Their Accidental Baby. Hannah Bernard

      The baby was gurgling behind Justin, but other than that there was only the sound of his breathing.

      He was close enough that she felt the movements of his chest with every breath. Warmth licked through her as their eyes met, and the heat in his gaze incinerated the grin right off her face. His hair was soft under her fingers, his body hot as it pressed into hers, his mouth sweet and urgent, and somehow the universe was finally just as it should be.

      The baby interrupted, her soft gurgles changing into a whine that told them she would be wanting some attention very soon.

      The kiss ended, but their embrace didn’t. Not right away.

      “Laura…” he whispered, his mouth at her ear, and his arms tightened around her. She turned her face into his neck, and felt at home. In fact she felt…in love.

      Things were getting way out of hand.

      Hannah Bernard always knew what she wanted to be when she grew up—a psychologist. After spending an eternity in university studying toward that goal, she took one look at her hard-earned diploma and thought, “Nah. I'd rather be a writer.”

      She has no kids to brag about, no pets to complain about and only one husband, who any day now will break down and agree to adopt a kitten.

      Their Accidental Baby is Hannah’s second book for Harlequin Romance.

      Books by Hannah Bernard

      HARLEQUIN ROMANCE^®

      3762—BABY CHASE

      Their Accidental Baby

      Hannah Bernard

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      To everyone at eHarlequin.com’s WR board. May SubCare always bounce with happy news.

      CONTENTS

       CHAPTER ONE

       CHAPTER TWO

       CHAPTER THREE

       CHAPTER FOUR

       CHAPTER FIVE

       CHAPTER SIX

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ONE

      LAURA tilted her head back and peered upward at the path ahead, shoulders slumped in fatigue. Endlessly stretching toward the summit, the way up looked exhausting and treacherous.

      But at journey’s end, there was sanctuary.

      This wasn’t exactly Mount Everest. Just an apartment building in Chicago’s suburbs. All she had to do was climb three floors, and she would get to her cozy little apartment, close the door and forget all about there being a world outside.

      The shades of the maples lining the quiet street gave testament to it already being autumn. And here she’d hardly noticed the summer, except as a hot distraction; a need to daily give thanks for the air-conditioning in her office; and the lingering smell of barbecue in the air as she dragged herself home late at night.

      There just weren’t enough Fridays in a week.

      Weekend.

      For once she wasn’t working at all. She didn’t even have any homework to do. Two days off, to do anything she wanted. She could take a long bubble bath, put soft music on the stereo and daydream. She could pick a book from the huge pile that somehow had taken up permanent residence in her laundry basket and read—if she could keep her eyes open. She could shake the dust off that sweater she’d started to knit before Young & Warren had hired her six months ago. Or she could call some of those friends who probably assumed she was dead and buried and they’d missed the funeral.

      Of course, there was also housework. She’d run out of dishes for her morning cereal three days ago. Not that it had mattered much, since the milk had gone bad a few days before.

      She hadn’t even had clean underwear this morning and, after twenty seconds of torturous deliberations, had decided to go without.

      Bad idea.

      After a whole morning of sitting in meetings, imagining that everyone present had to know this scandalous fact, could see it on her face, if not on her bottom, she’d used her ten-minute lunch break to run to the nearest store and buy a multipack of cheap underwear that would see her through the next week. Putting them on in the tiny cubicle that served as the ladies’ room had been a feat that would have earned her the praise of her yoga instructor—if she still had the time to attend classes.

      But at least now she knew. The women’s magazines lied. Going without underwear did not make you feel sexy. Just uncomfortable and naked.

      If she could have spared more than ten minutes, she wouldn’t currently be wearing green and pink cotton underpants with smiley faces and writing on them. In French. She’d never learned any French, but considering the cheap price and the location in the discount bin, she could only hazard a guess that it said something women generally did not want written on their underwear.

      Not that it mattered. It wasn’t as if anyone was seeing her underwear these days, let alone anyone who spoke French. She grimaced. Life was so busy right now that it was as well that Mr. Right wasn’t showing up. She’d just have to shoo him away and ask him to come back later.

      “Hi. Bye.” Justin Bane, her neighbor, rushed past her, a blurry figure in black leaving behind the warm scent of leather and sandalwood, and had vanished farther up the stairs before she’d even drawn breath to return his greeting.

      Of course he could move fast. He wasn’t wearing heels. Or green underwear with coded messages in French. He didn’t work her hours, either. He even had the energy to sing in the shower, and he was used to moving fast on that motorbike. Nope, three flights of stairs wouldn’t be a problem for him.

      Ten steps up, seventy to go. She took another deep breath and pulled herself up one more step with a mighty groan. She’d moved to the suburbs to get away from a tiny apartment overlooking two major streets, but what had possessed her to rent an apartment on the third floor, in a building where the elevator was always on the fritz? Right, she’d been young and stupid six months ago. Convinced she could handle anything the world threw at her, even a daily trek up three flights of stairs, now that she had finally landed her dream job.

      She sighed. Dreams weren’t all they were cracked up to be. Eighty-hour weeks and extinct weekends hadn’t figured prominently in her fantasies during those long years in law school.

      Housework probably couldn’t be avoided. But not tonight. And not tomorrow. Maybe Sunday she’d feel up to challenging tasks like loading the washing machine or the dishwasher. Tonight she’d order takeout