Santa's Seven-Day Baby Tutorial. Meg Maxwell

took a deep breath and stepped out, her suitcase now full of his sister’s belongings and her own Amish things. Colt was kneeling by the playpen, watching his nephews play. “I think that was just fifteen minutes.”

      He turned toward her and stood up, staring, his mouth slightly open. “Anna. You’re...breathtaking.” He glanced down for a moment as though he hadn’t meant to say that.

      She beamed, so happy, so excited that she didn’t even feel herself blush. “I feel like a completely different person.”

      Dressed this way, she was a person who wanted to rush over to the man who’d just called her breathtaking and kiss him. She had no doubt that one kiss from Colt Asher would rock her entire world and make her knees truly weak, the way she’d read about in books.

      He walked toward her and for a moment she wondered if he was going to reach for her and look deeply into her eyes and kiss her. Did that happen in real life? She was sure it did. Was he about to—

      He pulled his phone from his pocket and held it up. “My sister also texted the schedule for the babies,” he said. “Just in case. So dinnertime is right now. Both boys are on solid foods—jarred baby food.”

      So much for the hot kiss. The weak knees. Colt Asher was not looking to marry, but she was sure he had relationships. Sex. He would likely not lay a finger on her, though. If she wanted a hot English affair with the FBI agent, she would have to make the first move.

      Not that she was ready for that. It was one thing to fantasize. It was another to do it. And she had no idea what she could handle emotionally. Could she have an affair with Colt Asher when it would lead to nothing? Perhaps that was the point of a weeklong, scorching-hot English affair. Wild sex. Then it was over.

      Except then what? She wasn’t necessarily going home after. Or staying in the English world. She didn’t know where she belonged. Until then, she should take care with herself. And her heart. And her body.

      It was good that the Englisher was talking about baby food and schedules.

      “Do you have groceries?” she asked.

      “Of course,” he said.

      “I thought maybe you were one of those bachelors who didn’t cook.”

      “I have a limited range, but I can certainly open a jar of baby food. And make an omelet and a steak. And pasta. Is there anything else anyway?”

      She laughed. “There really isn’t. I could eat pasta every day for the rest of my life.”

      “One day you’ll have tortellini in Rome,” he said.

      She was touched he remembered that from their very first conversation outside her barn, that he’d been listening. “Maybe one day I will.”