Free Baby On The Way by Sandra Paul Page A

get off, flirting with a pregnant woman like that. His hold tightened a little as he glanced down at her. “So are you ready to get something to eat?”
    “I’m not hungry.” Breaking away from him, she marched toward the parking lot.
    Keeping up with her easily, Del caught her arm to steady her as she stumbled on the uneven asphalt, and Libby turned on him, demanding angrily, “What is it with you, acting like that?”
    “Like what?” he drawled. She stood without answering, her brown eyes snapping, her hands on her hips. She’d buttoned her blouse crookedly, he noticed, and he reached out to fix it.
    Libby slapped his hand away. “Like that! Precisely like that! Like you have the right to tell me what to do—or when to quit work—or even to rebutton my blouse. Despite what you told that nurse in there, you’re not really my fiancé, Del, so quit acting like one!”
    His brows rose. “Okay, I will—when you quit acting like some kind of pregnant superwoman.”
    “Oh!” She yanked at the truck door handle, forgetting it was locked. Fuming, she waited with tapping foot until Del calmly unlocked it and then she clambered ungracefully up into the seat. “Take me home.”
    Walking around to the other side, he climbed in and started the engine. “First we’ll get something to eat.”
    She had no intention of accompanying him to the restaurant. “I’m not hungry,” she said firmly.
    He made a tsking sound with his tongue against his teeth as he pulled into the parking lot. “Don’t lie, Libby. I heard your stomach growling in that examining room.”
    That shut her up long enough for him to usher her into the coffee shop and ensconce her in a booth. Libby hid behind the plastic-coated menu for another few minutes as her cheeks cooled and the old-fashioned atmosphere of the family restaurant exercised a soothing effect.
    When the waitress came to take their orders, she managed to say with creditable dignity, “Just a salad, please.”
    “And chicken soup, too, for the lady,” Del tacked on. When the waitress left he met Libby’s annoyed look with a bland one. “I’ve heard chicken soup is good for you.”
    “If you have a cold,” she said haughtily. “I don’t think it’s going to cure my pregnancy.”
    “But maybe it will help cure your crankiness,” he murmured.
    She ignored him as she ate her meal. There was nothing more annoying, she decided twenty minutes later, than a man who was right. She did feel better after eating the rich soup—and much more able to handle the disgustingly satisfied-looking male who sat across from her watching her eat.
    Setting down her spoon, she dabbed at her mouth with her napkin and then plunged into the issue at hand. “I can’t afford to quit work yet.”
    “You can’t afford not to if you’re endangering your health,” Del countered, pushing aside his own emptyplate. His lips flattened in a straight line as he added, “I have enough money to help tide you over.”
    Libby met his gaze. “That’s beside the point. I told you having this baby was my decision—and my responsibility. I’m going to be a mother. I need to be able to stand on my own two feet.”
    “And you will, but right now that isn’t possible.” He added impatiently, “What other choice do you have than to accept my help?”
    She picked up her abandoned napkin and absently began shredding it into tiny pieces. Good question. What choice did she have? She didn’t have enough money saved up to last until the baby’s birth. The inheritance she’d received from her father was a help, but not enough to support her for too long without a job. She’d planned to work at least another month.
    “I could call my mother, I suppose…” she said slowly. Liz would help, but she’d take over, too. Leaving her mother’s financial stranglehold had been hard enough the first time—it would be well nigh impossible with a small baby. “But she’d have me go back to live with her in