bed. That thought stuck and held too long for comfort. He couldn't deny it; he was falling big time for Rosie O'Hanlon, but, damn it, he did not want to set off a personal population explosion to get her.
Mae came back with the thermos, then busied herself setting it and a fresh cup out for him.
"I brought you a couple of cookies," she said. "Just in case." She didn't say in case of what.
"Thanks." He glanced up distractedly. He was busy wondering if there was a legal limit on the number of kids you could claim for taxes.
"Mae, have you got any kids?" he asked abruptly.
"Not yet. Someday though," she said, eyes dreamy, voice wistful. She started stroking the thermos as if it could kick start the process.
Women. Weird. Mention babies and sometimes their brains went into meltdown. "How many do you want?"
She turned pink, as if he'd asked her what kind of birth control she favored. "I don't know. A couple. Kids are expensive."
"Uh huh!" Kent slapped a hand on his desk hard enough to send a stapler thudding to the floor. "My argument exactly. Why have a team when a pair will do, right?"
Mae shot him a confused look, and no damn wonder. He and Mae hadn't had anything remotely like a personal conversation since she'd joined Beachline.
He rubbed his forehead again, about where his dunce cap should sit. "Forget it. Thanks for the coffee." He reached for his cup and opened a file, hoping she'd take the hint and leave. She did.
With Mae gone, Kent leaned back in his chair, nursing his coffee as if it were hundred-year-old Scotch. He was losing it. Completely losing it. If he didn't get a grip on this thing he had for O'Hanlon, someone was going to put him in a rubber room. He let out breath enough to drain his lungs. Trouble was he didn't want to get a grip on anything but Rosie. All of Rosie. But he didn't want to do it under false pretenses.
But there was nothing he could do about it now. Rosie had emailed him saying she was going back to Borneo until Saturday. He hadn't even bothered to call. No point. Like it or not, his sanity and his hyperactive libido would have to wait, which was probably just as well. He had enough on his plate, not to mention a lousy dinner meeting on Friday with Packard. The guy hadn't taken no for an answer. Said he had some new ideas for the new wing. Kent figured it was more like some new ideas for increasing the costs, but because he didn't have anything better to do, he'd agreed to the dinner.
He checked his calendar. Friday at seven-thirty. Monk's.
In the meantime, he'd be busy enough to keep his mind off Rosie. At least he had the advantage of the barbecue, which made him her first post-brace date. Maybe it was a small edge, and maybe Rosie didn't know it was a date, but for want of anything better, he'd take it.
Come Saturday he'd begin his campaign in earnest.
* * *
Rosie hopped her way to the kitchen telephone, struggling to plug her heel into her sneaker. Shoe in one hand, phone in the other, she sank into the fireside wing chair and managed a breathless, "Hello."
"She lives."
"Hey, Jonesy." Rosie dropped the sneaker and wiggled her foot into it. "What's happening?"
"My question exactly. What time do you want me to pick you up?"
"As close to three as you can make it. And puhleeze, puhleeze, don't be late. I feel like an inmate on freedom day. I can't believe I'm being unwired today."
"Want to celebrate?"
"Absolutely. Have you got a plan?" With her sneakers under control, Rosie slumped back in the chair and started in on her jeans' zipper.
"Better than a plan. I've got us dates, including a real live person of the masculine persuasion who's dying to meet you, and I've got reservations at Monk's for seven."
Rosie stopped zipping mid belly. "I don't know, Jonesy."
"What don't you know?"
"I might be tired or something."
"This from the woman who's about to embark on an intensive, well-oiled, totally focused manhunt. Or should I say daddy-hunt? I don't think so."
"I shouldn't
Mae came back with the thermos, then busied herself setting it and a fresh cup out for him.
"I brought you a couple of cookies," she said. "Just in case." She didn't say in case of what.
"Thanks." He glanced up distractedly. He was busy wondering if there was a legal limit on the number of kids you could claim for taxes.
"Mae, have you got any kids?" he asked abruptly.
"Not yet. Someday though," she said, eyes dreamy, voice wistful. She started stroking the thermos as if it could kick start the process.
Women. Weird. Mention babies and sometimes their brains went into meltdown. "How many do you want?"
She turned pink, as if he'd asked her what kind of birth control she favored. "I don't know. A couple. Kids are expensive."
"Uh huh!" Kent slapped a hand on his desk hard enough to send a stapler thudding to the floor. "My argument exactly. Why have a team when a pair will do, right?"
Mae shot him a confused look, and no damn wonder. He and Mae hadn't had anything remotely like a personal conversation since she'd joined Beachline.
He rubbed his forehead again, about where his dunce cap should sit. "Forget it. Thanks for the coffee." He reached for his cup and opened a file, hoping she'd take the hint and leave. She did.
With Mae gone, Kent leaned back in his chair, nursing his coffee as if it were hundred-year-old Scotch. He was losing it. Completely losing it. If he didn't get a grip on this thing he had for O'Hanlon, someone was going to put him in a rubber room. He let out breath enough to drain his lungs. Trouble was he didn't want to get a grip on anything but Rosie. All of Rosie. But he didn't want to do it under false pretenses.
But there was nothing he could do about it now. Rosie had emailed him saying she was going back to Borneo until Saturday. He hadn't even bothered to call. No point. Like it or not, his sanity and his hyperactive libido would have to wait, which was probably just as well. He had enough on his plate, not to mention a lousy dinner meeting on Friday with Packard. The guy hadn't taken no for an answer. Said he had some new ideas for the new wing. Kent figured it was more like some new ideas for increasing the costs, but because he didn't have anything better to do, he'd agreed to the dinner.
He checked his calendar. Friday at seven-thirty. Monk's.
In the meantime, he'd be busy enough to keep his mind off Rosie. At least he had the advantage of the barbecue, which made him her first post-brace date. Maybe it was a small edge, and maybe Rosie didn't know it was a date, but for want of anything better, he'd take it.
Come Saturday he'd begin his campaign in earnest.
* * *
Rosie hopped her way to the kitchen telephone, struggling to plug her heel into her sneaker. Shoe in one hand, phone in the other, she sank into the fireside wing chair and managed a breathless, "Hello."
"She lives."
"Hey, Jonesy." Rosie dropped the sneaker and wiggled her foot into it. "What's happening?"
"My question exactly. What time do you want me to pick you up?"
"As close to three as you can make it. And puhleeze, puhleeze, don't be late. I feel like an inmate on freedom day. I can't believe I'm being unwired today."
"Want to celebrate?"
"Absolutely. Have you got a plan?" With her sneakers under control, Rosie slumped back in the chair and started in on her jeans' zipper.
"Better than a plan. I've got us dates, including a real live person of the masculine persuasion who's dying to meet you, and I've got reservations at Monk's for seven."
Rosie stopped zipping mid belly. "I don't know, Jonesy."
"What don't you know?"
"I might be tired or something."
"This from the woman who's about to embark on an intensive, well-oiled, totally focused manhunt. Or should I say daddy-hunt? I don't think so."
"I shouldn't
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