Her Secret, His Child: A Little Secret by Tara Quinn (romance book recommendations TXT) 📗

reason, too. Mommy was sad about Ashley's daddy because of Ashley. Because he'd made Mommy have Ashley. Maybe Mommy didn't want that. Which was something Ashley couldn't stand to think about.

She just wished her daddy didn't keep jumping into her stories and her school time, and even when she was playing with Kayla.

"You ready to get out, punkin?" Mommy stood up and held up a big, big towel for her. One that would make Ashley feel all warm and happy inside. "Tomorrow's Monday and you have school."

"Okay." Letting the queen sail away, Ashley stood up, really careful 'bout not slipping, like Mommy always told her.

"I love you, baby," Mommy said, snuggling Ashley up against her as she rubbed her hands along the outside of the huge towel.

And Ashley felt all warm inside, exactly like she was's'posed to. "I love you more than you love me," she said, and giggled.

"No, you don't, buster." Mommy picked Ashley up and carried her to her bedroom. "I'm bigger so I get to love more."

Ashley was counting on that.

A party. Kyle had to plan a party. Yeah, right. In the first place, the only thing he knew about food

HER SECRET, HIS CHILD

was how to order it—or nuke it. And that occasionally he needed some. But his stomach wasn't finicky, didn't demand things in a certain sequence or combination. Like when he had cereal and a cucumber for breakfast, there were no complaints.

But a party. Now, there people expected particular kinds of food. Not only did they want those foods, they wanted them to go together somehow. Of course, nobody at the grocery store bothered to put signs on things to tell a guy what went with what. No color coding there. Nope, people just seemed to be born knowing that green beans didn't go on hamburgers. That lettuce was for salads. That pancakes weren't for making turkey sandwiches. Or maybe their mothers taught them.

Which would explain Kyle's ignorance.

Tossing his glasses down on the piles of folders hiding his desk, Kyle read again the memo he'd just received. He was in charge of the reception for the local chapter of the National English Honor Society. He'd been given a budget to provide a generous spread of hors d'oeuvres, decorations, a program. Faculty heads and dignitaries had been invited to attend, not only to welcome new and current honor society members, but also to be introduced to Kyle, the new head of the English department.

And how impressed they'd be when the food showed up a week early. And the decorations a day late.

And what about decorations? Had the dean seen Kyle's house? Other than his bed and desk, he used

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cardboard boxes for furniture. Okay, maybe only until his shipment of chairs, sofas and tables arrived. But still, he knew less about decor than he knew about food. He didn't need decor to live.

And he was virtually color-blind.

Unburying his phone from beneath a stack of essays, Kyle dialed a number without looking it up.

"Hello?"

Just hearing her voice made him smile. "Jamie?" He had the perfect plan. If it worked, and he'd somehow make sure it did, he'd get his party and an excuse to see Jamie.

"Kyle?"

"See, you know my voice already."

"Don't flatter yourself," she said dryly, but he heard a hint of laughter. "I just can't think of any other man who'd be calling me at seven o'clock on a Monday morning."

"Oops." He grimaced as he verified the accuracy of her words. Yup, his office clock said three minutes past seven. "I was out running at four," he explained, "and I've been at my desk since five— kind of seems like midmorning to me."

"You're at work already?"

"I had some things to get through. Like last week's mail, for one."

"I sure hope there wasn't anything too pressing in it."

Not unless you counted the honor society reception that was due to happen in less than a month.

"I put my bills on automatic payment as soon as the technology was invented."

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She did laugh then. "So I suppose there was a reason for your call? You didn't just dial the wrong number."

This was going almost too well. He'd known, after Friday night, that Jamie wouldn't be able to deny there was something special between them. But dared he hope that he wouldn't have to spend months undoing the damage he'd done by making love to her so prematurely five years before?

"I have a favor to ask."

"You need more accounting done?"

"I need a party."

"What?"

Picking up the memo he'd found that morning, Kyle read it aloud. Every word.

"So what's the problem?"

"Wait until you've known me longer. You won't have to ask."

Her laugh was a little less natural, and Kyle's guard went back up. So she could handle a friendly phone conversation. She wasn't yet ready to talk about a relationship or even, apparently, getting to know each other.

Fine. They wouldn't talk about it. They'd just do it. And maybe his prickly angel of mercy wouldn't notice.

"Please, will you plan my party for me, Jamie?" he asked, injecting just enough little-boy earnestness to make her laugh. If she had any idea how badly he really needed her help—or how determined he was to spend time with her for any reason—she'd probably hang up on him.

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"It's three weeks from this Friday?" she inquired.

Kyle nodded. And then realized she couldn't see him. "Yes."

"Where?"

"My house."

"You'll have furniture by then?"

He would've had it already if he hadn't told the company February 1 instead of January 1. Somehow, he'd thought the interim furnished apartment he'd rented was for sixteen weeks instead of twelve. "Yes."

' 'Do you have any idea what kind of theme you want?"

He opened his mouth to say no. To tell her he'd leave it completely up to her.

But… "I figured we could come up with something together." Where did one shop for themes?

"If I do this, there can't be any, um, funny business."

"I'm wounded," Kyle said, allowing himself a victorious grin since she wasn't there to see. "What kind of