Expecting the CEO's Child. Yvonne Lindsay

one he’d so quickly but thoroughly made love to two and a half months ago.

      “I’ll be right back,” he said, surreptitiously adjusting himself as he rose from the seat. “I need to check on something in the kitchen.”

      After a quick examination of the beef bourguignonne simmering on the stovetop, and checking that the rice in the cooker was fluffy and ready, he grunted with satisfaction. They would continue this discussion at the table, where, hopefully, he’d find his manners again and stand a better chance of hiding the effect she had on him.

      He returned to the living room and painted a smile on his face.

      “Dinner’s ready. Would you like to come through to the kitchen? I thought we could eat in there, if you’re comfortable with that.”

      “Since I usually eat standing up at the store or off a tray on my lap when I’m home, just sitting at a table sounds lovely.”

      She stood and smoothed her clothes, her hand lingering on the tiny bump that revealed a child of his now existed. It hit Dylan like a fist to the chest. His child. Someone of his blood. Everything else in his life right now faded into the background as that knowledge took precedence. Now there was another generation to think about, to protect and to teach.

      The thought filled him with a new sense of purpose, of hope. The past five years had been challenging, the past couple of months even more so. But this baby was a new beginning. A reason for Dylan to ground himself in what was good, and to put some much needed balance back in his life, balance that was sadly lacking. This baby, his son or daughter, was a lifeline out of a spiral of work and hard play that had threatened to consume him. One way or another he would be a part of his child’s world—every single day if he could, although that would take some engineering with him based in L.A. and Jenna here in Cheyenne. Whatever the logistics, he was prepared to work this situation out. He just needed to be certain that Jenna felt the same way.

      She crossed the room to where he stood, and he put his hand at the small of her back and guided her through to the kitchen. He felt her stiffen slightly beneath his touch, and heard her breath hitch just a little. Knowing she wasn’t as unaffected by him as she pretended went a long way toward making him feel better about the semi-erection he was constantly battling to keep in control.

      He seated her at the square wooden table in the kitchen and gestured to the vase containing a handful of wildflowers he’d found on his four-acre property when he’d gone to walk off some steam this afternoon.

      “They could probably have done with your touch,” he said as he turned to the oven to take warmed plates out and lay them on the table.

      “They look fine just the way they are,” Jenna commented.

      But as if she couldn’t resist, he saw her reach out and tweak a few stems. Before he knew it, the bouquet looked a hundred times better.

      “How do you do that?” he asked, bringing the Dutch oven filled with the deliciously fragrant beef across from the stove.

      “Do what?”

      “Make a jumble of weeds look so good.”

      She shrugged. “It’s a knack I picked up, I guess.”

      “What made you decide to work with flowers?”

      “I didn’t, really.” She sighed. “They kind of picked me.”

      “Not a family business, then?” he probed, curious to discover just how she had ended up under Mrs. Connell’s roof.

      Jenna gave a rueful laugh. “No, not a family business at all, although once I started working at the store it felt like home to me.”

      There was a wistful note in her voice, one he wanted to explore further, but found himself reluctant to. There was time enough to find out all her secrets, he told himself.

      He spooned rice from the cooker onto the warmed plates, and put them on the table.

      “This looks great,” Jenna commented, leaning forward to inhale deeply. “And smells even better. To be honest, I think your skills with food far outweigh mine with flowers. I can barely reheat a TV dinner without burning something.”

      Dylan feigned horror. “Wash your mouth out. TV dinners? You’re going to have to do much better than that for the baby.”

      He reached for a ladle and spooned a generous portion of the beef onto her plate before serving himself. When she didn’t immediately pick up her fork, he sat back and looked at her. Her lips had firmed into a mutinous line and there was a frown of annoyance on her forehead.

      “What did I say?”

      “I didn’t come here to be told what to do. Maybe it’s better if I go.”

      She pushed back her chair a little, but before she could go any farther he reached out and grabbed her hand.

      “Okay, truce. I will try not to tell you what to eat, but you have to admit, for me it comes with the territory. It’s what I do. It’s in my nature to want to feed people well.”

      It was also in his nature to want to lift her from her chair, march her to the nearest accommodatingly soft surface and relive some of the passion they’d shared. She looked down at where his fingers were curled around her wrist, and he slowly eased his grip and let her go.

      “As long as we’re clear on that,” she muttered, scooting her chair closer to the table again and lifting her fork.

      She scooped up a mouthful and brought it to her lips. His brain ceased to function as she closed her eyes and moaned in pleasure. Other body parts had no such difficulty.

      “That’s so good,” she said, opening her eyes again.

      For a second Dylan allowed himself to be lost in their chocolate-brown depths. Just a second. Then he forced himself to look away and apply himself to his own meal.

      “Thanks, I aim to please,” he said with a nonchalance he was far from feeling.

      It didn’t seem to matter what he did or what he said, or even how she reacted to any of it—he was drawn to her on a level he’d never experienced before. Sure, that could play to his advantage, but he had the sneaking suspicion that Jenna Montgomery was a great deal more hardheaded than her feminine presence at his table suggested.

      “Home grown?” she asked, spearing some beef and popping it into her mouth.

      For a second he was distracted by her lips closing around the fork, then the enticing half smile they curved into as she tasted and chewed.

      “Yeah, from the Big Blue. Nothing but the best.”

      “Your cousin runs it, doesn’t he? Chance Lassiter?”

      “And very well, too. It’s in his blood.”

      And therein lay the rub. While he and Sage had been raised Lassiters, they weren’t Lassiter by birth. Not like Chance, not like their sister, Angelica. It was one of the reasons why this baby meant so much more to Dylan than he had ever imagined. This child was a part of his legacy, his mark on the world. It was all very well gaining fame and fortune for doing something you excelled at and loved, but raising a child and setting him or her on a path for life—nothing compared to that.

      “Have you thought about what you’re going to do when the baby is born?” he asked, deliberately changing the subject.

      “Do?”

      “About work.”

      “I’ll manage. I figure that in the early stages I should be able to keep the baby at work with me.”

      He nodded, turning the idea over in his mind. “Yes, sure—initially. I think that would be a good idea.”

      “I’m sorry?”

      He looked at her in puzzlement. But his confusion didn’t last long.

      “What you think should matter to me, why,