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Here's what it's all about....
At thirty years old, caterer Lexie Baump has a lot on her plate. With a business to run, she doesn’t have time for any added distractions. But one momentary indiscretion adds a little hiccup to Lexie’s plans. She’s pregnant. With no relationship prospects.
But if Lexie thought fighting morning sickness while running a catering business was hard, enter Dr. Fletcher Haybee. Their connection is instant, and their love of vintage rock tee shirts and Elvis music is enough to bond them for life. There are just two minor problems.
One: he’s dating her oversexed best friend. Two: he’s also her obstetrician.
With events to cater, awkward OB appointments to endure, and her ever-growing baby bump making it impossible to close her jeans, Lexie has to find a way to curb her undeniable attraction toward Fletcher and focus on her new role as a working mother. But it certainly isn’t easy when its clear Fletcher himself feels the same magnetic pull toward Lexie.
Can Lexie leave the gorgeous Fletcher for her best friend to chew up and spit out, or will she cave to her feelings and find love in the stirrups? Life is about to get messy, and we're not just talking about crumbs in the car seat...
I rose up onto my knees, spit the toothpaste into the sink, and quickly rinsed my mouth out. “I can relate. Everyone has called me Bump for as long as I can remember. Geez, even my high school principal called me that.”
“No kidding?” Fletcher grinned.
“Wish I were.” I pulled my knees to my chest, and leaned against the cool porcelain of the tub.
“There’s a certain amount of irony in that, you know.” When I gave him a strange look, he nodded at my midsection. “Beings you’re pregnant, and will soon have a bump.”
“Thanks for reminding me.”
“Don’t feel too bad,” he lamented cheerfully. “My last name is Haybee, and I went on to become an obstetrician. All my nurses call me Dr. Baby.”
I giggled. “Dr. Baby?”
He blushed. “It’s pretty stupid.”
“I won’t argue with that.” I blew at a stray strand of my red hair. “So how many kids do you have, Dr. Baby?”
“Just one. A daughter. Martha.” Fletcher’s eyes sparkled when he said his daughter’s name.
“Martha? That’s beautiful. You don’t hear that name very often anymore.”
“Thanks. It’s my mother’s name. Have you thought of any names yet?”
I shook my head. “Ugh, no. I’m still processing the fact that I’m going to be a single mom.” I chewed the inside of my cheek and hoped he wouldn’t ask the inevitable question, but no such luck.
“Is the father involved? Will I be meeting him at one of your appointments?”
My teeth came down on the soft inner skin of my left cheek. “No.” When his light eyes probed mine for a second, I added, “Let’s just call this immaculate conception, okay, doc?”
His brow relaxed. “Hint taken.”
“Good.” I smiled, feeling some color return to my cheeks. “So how old is Martha?”
“She’s nine, going on twenty-five.” He laughed. “This morning she actually told me that someone my age should eat more whole grains.”
“You’re kidding.” I pictured a little girl with blonde hair the same sun-kissed shade as his, preaching to him across the breakfast table.
“I wish I were.” He leaned against the cabinet below the sink. “She’s just looking out for me. I think she feels responsible for me. I don’t mind. We’re buddies.”
This whole loving dad thing suited Fletcher, and I liked it. “How often do you see her?”
His eyes met mine again, and the corner of his mouth tugged upward. “Every day. Martha lives with me. She only sees her mom every few months. She’s in the basement playing with Brian and Candace’s kids.”
Well, color me surprised.
The good doctor not only brought new babies into the world, but he was also raising one on his own? Fletcher Haybee was becoming more attractive by the second. Now, if there was only some way I could get his shirt off him, to check for a six-pack…
“Candace says you own a catering business,” he said, interrupting my thoughts.
I nodded. “Yup. Eats and Treats. I started it with my friend, Marisol, after my divorce.”
One of Fletcher’s blond eyebrows tugged upward. “You’re divorced?”
“My past is becoming very sordid, isn’t it?” I hugged my knees. “My life isn’t usually such a soap opera. In fact, for the past few years, my friends have been telling me to stop acting like an eighty-year-old.”
His smile made my chest constrict. “You act like an eighty-year-old?”
“Well,” I began. “I don’t knit, and I don’t own a bunch of cats. But I enjoy a nice evening in, watching some lovely television programs.”
“The Lawrence Welch Show?” he teased.
“Do they even make that show anymore?” Tucking my hair behind my ears, I offered him a haughty expression. “No. But I have a weakness for the Food Network. Or any cooking competition show.”
Fletcher’s eyes widened. “Do you watch Culinary Countdown?”
I sat bolt upright. “I never miss an episode. They’re all on my DVR right now.”
“I love that show!” he exclaimed.
“Who do you want to win?” I demanded.
“I have no idea, but that Ralph has got to go. Did you see what he did to that pork loin last week? It was shameful.” Fletcher shook his head in disgust.
“Wow.” I looked down at my knees and tried to control my grin. I felt sixteen again. Talking to the star quarterback. “Do you cook?”
“Yes. But not very well.” He sighed sadly. “Though Martha makes a mean omelet.”
He was perfect. Like God had tailor-made my dream man, right down to the rock and roll tee shirts, then sent him down to Earth for me. My stomach roiled, and I grimaced. Since I was two months pregnant, meeting Fletcher right now was a horrible inconvenience. How sick in the head did I have to be, to feel attracted to my obstetrician? Talk about wrong.
“Hey, Lex. How are you feeling?” Candace peeked around the edge of the door.
She’d never been very good with vomit, so I wasn’t upset she’d kept her distance while my stomach turned itself inside out. The last few times her kids had gotten the flu, she’d wound up hurling at the sight of their little heads in the toilet.
I looked up at my cousin and realized how stupid I must have looked, sitting on her bathroom floor having a pow-wow with Fletcher. “Sorry I took so long. Dr…uh, Fletcher here has been talking me down.”
She frowned. “I’m so sorry you’re so sick.”
I sighed. “Apparently it’s par for the course.”
“It really is.” She leaned against the doorjamb, and looked down at Fletcher. “Did you check her out? Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. Just a bit of ‘all the damn time’ sickness.” He winked at me, stood up, and offered me a hand.
I pretended that a bolt of electricity didn’t shoot up my arm when I took it. “Thanks.”
“You’re a lucky girl.” Candace slid an arm around my shoulders. “Your doctor was right here for a quick check up.”
I glanced at Fletcher in all of his off-duty-doctor glory. My cheeks scalded. “Yup. Lucky. That’s me.”
“Come on.” She led me to the stairs. “Let’s go finish our talk. Thanks, Fletcher.”
“Anytime.” He drawled behind us.
Right as we started down the first step, I glanced over my shoulder, and he winked at me. “Ginger.”
I stopped, stumbling slightly. “What?”
Was he giving me a nickname? Wasn’t Ginger the hot chick on Gilligan’s Island? That meant this was a compliment, right? My heart skittered in my chest like a tween girl’s at a Beiber concert.
“Ginger,” he repeated. “Ginger ale. Ginger snaps. Ginger root. Ginger seems to help with the nausea. A few of my patients have mentioned it.”
“Oh.” I blinked a few times, my fantasy fading. “Right. Thank you.”
He returned to his game, and I followed Candace back into the kitchen. But so help me, for the rest of that football game, whenever the men burst into boos or cheers in the living room, I heard one voice above all the others.
I officially had a crush on my obstetrician.