Page 25 of Madly Deeply

"Do we now?"

"Has to be the neighbor." She glanced at the Tenbury's house, then carried the bread inside. "The professors would have left cards. They're too competitive not to take credit."

"Ye mean fire-headedFraser?"There was something in his tone she couldn't quite read. "The sheep farmer?"

"Don't start."

"Start what?" He tried to look innocent and failed. "He's a kind man, that's all. And he can obviously cook."

She shot him a look that made him swallow whatever he might have said next.

Each daythat passed brought another mysterious delivery, though the Scottish farmer wasn't trying to keep his identity a secret. Once he even left a basket of tangerines--at the same time a lot of them disappeared from the tree in Mr. Tenbury's front yard. The best by far was the full Scottish breakfast that appeared on a plastic tray the same morning that the smell of bacon practically poured out the windows of the rental.

"He's given himself away now." Spreag watched her nibble. "Who else would ken to make ye tattie scones?"

"Just anyone who knew you." She licked butter from her fingers. "But we already know it'shim. You've probably been spying on him this whole time."

"Would I do that?"

"In a heartbeat."

"Poor choice of phrase, that."

She rolled her eyes and went to the knife drawer, pulled out a blade, and held it up like a threat. "I don't want to hear his name out of your mouth, got it?"

He bit his lips and backed away, hands in the air, as if she could do him any harm.

But she knew exactly what he was doing. He was trying to play matchmaker, find her a new husband--so he could leave her. She just had to hold out another couple of weeks and Callum Fraser would be headed back to Scotland for Christmas, and there wouldn't be anyone left to match her with.

Her phone rang. Dr. Gary Carlton popped up on her screen, but the head of Philosophy was the last person she wanted to have a conversation with. He'd called every day for the past week, so word was out she was back. That meant some of the little gifts left on her doorstep could have been from someone other than the guy winning his own British Baking Show next door.

"Ye can't avoid them forever," Spreag said gently one evening as she deleted another voicemail. "They mean well. And you still need friends."

"I know." She curled deeper into the couch and changed the channel to his favorite--the History Channel. "I just can't handle their pity right now. Or their questions."

He ignored the ruse to distract him. "Tell them about the babe. They'll be so excited they'll forget to pity ye."

"Maybe. Or they'll just pity me more. The poor pregnant widow."

"Alexandra." He turned to face her fully. "Ye are many things, my love, but pitiful isnae one of them."

The next morning,she woke to find another basket on the porch—this one filled with crystallized ginger and peppermint tea. Perfect for morning sickness.

"I think you're influencing him somehow," she accused Spreag over tea.

"Who?"

"Callum. These gifts are too perfect. How else would he know exactly what I need?"

Spreag's laughter filled the kitchen. "Ye think I'm whispering in his ear while he sleeps? How could he hear me?"

She couldn't help but laugh too.

"More like it has somethin' to do with ye leavin' the bathroom windae open, and he likely wakes each mornin' to the sound of yer retchin'."

"Oh. Dang."

"Besides," he added with a wink, "if I could influence the living, I'd have that architecture professor's car towed from your spot."