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She shook her head. “Nope, that doesn’t sound like Callum,” she answered.
“All right, then, how does a couple of days sound to you?” Bowie asked, his eyes on hers.
“Today counts as one day, right?” Marlowe asked.
Bowie glanced at his watch. It was almost ten o’clock in the evening. “If you think that two hours compose a day, then yes,” he answered, “today counts as one of those days.”
“Good,” she pronounced, looking satisfied that she had won.
Chapter 9
“Well, at least we won’t be starving anytime soon,” Bowie announced, looking into the surprisingly large modern refrigerator in the kitchen. “Looks like it’s been restocked recently.” He looked over his shoulder toward Marlowe. “There’s a pretty good selection of steaks, eggs, a few fruits and some vegetables just waiting to be turned into a home-cooked meal.”
He closed the refrigerator door and crossed back to her. “I know it’s kind of late, but you probably haven’t had anything to eat for hours. Can I interest you in some dinner?”
The second Bowie mentioned food, Marlowe felt her stomach lurching. She pressed her palm against the swirling area, praying she wasn’t going to throw up.
“I don’t think so,” she told him. “The idea of eating anything right now...” Her voice trailed off. The next second, her eyes widened as she drew in her breath. “Oh no, it can’t be.”
“Can’t be what?” Bowie asked, concerned. The horrified note in her voice had gotten his complete attention.
Marlowe didn’t answer. Her stomach was letting her know just how unhappy it was. She could feel herself beginning to perspire, despite the cold temperature outside.
She looked around frantically. She hadn’t been here for so long that she’d forgotten where the bathroom was located.
Bowie immediately knew without being told what she was looking for. He had noticed the bathroom while checking out the Colton cabin to make sure no one was already there.
“This way,” he said, quickly leading the way to the rear of the cabin. To make sure she was following him, Bowie took hold of her elbow, guiding her in the right direction.
The moment Marlowe sighted the door, she yanked away her elbow and pushed past Bowie, barely slamming the door behind her just in time.
Bowie leaned against the door frame. “Anything I can do to help, Marlowe?” he offered. “Hold your hair out of the way, give you moral support?” he asked, saying the first things that came to his mind because he was worried about her. He thought that she’d looked positively green just as she’d slammed the door.
Marlowe didn’t answer him, but he was fairly certain he detected a subdued retching noise coming from the bathroom. Looking at the closed door, Bowie shook his head. Marlowe Colton had to be the only woman he knew who would deliberately try to keep the sounds of her physical misery a secret.
Feeling bad for her, Bowie decided to remain where he was, waiting for her to pull herself together and come out. He was ready to offer assistance any way he could should Ma
rlowe realize that she wanted it.
Or needed it.
When he no longer heard anything coming from inside the bathroom, Bowie put his ear against the door, straining to make out any sound coming from the other side. By no means did he want to invade her privacy, but at the same time he found himself worrying about Marlowe—and the baby she was carrying.
His baby.
Yes, it was early days as far as that was concerned. He’d known about this for only a number of short hours, but being pregnant was obviously creating havoc for Marlowe, and he felt protective toward her and their child.
“Marlowe?” he called to her, knocking on the bathroom door. “Are you all right in there?” When there was no answer, he decided that he had been considerate of her sensibilities long enough. Coddling her wasn’t getting him anywhere.
His hand on the doorknob, he turned it. “Marlowe, I’m coming in there,” he announced. But as he began to open the door, it was suddenly opened from within and Marlowe emerged, her face slightly damp from what he assumed was the water she had splashed herself with, most likely trying to freshen up.
“What are you getting so excited about?” she asked indignantly. “I’m fine.”
He looked at her more closely. “You have morning sickness.”
“You have your time confused,” she informed him coldly. “It’s nighttime, not morning.”
“And morning sickness is just a term to describe the nausea that being pregnant sometimes ushers in,” he countered, refusing to be baited and get annoyed.
