I always have questions of my patients, wondering about their reasons. But, I've learned it’s better not to ask."

"Yet you asked me."

"You're different."

"I'm not sure if that's a compliment or an insult."

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