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She dipped the brush in the paint and hesitated. “Yes.” Turnabout was fair play. “Did you think about me?”
“Every minute of every day. It took me until this afternoonto work up the courage to come back and try again. I never know what to expect from you.”
She couldn’t deny what he was saying, but the reverse was also true. “We’ve both been hurt so badly. Why do we say such terrible things to each other?”
“I don’t know, Molly. All I know is that I love you.”
Under other circumstances that would’ve been enough. But she was no longer the only one involved. A new life grew inside her. A new life that couldn’t be ignored.
“Say something,” Jordan urged, walking toward her.
She hung her head, knowing the instant she mentioned the pregnancy she’d erect a wall between them.
Jordan placed his index finger beneath her chin and raised her head until their eyes met. Then, ever so gently, he lowered his mouth to hers. The kiss was long and sweet.
Jordan kissed her again and reached for the snap of her jeans. “I didn’t stop thinking about us, and how badly I want to make love to you every night for the rest of our lives.”
“I … I don’t know if this is a good idea,” she said, making an attempt to offer some resistance, even if it was only token.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Jordan countered. “You’re wondering if all we share is fabulous sex.”
Molly’s eyes flew open. That wasn’t remotely close to what she was thinking.
She pushed herself out of his arms. “You believe all we share is sex?” she repeated, outraged that he’d suggest such a thing. “What about our son, several years of marriage and this pregnancy?” she cried.
Molly didn’t give him time to answer. She’d forgotten the paintbrush in her hand, but she remembered it now. Stepping forward, she slapped the paint-soaked bristles across the front of his shirt.
“Here’s what I think of that,” she said.
CHAPTER TEN
Molly clamped her hand over her mouth, unable to believe she’d actually painted Jordan’s shirt. He held up his arms and stared down at his shirtfront with a look of horrified surprise.
“Oh, Jordan, I’m sorry,” she muttered, setting the paintbrush aside. She dabbed at him with a rag, but it soon became apparent that her efforts were doing more harm than good.
“You…painted me.”
“You deserved it,” she said, smothering a laugh. In her opinion, Jordan Larabee should count his blessings. He was lucky she hadn’t taken the brush to his face.
“You might apologize yourself,” she suggested while he peeled off the shirt, being careful to avoid spreading the wet paint across his arms and chest.
“All right,” he agreed, handing her the damaged shirt, “perhaps I was wrong.”
“Perhaps?” She put her hand on her hip and glared at him. “Perhaps?”
Jordan swallowed visibly, holding back a laugh.Apologies had never come easily to him, she realized, and he usually disguised them with humor.
“Fine. I was wrong,” he muttered, his eyes growing serious, but only for a moment.
She rewarded him with a smile and carried his shirt to the compact washing machine, tucked neatly away in a kitchen closet, with the dryer stacked above.
“Don’t worry, it’s washable,” she told him, setting the dial. At the sound of water filling the machine, she turned to him. True, her reaction to his outrageous suggestion had been instinctive, but it was also funny.
Their eyes met and held.
Having her estranged—and very attractive—husband walking around her home bare-chested offered more of a temptation than Molly was willing to admit.
“Wait here,” she said, returning to her bedroom, taking off his old shirt and replacing it with a short-sleeved cotton top. She delivered the shirt to him minutes later, hating to part with it.
