The Baby Bump. Jennifer Greene

you’re diabetic, better tell me now. And are you on prenatal vitamins? Have anything prescribed for nausea?”

      Okay. He’d pressed too far, judging from the sputter. The smoke coming from her ears. Her hands fisted on her hips. “Let’s get something straight right now, Doc.”

      “Go for it.” He eased to his feet.

      “You’re my grandfather’s doctor. Not mine.”

      “Got it.”

      “My private life has nothing to do with you.”

      “Got it,” he repeated. “But if you haven’t been on prenatal vitamins—”

      “What is it about small towns? People leap to conclusions over a breath of wind. No one said I was pregnant. No one has any reason in the universe to think that.”

      “So there’s no guy.” He just wanted to slip that question in there, while she was still talking to him.

      “Exactly. There’s no guy.”

      “I wondered,” he admitted.

      Ouch. She was shaking mad now. “For the record—” She punctuated her comments with a royal finger shake. “—I wouldn’t fall for a doctor if he were the last man in the country. On the continent. On the entire planet….”

      “Got it,” he said again. “I’m sure glad we had this conversation.”

      That was it. She spun around, stepped over the dog, yanked open the back porch screen door and charged down the hall. Ruby peeked her head out of exam room one—then snapped her head back, clearly alarmed at getting in Ginger’s way.

      Ike followed her exit—mostly by following the swing of her fanny and bounce of her hair—all the way to the slamming of his front door.

      Ruby popped her head out again. She didn’t speak. Just raised her eyebrows.

      Ike shook his head. “Don’t ask me what that was.”

      But Ginger lingered in his mind. He was so used to being treated like a catch.

      So many single women in the area fawned over him. Played up to him. They’d been spoiling him rotten, with food and attention and God knows all kinds of subtle and less-than-subtle offers.

      It was a nice change of pace to meet a shrew. She was such a breath of fresh air.

      He blew out a sigh, headed inside to wash his hands and start his doctor day.

      He told himself she was in trouble. That she was trouble. That she had troubles.

      His head got it.

      But there was still hot blood zooming up and down his veins. And a stupid smile on his face when he ambled in to greet Rupert Robards.

      Rupert had prostate problems. The next patient was an older lady with a lump on her rump, followed by a young mom with a yeast infection and, last for the morning, a sixteen-year-old kid with hot tears in his eyes and a fishing hook stuck deep in his wrist.

      There was no room in the entire morning for a single romantic or sexy thought to surface.

      Still. She lingered in his mind.

      Ginger had parked the Civic right on Magnolia, but once she stormed out of Ike’s office, she ignored the car and kept on walking. She needed the exercise. The fresh air. The chance to think.

      He’d made her lose her temper twice now.

      Usually she could keep her worst flaws under wraps until she’d known a person awhile. Invariably her temper—and other character flaws, such as impulsiveness—couldn’t be kept in the closet forever. But somehow Ike had brought out the worst in her right up front.

      It would help if he wasn’t a doctor. A damn good-looking, sexually appealing doctor. Scruffy. But still adorable.

      Steve hadn’t been half that adorable, and she’d still been blindsided. Any inkling of attraction for Ike just seemed to work like a trigger for her. Her stay-away button started blinking red and setting off alarm instincts.

      She ambled down Magnolia, crossed Oak, aimed down Cypress. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know the town like the back of her hand. The big stores like Walmart and Target were located in the new section of town, but Sweet Valley’s downtown was still vibrant, filled with shop after shop, restaurant after restaurant.

      She’d shut down her life in Chicago and zoomed home so fast that she needed some things. Shampoo. Her favorite brand of toothpaste.

      En route to the pharmacy, she accidentally spotted a shoe sale.

      By the time she’d tried on and bought a pair of sandals, she’d put her mind off handsome, interfering doctors and had her head back where it belonged. On Gramps.

      Nothing Ike told her had been reassuring. He’d only opened up more worries, more concerns. She needed to know the truth. She just didn’t know what to do about the situation.

      Perhaps by instinct, she found herself standing in front of the Butter Bakery. She’d forgotten—or just hadn’t had a reason to remember before—that Gramps had an attorney. Ginger knew the name. Louella Meachams. Ginger must have met her sometime—Sweet Valley was such a small town that everyone about met everyone else at some time or another. But Ginger couldn’t recall anything about her, until she spotted the sign for Louella Meachams, Esq., just above the stairwell from the bakery.

      She couldn’t imagine the attorney would be able to see her without an appointment, but she could at least stop by while she was right there in town, set up something.

      The old-fashioned stairwell was airless and dark, with steep steps leading to the upstairs offices. Her stomach churned in protest, partly because she’d always been claustrophobic, and partly because she needed to eat something, and soon. She’d planned to have breakfast right after seeing Ike, but that stupid fainting business had stolen her appetite. Still, she’d immediately started to feel better once she’d gotten out in the fresh air. As soon as she made contact with the attorney, she’d stop and get some serious food before heading home.

      Upstairs, she found an old-fashioned oak door with the attorney’s name on a brass sign. She turned the knob without knocking, assuming she’d be entering a receptionist and lobby area, not the lawyer’s specific office.

      “Oh. Excuse me. I was hoping to make an appointment with Mrs. Meachams—”

      “I’m Louella Meachams. And just Louella would do. Come in. Sit yourself.”

      The lady had to be around fifty, had a wash-and-wear hairstyle and a general bucket build. She wore men’s pants, a starched shirt, no makeup. Hunting dog pictures graced the walls. The sturdy oak chairs facing the desk had no cushions. Windows overlooking the street below had blinds, but no curtains. The whole office looked like a male lawyer’s lair, rather than a woman’s. And Louella looked a little—maybe even a lot—like a man herself. She peered at her over half-rim glasses.

      “I believe you’re my grandfather’s attorney. Cashner Gautier,” Ginger started. “I’m Ginger, his granddaughter. I just got into town a few days ago. And I was hoping you could help me clarify his situation.”

      “I know who you are, just from all that red hair. You were one fiery little girl. And I’m more than willing to talk with you, but you need to understand that your grandfather’s my client. I not only can’t, but never would, break confidentiality with him.”

      “I understand that. And I’d never ask you to.” Haltingly she started to explain the situation she’d found at home, how her grandfather wasn’t himself, that he seemed to have both memory and health issues, that the place looked in serious disarray compared to the last time she’d been home. Louella leaned back, stuck a leather shoe on a wastebasket for a footrest and listened until she came through with a question.

      “As long as I’ve been Cashner’s attorney, I’ve never been completely clear about