Suddenly Married by Loree Lough Page A

told God. And sighing with relief, Dara gathered the ingredients to make the main course.
    After positioning the stool near the counter, she found a package of link sausage in the fridge, a dozen eggs and a loaf of unsliced Italian bread. Quickly andefficiently, she dumped the meat into a cast-iron skillet, and while it sizzled, she sliced the bread. “Have you ever made toast, Bobby?”
    “No, ma’am.”
    But it was obvious by the excitement gleaming in his blue eyes that he’d love an opportunity to try. “Well, you’re in charge of toast.” She pulled open several drawers until she found the one where Noah kept the silverware. Handing the boy a butter knife and a stick of margarine, she slid two pieces of bread into the toaster and patted the stool. “Now, you have to be very, very careful not to touch anything until I tell you it’s safe,” she said as Bobby climbed onto the seat. “We don’t want you to burn your fingers, now do we?”
    Grinning from ear to ear, he said, “No, ma’am.”
    She tucked in one corner of her mouth. “Bobby, sweetie, would you do me a really big favor?”
    He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
    Dara rested a hand on his shoulder. “Please don’t call me ‘ma’am.’” She wrinkled her nose. “Makes me feel like an old fuddy-duddy.”
    His brow crinkled. “What’s a fuddy-duddy?”
    Laughing, Dara drew him into a hug. “A fuddy-duddy is a stuffy crone.”
    “Oh,” he said gravely, his expression and tone telling Dara he didn’t know what a crone was, either. “What would you like me to call you?”
    If it were up to her alone, they’d call her “Dara.” Period. But since Noah never corrected them when they referred to him as “Father,” like youngsters out of an old Dickens tale, she presumed he wouldn’t approve of that. “How about calling me ‘Miss Dara,’” she suggested. “You’ll have to call me ‘Miss Mackenzie’when we’re in Sunday-school class, of course, so the other children won’t be jealous, but when it’s just us—”
    “Why would they be jealous?” Angie wanted to know.
    Standing, Dara slipped an arm around the girl’s shoulders. “They might think that since we’re, ah, special friends, I might give you special treatment.”
    “I get it,” Bobby blurted. “They’ll think we’re teacher’s pets!”
    “Exactly!” Dara said. “Now, we’d better get busy, or your dad will be down before we even get started.”
    “I can’t believe he’s sleeping so late,” Angie admitted. “He’s usually the first one up. Most days, when we come downstairs, he already has our cereal in a bowl and our milk and juice poured.”
    Bobby nodded in agreement. “And a spoon on our napkin, with a vitamin next to the spoon.”
    Her heart skipped a beat as she acknowledged all the little, caring things he’d been doing since the children’s mother died. She opened the cupboard where Noah kept the plates, took four from the shelf and carried them to the table. “Let’s get this out of the way so we won’t have anything to distract us.”
    In minutes, it seemed, breakfast was ready.
    Noah came into the room as if on cue, his eyes still sleep puffy, sheet wrinkles dimpling his cheeks. He’d put on jeans—black ones this time—and a gray-andwhite flannel shirt and, in place of the sneakers, a pair of well-worn leather loafers.
    “How’s a guy supposed to sleep with all these wonderful scents flittin’ through the air?” he croaked.
    Dara began filling their plates as Bobby giggled. “You sound like a frog, Father.”
    Grinning, Noah picked up his son, planted a noisy kiss on his cheek. “Sorry,” he said, and proceeded to clear his throat.
    “Now you sound like a bear,” Angie put in.
    He scooped her up, too, and pressed a kiss to her temple. “G’mornin’, darlin’. Did you sleep tight?”
    She nodded. And smiling, Angie said, “ You sure slept late today. What happened? Did your alarm clock break?”
    Gently, he put the children