Free Return of the Secret Heir by Rachel Bailey Page B

back.” The courtyard was tiny, like the back of all the ground-floor apartments in the complex, but it had a small patch of grass and a few shrubs. That little oasis was the main reason she’d chosen to live here.
    â€œEven better. But that means you won’t be doing any gardening. I’ll have someone do it weekly.” JT finished cleaning the juicer, then made her a celery, carrot and apple blend. “It’s best if it’s made fresh each time, but I can make more now and put it in the fridge if you’d prefer,” he said as he handed it to her.
    For a moment, she wondered if he meant he’d be here to make it fresh each time, but surely not. “This will be fine for now, thanks.”
    Watching him make his way expertly around her kitchen, she had to concede that under different circumstances, she’d enjoy a regular morning visit from a gorgeous man who wanted to feed her—a gorgeous man with lean hips, a tight butt and pecs she wanted to splay her hands across. She could get used to this.
    A chill crept over her skin. If she wasn’t careful, she’d be in danger of letting impossible dreams of a picket-fence future unfurl in her mind.
    Never mind that she hadn’t worked out how she was going to tell her boss about her pregnancy yet. Ted Howard was not going to take this well. She’d need to go to him with a plan. Another issue that had kept her awake last night.
    From one of his bags, JT pulled out a small frying pan with the label still on the handle, and proceeded to wash it in the sink.
    â€œI have a frying pan, too,” she said.
    He spared her a quick glance. “You might have had the wrong size.”
    Eggs came out of another bag and, sipping her juice, she watched him make an omelet. “Are you also making one for yourself?”
    He opened a couple of drawers until he found her cutlery and pulled out a fork. “This isn’t about me.”
    â€œYou expect me to eat food you’ve made with you watching me?” The idea made her squirm on the stool.
    â€œI’ll clean up and leave while you’re eating,” he said, not distracted from his task.
    Despite a small part of her wanting to rebel at his treatment of her as his baby’s walking incubator—there was a fine line between cosseting and treating her as if she was incompetent—something inside her chest twisted at the thought of this man staying up during the night to research her body’s needs, then arriving early, loaded with supplies and cooking her breakfast, then leaving while she ate without tasting a bite himself. She couldn’t turn him out of her home unfed.
    She walked behind him and found her own omelet pan and handed it to him. “Make one for yourself, too.”
    He paused for a lingering moment, his eyes wary and assessing. It seemed neither of them wanted to play happy families. At least they were on the same page.
    â€œOkay,” he said finally and pulled three more eggs from the carton.
    Ten minutes later she was sitting across from JT with a cheese and tomato omelet, toast and a plate of fresh fruit laid out before her.
    â€œThis looks good,” she said and meant it. She usually just grabbed a yogurt and coffee.
    â€œIt might need salt,” he said, handing her the salt grinder. As she reached to take it and her fingers brushed the warm skin of his, sensation exploded in her veins like a shaken magnum of champagne. His eyes widened, locked on hers, and the world faded away, leaving only JT and her and this living electricity that was between them. Slowly, too slowly, reason shouldered its way back into her mind. She blinked away the unwanted response to the man she’d once planned to marry, and reached for her juice.
    JT cut into his eggs, his voice only a little uneven. “I did some research last night on fainting during pregnancy. It could be a number of things—possibly low blood sugar or low blood