Page 9 of The Billionaire's Bagpipes

“She didn’t tell me she was having a guest over. Now all this tidying up makes sense. I’m Tonya, Mags’ mom.” She reaches to shake my hand.

“Stirling Cox.”

“Stirling Cox? Like the restaurant?” Her eyes open wide.

“One and the same.”

“Did she win a contest or something?” Tonya claps her hands over a huge smile.

“Or something,” I smile back. I point right, then left. “Kitchen?”

She leads me to a very well-equipped, modern kitchen with granite countertops and lots of natural light. The placement of the refrigerator, sink and dishwasher is perfect. Whoever designed the space was a pro.

“Wow.”

“All show, no go,” Tonya says. “My daughter loves to eat but never developed a taste for actually cooking. A bit of a waste.”

“A well laid out kitchen is never a waste. Even if all you ever make is toast and coffee.” Which is exactly what I picture myself making in the early morning hours in this space. The view from the sink looks out over a green space with a small playground.

“Did Mags buy this place recently? Since …” I pat my belly, not sure why I hesitate to say the word “pregnant.”

“Oh no. She bought during the pre-sale, a good eight or nine years ago. She knew what she wanted, even though she didn’t have anyone to build that life with her. I think it’s ridiculous that she’s been paying for a three-bedroom, plus den all these years, but … don’t tell her I told you that.”

“Don’t tell me you told him what?” Magdalena strides into the kitchen wearing a flowing yellow dress the color of an organic egg yolk. Her eyes sparkle and she looks like she’s having a better day than yesterday.

“Nothing,” Tonya says. “You’re supposed to be lying down.”

“I’m getting there,” Mags sighs. Then she walks right up to me and reaches for my hand. I let her take it and she wraps it between both of hers, squeezing gently in time to a whispered, “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.”

That electricity that I wondered if I’d imagined yesterday was definitely not made up. The pumping action goes straight from my hand into my bloodstream and, like fast-acting yeast, my baguette rises.

She raises my hand to her lips and gives it a kiss. “I owe you big time.”

I inhale deeply and cover her hands with mine. “The pleasure is mine. And, I think you should listen to your mother. Out. Go lie down. I need privacy to work my magic.”

The truth is I need privacy to have a little ‘man to boner’ chat about what is and is not appropriate behavior in a client’s kitchen, no matter how perfect they both are.

CHAPTER9

Magdalena

Isettle onto my couch, propped up with cushions under my knees and behind my lower back. It’s quite the workout to get everything in place, so the pressure on my bladder and other important organs is eased. If I’d been alone, I’d have gone back to bed and raised the mattress to the zero gravity setting, but there is no way I’m going to let Stirling deliver my orgasmic juice blend to my bed.

Because, what if he actually can read my mind and knows that I’d spent the entire night wondering how good it would feel to have him rubbing lotion on my calves and feet, up my thighs toward my belly? It was a darned good thing I’d pulled all the batteries from my toys because just imagining his hands on me had my pelvic floor muscles contracting in a decidedly bedrest, not-approved fashion.

“How much is that costing you?” Mom whispers, tilting her head toward the sound of the man humming in my kitchen.

I shrug. “We didn’t talk money.”

“Oh, Honey, you’re going to have to start budgeting once those two—”

“Mom!” I interrupt. “I’m aware. I just need to get through the next eight weeks. Bedrest was not in the plan. But continuing to eat and keep food down? That kind of is.”

“He’s handsome.” She waggles her eyebrows at me.

“Shhh. And again, I am aware.” I shake my head.

“Is he single? Divorced, probably. I understand that chefs have one of the highest divorce rates of any profession. Stressful job, long hours.”

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