The Playboy's Baby(8)

He was running late. He woke later than intended this afternoon, and from there the entire day had been off. Paperwork at the club had taken longer than expected. Now dinner wasn’t done and he hadn’t managed to set the table yet. It didn’t help any that his stomach had twisted itself into a nervous knot. He felt like a damn kid on his first date because Emma would be here, in his house. He’d always attributed his infatuation with her to a teenage crush, but holding her in his arms Friday night, the emotion flared all over again. How good her soft curves felt against him.

He stopped in front of the door and raked a hand through his hair, tried to prepare himself for the night ahead. Above all the awkward emotions, he knew whatever news she still had for him couldn’t possibly be good. He wasn’t looking forward to hearing it.

He smoothed his hands on his jeans then stepped forward and pulled the door open. He was even more unprepared for the sight that greeted him. Emma stood on his doorstep with her hair free flowing around her shoulders, looking gorgeous.

And an overstuffed diaper bag slung over one shoulder. He jerked his gaze to the car seat dangling from her other hand, the top of which had been covered by a fuzzy pink blanket. The bundle contained within squirmed and whimpered until the blanket fell away to reveal a chubby little face. Big, watery blue eyes rimmed with long red lashes peered up at him.

A baby.

“Wow.” He shifted his attention from the now fussing child back to Emma. “I didn’t even know you were married.”

All the implications of that revelation quickly assaulted his senses. His stomach tightened, the green-eyed monster rearing its ugly head. Hatred for a man he didn’t even know. A man who so obviously got what he’d only been able to dream about once upon a time.

A soft blush stole across Emma’s cheeks. She looked at the baby, gently shushing her. A frigid wind blew past him into the house and whipped her hair around her face.

“I’m not.” She glanced at him, her brows drawn together. “Can we come in? It’s cold and I don’t want her to catch a chill.”

“Sorry.” He stepped back and pulled the door open wider. “You surprised me. Janey never told me you had a baby.”

A thought that quickly had his chest constricting. Janey hadn’t told him much of anything for well over a year. His best friend had become a stranger.

Emma stopped inside the doorway and stared at him like she’d just seen a ghost. A split second later, the look disappeared and her mouth curled into a tight smile. “Smells good in here. Lasagna?”

She turned that smile on him, waiting expectantly, and set the car seat on the floor. She stepped out of her snow-dusted boots, leaving them on the mat beside the door.

Dillon managed to smile and nod, his mind struggling to keep up with her. “With fresh garlic bread.” Emma’s favorite, if he remembered correctly. “Ma’s recipe. I’m afraid dinner’s not quite done yet. I underestimated the cooking time. Still has about fifteen minutes or so.”

She shrugged out of her coat and turned to hang it on a hook beside the door. His eyes slid over her. Emma was dressed simply tonight, in black slacks and a white button-down blouse. A very conservative, almost business-like ensemble, but it suited her. The clothing skimmed her curves and made her legs look like they went on forever. The hair got him. The glorious auburn locks spilled down her back in soft waves his fingers itched to sift through.

“Can you do that? Cook I mean. Or should I worry?” Emma turned her head, arching one fiery brow at him. Her amber eyes danced with a devilishness that made his heart pound against his ribcage. God he’d forgotten how beautiful she was when she smiled at him like that. It was a rare occurrence, but he’d gotten a few growing up.

He returned the smile. “Come on now, you should know me better than that. You can’t live with my parents and not learn how to cook.”

His grandmother had been born and raised in Sicily. Nana still chose to speak Italian and always had something brewing on the stove. Inspired by her, his family opened a small chain of Italian restaurants. Dillon and his older brother, Logan, helped out in the kitchen every night, from the time they were tall enough to reach the counters until they moved out. In his family, it was tradition.

Emma laughed. It was a soft breathy sound he yearned to hear again. She picked up the car seat and moved past him. Following her into the living room, he tried his damnedest not to watch the gentle sway of her shapely rear end. It didn’t help matters any that once she reached the couch, she set the car seat on the floor and bent over it.

He swallowed hard, trying not to stare when she unbuckled the child. Emma managed to get the baby out of the snowsuit she was bundled in, then scooped the child up into her arms and patted the baby’s back, murmuring soothingly. In a matter of moments, Emma had the child lolling to sleep on her shoulder.