Page 69 of Conail

"Sit." He nudged her onto a barstool, before going to the stainless-steel fridge to examine the contents. "There's soup."

"What kind?"

"I think it's tomato bisque and this looks like mushroom and chives." He dug further. "There's also roast chicken."

"Why don't we live dangerously and have the tomato soup and some of the chicken?" She suggested and had him looking over his shoulder at her askance.

"Both at the same time? It sounds disgusting."

"Hey, no judgment. Heavily pregnant woman here."

"You're right." His grin had her jolting again and staring at the difference it made to his face.

"I'll just turn my head away while you make a pig of yourself."

"You're so going to pay for that insensitive remark."

He hefted out the soup and the chicken. "Was I being insensitive? I apologize."

"Why don't you try again without the smirk?" She suggested. Propping her chin on her palm, she delighted herself in watching as he efficiently popped the soup inside the warmer and sliced chicken.

"How about this?" Before she could react, he leaned over and brushed his lips over hers. "Better?" he asked huskily.

"Much." Her senses were swimming and her knees were weak. Clearing her throat, she tried to speak but could not quite manage it.

She was relieved when he turned back to his task so that she could take the time to compose herself.

He watched her eat, taking two slices of the chicken and having a glass of water. He also poured a glass of juice, and she ate everything.

"I do feel like a pig."

"No comment." Taking the plates away, he stacked them in the sink. "Ready to go back upstairs?"

"No." Taking his hand, she led the way into the living room. "Play something."

"What?" He started to jerk away, but she held on.

"I want to hear you play."

"Absolutely not. I don't play for an audience."

"I am not an audience. I am the woman you got pregnant. And I have been playing classical music for our baby."

Emotions stormed inside him when she said that. "You have?"

She nodded and was so busy pulling him towards the piano, she missed the look on his face. "Play."

"I want you to know that I am doing this under extreme duress." He tried to sound stern but could not quite achieve it. Sitting at the stool, he made room for her and ran his fingers over the keys.

"I haven't done this in a while." He murmured as if to himself.

"How long?"

He looked up at her. "Months. There never seem to be enough hours in the day for it." He started playing a lively jig that had her feet tapping. With a smooth gesture, he switched to something light and sweet that had her enraptured.

"You're very good. Who taught you?"

"Mother." He thought for a moment and then started playing a familiar tune.

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