“And that is…?”
Gabe had found the woman far prettier than her picture. A beauty, in fact, with green almond-shaped eyes that were far too sultry—and a definite counterpoint to that starched, bookish look she seemed to hide behind. He could go easy on her, but that had never been his style.
He dropped the book on the speaker’s table in front of her. “Your theories, Dr. Moore, are a lot of hooey.”
“Hooey?”
She spoke the word like it were not in her vocabulary, her lips cupping it and forming something akin to a pucker as she did so, lips he’d consider kissing if it were the right time or place. Her green eyes sparked with silent fury, a warning he should back off. “Psychobabble, Dr. Moore.”
“I know the meaning of the word, Mr. Lawrence. But perhaps you could be a bit more specific than psychobabble or…hooey.”
There went that pucker again. It heated his insides in a way he wished it didn’t.
“Happily,” he replied. He’d go with a small point first. “You stated that twins should never be dressed alike. ‘It thwarts their individuality,’ I believe were your exact words.”
“I know what I said—and I stick by my theory,” she added emphatically.
Gabe wondered if she knew that twins were sometimes frightened, that sometimes there was comfort in pairs. Hannah and Heather had lost their mother recently—dressing alike gave them a sense of belonging, at least to each other. He wished they felt they belonged to him, as well—but that would come in time.
He hoped.
“It so happens, Doctor, that my twins like to dress alike. If one has a big pink bow in her hair, the other wants one, too. Same holds true for lacy socks or pink sundresses,” he added.
“Just a regular pair of little bookends, aren’t they?”
Gabe hadn’t missed the hint of sarcasm in her low, soft voice or the way her chin had raised when she’d delivered her comeback. She obviously wasn’t a woman who could be backed into a corner easily. “No need to get all prickly, Doctor. It’s just a practical fact—practical being the key word here. Something that was noticeably absent in those theories of yours.”
She gazed up at him, her green eyes soft and silvery in the overhead light. “Do you do this often, Mr. Lawrence?”
“What—point out the error of someone’s ways?”
That, too, Sabrina thought “No—sound so opinionated.”
He struck Sabrina as the kind of man who’d leave the parenting to his wife. In fact, she’d be willing to bet six months of her royalties on it. Still, she had to admit, he had come here to her talk—though he seemed to have missed the whole point of it.
He smiled. “Only when I believe strongly in something.”
“Well, I’d really love to stay and debate the practicality of my theories with you further, but I can’t right now.” She paused. “I’m giving a second talk here next week. Perhaps you and your wife would care to attend. You might even learn something.”
“I don’t have a wife.”
She’d picked up her briefcase and taken a step toward the door. Now she stopped and turned back to him. A single father struggling with twins. That could make an interesting sidebar to her research, but she quickly checked that thought. Not with this man, who made her all too aware of her femininity. And found fault with her carefully researched theories.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Because I hadn’t told you,” he offered.
“Well, then…perhaps you’d like to attend the session,” she added. “It’ll be a more in-depth—”
“I doubt that.”
“Doubt that you’ll attend?”
“Doubt that it’ll be more in-depth. I read your book, Dr. Moore. Cover to cover. You don’t go in depth on any point.”
Sabrina’s spine grew ruler straight. What did this man know about her work, her theories? “For your information, Mr. Lawrence,” she said emphatically, “that book was the culmination of five years of painstaking research, five years of dedicated study of child development. I have not one, but two—count ’em— two doctorates. I’ve taught countless seminars on the subject and have just finished a speaking tour around the country.”
He gave her a slow, thorough smile. “Yeah, well, that may be, Doctor. But have you ever seen a pair of twins up close and personal?”
“What?”
“You heard me. How many twins have you spent time with? Not studying them like a scientist would an interesting bug, but putting a ribbon in their hair, listening to their squabbles, drying their tears when they cry?”
Gabe watched her pretty mouth open, then close around whatever angry rebuttal she’d been about to toss his way. “That’s what I figured,” he answered smugly at her nonanswer.
She ducked her head and, clutching her briefcase, stormed through the doorway and down the hall, the firm click of her sexy high heels tapping a staccato beat against the tile floor.
Maybe he’d come on a little too strong—one of his less flattering habits, Gabe knew. “Hey, wait up,” he said and tailed after her.
“Look, I’m sorry,” he allowed when he’d caught up with her. “I didn’t mean my comment as a total criticism of your book.”
“Of course not.” She kept on walking. Down the hall and out the door into the bright early-afternoon sun. She didn’t even slow, just made for the parking lot and her small, sensible blue-gray car parked there.
Gabe kept pace beside her. “Look, maybe we can discuss this.”
She kept walking. “I’m a busy woman, Mr. Lawrence. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She reached for the door handle of her car.
“Then meet the twins. I promise you, you’ll learn a thing or two.” She’d learn just how silly a few of her well-thought-out theories really were. She’d learn how Gabe dealt with the realities of twins on a daily basis. She’d learn she didn’t have all the answers.
But the woman didn’t jump at his invitation. She only handed him a glower that could have buried a lesser man beneath the parking lot.
Gabe was not a lesser man.
“You surprise me, Dr. Moore. I thought you were woman enough to accept a challenge.”
She paused, tapping her fingers on the door handle of her car. “And just what challenge might that be?”
“Meet one cute little set of twins, head-on. Hannah and Heather,” he said. “I might be partial about the cute part, but then I’m their father.”
Hannah and Heather—at least it wasn’t rhyming names, Sabrina thought. She’d devoted a whole chapter of her book to what that did to siblings. She’d have to give him credit though for his fatherly pride.
“Look, I’m taking them for pizza tonight. Join us. Antonio’s—it’s their favorite place.”
“I—I have plans this evening,” she told him and opened her car door.
“Then how about tomorrow night? It’s the twins’ sixth birthday and I’m throwing a party for them. Cake, birthday punch, dinner.”
“A birthday party…?”
“Yes.”
Why was she hesitating? Why hadn’t she hopped in her car and roared off, leaving Gabe Lawrence standing in the dust, with nothing to do but stare at her retreating