Miracle Baby (Harlequin American Romance) by Laura Bradford

shadowed her eyes were virtually gone, their presence masked by the foundation she’d unearthed at the bottom of her purse.
    â€œThat’s what you get for staying up all night,” Maggie muttered as she pulled back, sticking her tongue out at her reflection in the process.
    And it was true. Only this time she hadn’t stayed up because of nightmares or the kind of memories that left her in a cold sweat. No, this time she’d spent the night sitting on her sofa.
    Knitting.
    For hours after Delilah had left, Maggie had flipped through the guidebook, trying various stitches again and again until she felt she was ready to tackle an actual project. Then, armed with a navy blue yarn, she’d knitted from dusk until dawn, her very first attempt at a scarf earning an N for Not Too Bad.
    Tugging her pale blue sweater down around her hips, she took one final look in the mirror. She owed Rory another apology—this time for being such a downer the previous day. And when she was done, she’d thank him. For granting a wish she hadn’t realized meant so much.
    She inhaled every ounce of determination she could muster into her lungs, then opened the door to the hallway, turning back just as quickly.
    Should she bring it?
    Shaking off the momentary hesitation that threatened to curtail yet another step forward, she strode over to the sofa and reached for the scarf. When people brought a plate of cookies to a neighbor, it was polite to return said plate with a different treat, right? So wouldn’t the same hold true for someone who gave you a knitting lesson? Maggie wasn’t entirely sure, but tucked the scarf underher arm anyway as she headed toward the distant sound of a hammer.
    When she reached the same room she’d visited just twenty-four hours earlier, she stopped, gazing at the frame Rory had erected around the fireplace on the far wall. “Are those going to be built-in benches?” she asked from the doorway.
    The hammering stopped.
    â€œMaggie? Is that you?”
    â€œOne and the same,” she said, before nibbling her lower lip.
    He peeked around a corner, surprise chased from his eyes by the smile that lit his face and brought a tingle down her spine. “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”
    â€œI—I…” She stopped, unsure of what to say next.
    For a moment he simply looked at her. Then he pointed toward the fireplace. “You asked about that frame?”
    She nodded.
    â€œWell, you’re absolutely right. There’s going to be a built-in bench on either side of the fireplace. I imagine your uncle is going to put some sort of—”
    â€œCushions on them. Cushions with a bold stripe, accompanied by a few throw pillows reflecting the colors of the stripes—warm hues that’ll make you want to curl up beside a roaring fire and read. Or think.” She inhaled the image into her mind, and smiled. “Can’t you just picture it?”
    He slipped his hammer into his tool belt and nodded. “I can now. Wow. You really painted a picture in my mind with that description.”
    A flash of warmth flooded her cheeks. “It was easy because it came straight from my memory. That’s the way this suite looked when I was a kid. It was the one my uncle used to live in before he took over the one he’s in now. I spent a lot of hours on those benches, dreaming.”
    â€œWhat kind of dreaming?”
    â€œAbout having my own family again one day,” she said. The sadness from earlier threatened to send her scurrying back to her room, but she waved the memory away. “Sorry about that.”
    â€œDon’t apologize.” He gestured toward the frame. “As a carpenter, I see the structure. You, as a crafter, see ways to make it inviting. It’s the difference between plainness and style.”
    â€œYou think what you do is plain?” she asked.
    He shrugged. “I love what I create, I really