Surprise: Outback Proposal. Sarah Mayberry

generate more business, and without more business I can’t afford to put on a second van.”

      Lucy looked down and seemed surprised that she’d polished off her dessert.

      “So, basically, I’m screwed,” she said.

      “Lucia Basso. If your mother could hear you now,” he said, mostly because he hated the despairing look that had crept into her eyes.

      “It’s okay. She already thinks I’m screwed. It won’t be news to her.”

      She met his gaze across the table, and they both burst into laughter. She laughed so hard she had to lean back in her chair and hold her stomach. By the time she’d gained a modicum of control, tears were rolling down her face.

      “God, I needed that,” she said. Then her eyes went wide and she straightened in her chair as though someone had goosed her. “Oh!”

      Both hands clutched her belly and she stared at Dom.

      “What? Is something wrong?” he asked, already half out of his chair.

      “The baby just moved!”

      “Right.” He felt like an idiot for being on the verge of calling the paramedics.

      “It’s the first time,” she explained excitedly. “All the pregnancy books say I should start feeling something about now, and I’ve been waiting and waiting but there’s been nothing—”

      Her eyes went wide again and she smiled.

      “There he goes again!” she said. “This is incredible! Dom, you have to feel this.”

      Before he knew what she was doing she’d pushed aside her dressing gown to reveal the thin T-shirt she was wearing underneath, grabbed his hand and pressed his palm to her belly. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the fabric, the rise and fall of her body as she breathed.

      “Can you feel it?” she asked, her voice hushed as though the baby might overhear her and stop performing.

      He shook his head, acutely self-conscious. He didn’t know what to do with his fingers, whether to relax them into her body or keep his hand stiff. He could smell her perfume and feel the swell of her breast pressing against his forearm.

      “Relax your hand more,” she instructed, frowning in concentration. He let his hand soften and she slid it over her belly, pressing it against herself with both hands.

      Still he could feel nothing. She bit her lip.

      “Maybe he’s tired,” she said.

      Beneath his palm, he felt a faint surge, the smallest of disturbances beneath her skin.

      He laughed and she grinned at him.

      “Tell me you felt that?”

      “I felt it.”

      They smiled at each other like idiots, his hand curved against her belly. He knew the exact moment the wonder of the moment wore off and she became self-aware again. He pulled his hand free at the same time that she released her grip on him. They both sat back in their chairs, an awkwardness between them that hadn’t been there a few minutes ago.

      “I should go,” he said. “You’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

      “Yours is earlier,” she said.

      They both stood.

      “About the business … something will come up,” he said.

      She shrugged. “Or it won’t. I’ll muddle through, I’m sure.”

      Her hand found her stomach, holding it protectively. He followed her to the door.

      “Thanks for the tiramisu,” she said with a small smile. “And for bringing my Web site stuff back.”

      “Like I said, it was on the way home. And I would have eaten all the tiramisu on my own if I’d had the chance. You saved me from myself.”

      He patted his stomach and she laughed, as he’d known she would. He hovered on the doorstep, unwilling to leave her just yet.

      “What does it feel like?” he asked suddenly. “When the baby moves inside you?”

      Her expression grew distant, and she cocked her head to one side. He had to resist the urge to reach out and touch her cheek to see if her skin really was as soft and smooth as it appeared.

      “The books say it’s like butterflies fluttering,” she said after a moment. “Some women say it’s like gas.”

      “Butterflies or gas. Right.”

      She smiled. “The closest thing I can come up with is that it’s like when a goldfish brushes up against your hand. Only on the inside, if that makes sense.”

      She was so beautiful, standing there with her uncertain eyes and her smiling mouth and her rounded stomach. He wanted to kiss her. He took a step backward.

      “Good night, Lucy Basso,” he said.

      “Good night, Dom.”

      He told himself he was being smart and fair as he walked down the darkened driveway to the street. She was pregnant. He had no business chasing her.

      And yet he felt like he was letting yet another opportunity slip through his fingers.

      He flexed his hand as he remembered the flutter of movement he’d felt beneath his palm. A smile curved his mouth as he started his car. She’d been so delighted, so amazed. He was stupidly happy that he’d been there to share the moment with her.

      He sobered as he registered where his thoughts were going. This wasn’t his baby. Lucy wasn’t his wife or partner. He wouldn’t be sharing any more moments of discovery with her—or with any other woman, for that matter.

      There was a message from his father on his answering machine when he arrived home, asking him to call back. His father sounded sleepy when he answered the phone.

      “You are late. Where have you been?”

      Dom raised his eyebrows at his father’s nosiness. “Out. What’s up?”

      “Out where? Out with girl?”

      The joys of working with his family—they felt they owned his life.

      “Pa.”

      He heard his father sigh.

      “I need you to make run to Lilydale tomorrow to collect more zucchini from Giametti’s. We short and I promise dozen boxes to Vue De Monde,” his father explained.

      Dom rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn. What his father was suggesting would mean he had to get up an extra two hours early in order to have the stock on hand for their customers.

      “You know, if you’d let me manage the stock on the computer, we wouldn’t have these kinds of problems,” he said lightly.

      To his surprise, his father blew up, sending a string of expletives and curses down the phone.

      “I sick of hearing about computers. You said you not talk about them again. I expect you to honor this even if you honor nothing else!”

      Dom let his breath out between his teeth. He loved his father, but he wasn’t a little boy anymore, and he certainly didn’t have to take crap from him—especially when it was out-of-line, unearned crap.

      “Am I part of Bianco Brothers or not?” he asked.

      “You are my son. This is stupid question.”

      “Answer the question, Pa.”

      “You are part of business. You there every day. You can’t work out for yourself?”

      “So I’m an employee. Like Steve and Michael and Anna?”

      “You are my son.”

      Dom didn’t