Little Secrets: His Pregnant Secretary

Deep breath out.

Before she even finished the exhale, however, a swift, hard knock sounded on the front door of the cottage.

“Delia?” The deep rumble of the familiar voice caused panic to stab through her.

Jager McNeill had come home.

* * *

Jager stood under the cottage porch light, waiting. He knew Delia was here. His housekeeper had seen her enter the carriage house an hour ago and Delia’s lights were all on. Soft holiday music played inside.

She’d been avoiding any real conversations with him for weeks. He’d tried to give her some space, knowing she was even more rattled about the possibility of being pregnant than he was. Besides, the search for his brother had been intense, leading him on a circuitous path around the globe. Now he was certain, at least, that Damon was alive. But he’d seen signs that his brother was hell-bent on revenge and that scared him.

Still, Jager should have made Delia his first priority before now. Either she was delaying taking the pregnancy test for reasons he didn’t understand or—worse—she’d been hiding the news from him. Whatever the truth, he needed to earn her trust. He couldn’t afford to alienate her when their futures might be irrevocably bound.

He lifted his hand to knock again, only to hear the deadbolt slide free on the other side. The doorknob turned and there she was.

Delia.

Wearing a white terry-cloth robe and a pair of red-and-green-striped knee socks, she was scrubbed clean, her wet hair falling in dark gold waves onto her shoulders. Worry filled her hazel eyes. The rosy color he’d grown used to seeing was missing in her cheeks.

Hell.

He hadn’t seen her look so upset since that first day they’d met. And that comparison put his own behavior into perspective. He wasn’t a loser like her former fiancé. He should have come home before now. Been there for her.

“May I come in?” He hadn’t even changed his clothes when he stepped off the plane. He’d flown eight hours to be here today, the six-week anniversary of the passionate encounter in his office.

Six weeks hadn’t dimmed how much he wanted her. Not even when they were both stressed and worried about the future. If he had his way, she’d be in his arms already, but he didn’t want to pressure her.

“That would be wise.” Nodding, Delia retreated while he stepped over the threshold, closing the door behind him.

He hadn’t been inside the cottage for over a year. He’d overseen the delivery of a few basic pieces of furniture when she’d first taken up residence in the renovated carriage house. But it bore no resemblance to what he remembered.

To say she painted flowers on the walls didn’t come close to describing the way she’d made the interior look like an enchanted garden. Yes, there were flowers of all colors and varieties—some not found in nature—growing from a painted grass border along the floor. On one wall, a full moon glowed in white phosphorescent paint, shining down on a garden path full of rabbits and hedgehogs, all following a girl in a dark blue dress. On another wall, there was a painted mouse hole on the baseboard, with a mouse with a broom and apron beside it, as if the tiny creature had just swept her front mat. Above the couch, framing a window overlooking the garden, someone had painted an elaborate stained-glass frame, as if the window view itself was a painting. The white curtains were drawn and a holiday wreath hung from the curtain rod on a bright red ribbon. He could only imagine the effect in the daytime.