His Baby Dilemma. Catherine Lanigan

stared at him. “I’m fine.” She plunged the dipper into the hot fudge and drizzled it over the ice cream. Glancing at the photo of the Monster Mash, she took a can of whipped cream from the under-the-counter refrigerator and pulled off the cap.

      “You’re supposed to shake it up first,” Mica said.

      “I know what I’m doing,” she snapped. Grace pressed the top and sprayed whipped cream all over the ice cream, the counter and onto Mica’s plaid shirt.

      He groaned. “Yeah, right.”

      “Sorry,” Grace said sheepishly, handing him a dish towel.

      “You should’ve shaken the can,” he growled. “I would have thought Louise would hire someone with skills.”

      Under Mica’s judgmental gaze, Grace felt as if she was fifteen again. Back when she’d just lost the crown and had felt terribly insecure. She’d given her heart away to Mica and he hadn’t known the first thing about her feelings. She’d kept silent. Well, not this time.

      “If I want your advice, I’ll ask for it. Now, excuse me, please. I have to deliver this.” Grace carried her vastly imperfect Monster Mash to a table of four boys, who looked askance at the sundae. “I did my best,” she whispered to the kids. She handed them four spoons. “It’ll taste better than it looks.”

      “Yeah,” Timmy said and gave her a thumbs-up. The kids dug in with audible glee.

      When Grace turned around she noticed that Mica was now leaning against the counter, his hand on his hip as he watched every move she made. No beauty contest judge had ever scrutinized her so intently. She felt as if she still had whipped cream on her face or mascara smudges under her eyes. She should have checked her makeup before the kids arrived, but there hadn’t been time. Self-consciously, she touched her earrings. No. They were still in place.

      All she could do was retaliate in kind. She let her gaze fall to his boots. She lifted the edge of her lips in a lopsided effort at a sneer. “You make deliveries here often?”

      “I do now.”

      “Then the next time you come, wipe your boots before you enter the shop. Saves me from scrubbing the floor.”

      He straightened. “I remember you.”

      “Oh, really?” Grace went behind the counter and took out another dish.

      “You’re Louise’s niece. I didn’t recognize you without the rhinestone crown.”

      Grace gripped the sundae dish to prevent herself from bouncing it off his thick skull. “And you’re Mica Barzonni.”

      “Yeah. Well, tell Louise she can mail the check...for the pumpkins.”

      “I will.”

      He started to head for the door.

      “Oh, Mica. Why don’t you stop off at the grocery store. Pick up some soap on your way out of town. Looks like you’ve run out.” She tapped her forehead.

      He reached up to his forehead, rubbed it, then studied his greasy fingertips. He glared back at her.

      Grace ground her jaw, picked up the ice-cream scoop and pitched it from hand to hand defiantly. One word. Try me, and I’ll really let you have it.

      He spun on his heel and stomped out of the shop, leaving a clod of mud and grass on the floor.

      “Ooooh!” Grace fumed, wishing she felt some relief from having had the last word.

      Sarah rushed to her side. “Was that Mica? I wanted to say hi.”

      “It was.” Every smug, judgmental inch of him.

      “You’re sure?”

      “Yeah.” Grace frowned. “You look surprised. Why?”

      “Mica doesn’t come to town much. Especially since the accident.”

      “What accident?”

      Sarah paused. “You didn’t know?”

      “Know what?”

      “He was in an accident a few months ago that nearly killed him. He was working on his mother’s car and it dropped on him. He’s lost the use of his left arm. He keeps his hand in his jeans pocket so people don’t notice. If he seemed—”

      “Arrogant as all get out?” Grace interrupted.

      Sarah smiled. “Well, yeah. He’s always had that about him.”

      “I would have thought he’d have grown up by now. Learned some manners. Do you remember when he used to call me silly because I was upset about losing Miss Teen Illinois? He didn’t get it. Those pageants were important to me and a huge part of my life back then. I thought I wanted to be a model, but then I realized my real talent was in fashion design. I was heartbroken that I didn’t win for a lot of reasons. That win would have given me a substantial scholarship to college. My mother didn’t have much money but my winnings all went in a back account for my education.”

      “Did you ever tell him this?” Sarah countered.

      “No...” Grace’s shoulders slumped. “I guess I was pretty harsh earlier. Aunt Louise owes him money for the pumpkins. I think I’ll deliver it in person.”

      * * *

      AFTER LOUISE RETURNED from rehab, Grace got a signed check from her and asked to borrow her car. Then she drove south to the Barzonni farm. It was one route she didn’t need a GPS to follow.

      She rang the bell when she got to the house, but no one answered. She rang it four more times, but there was still no answer.

      Remembering that the family often used the kitchen door, she walked around to the back and knocked. Still no answer. She looked down at the check Louise had written.

      It was a flimsy excuse for her to be here, but Grace was ashamed of her remarks about Mica’s dirty boots and the grease on his face, and she wanted to apologize. She didn’t know why he rattled her cage the way he did, but he did.

      She banged on the door. “Hello? Anybody home?”

      “What do you want?” Mica asked, startling her as he came out of the apartment over the garage. He stood on the balcony, his right hand on the railing as he glared at her.

      “I, uh, brought the check we owe you.”

      “You could have mailed it,” he said, starting down the steps.

      He came toward her, and Grace was certain that no male model, no Hollywood star, no European prince, was as drop-dead handsome as Mica Barzonni. His blue eyes seemed to be taking inventory of her every eyelash.

      I didn’t even check my makeup before I left Louise’s! This jet lag is going to be the end of me.

      “Here,” she said, thrusting the check at him as if it would singe her fingertips.

      “Thanks.”

      “Mica...” She cleared her throat. “I came out here because I owe you an apology.”

      He stared at her, his expression unreadable. “No, you didn’t.”

      “What?”

      “You came out here because you found out about my acci— My arm. Who told you?”

      “Sarah.”

      “Good old Sarah. Well, you would have found out sooner or later. Everybody knows.”

      “And they shouldn’t? Is it a secret?”

      “I guess not. Still...”

      “Still...what?”

      “I’d rather not talk about it.”

      “Why?”

      “Because, little miss preteen, then I see the pity in their eyes like I see