by Piper Rayne
The darkened room didn't allow him to see Timmy. Carefully, he went to the sofa, expecting to find the little boy there. When he didn't, he frowned. He wanted to collect the child without disturbing Jillian, but she must have taken Timmy into her bedroom with her.
For a moment, he remained still, gazing in the direction of her bedroom door. He hoped she was still awake. The kiss they'd shared in the car earlier remained embedded in his brain and he'd had to force it from his thoughts the entire evening to concentrate on his work. But the taste of her, the feel of her, returned full force, tormenting his aplomb and his vow to remain unwed.
He thought his mind had been made up long ago. Even now, he told himself he was adamant about never marrying, or getting involved with anyone. Timmy needed him more than he needed or wanted a relationship. The company was at a unique place in its history, and Scott was just as determined not to pass this chance up. Unfortunately, he'd forgotten to tell himself falling in love wasn't in the criteria.
Because now, since meeting Jillian, he wanted more. He wanted all of her, and he wanted to give all of himself in return.
Running his fingers through his hair in agitation, he crept to her bedroom door and placed his ear against the cool wood. Hearing no sounds from the other side, he swallowed hard and opened the door.
A low watt bulb shone from the lamp and cast the room into soft light. Lingering in the doorway, he smiled tenderly. He should have known Timmy wouldn't have slept in total darkness. Or Jillian for that matter. Not since she'd confided in him that she hated the darkness.
Gritting his teeth, he ignored how it felt to be in Jillian's small, frilly bedroom, ignored the smell of fresh gardenias scenting the air. The pink terrycloth robe she'd worn on his first day of work here was thrown across the barrel chair, and her jeans and knit top lay across that same chair. Her sneakers lay haphazardly at the foot of the bed on the floor. This was her private sanctuary, and he felt as if he'd never belonged in any place more than this small, frilly, feminine room.
Finally, he went to the bed, where the two sleeping figures lay. Jillian wore oversized, white pajamas. Her hair, free and loose, covered the pillow like a tassel of silken gold threads. Lying on her back, her face turned to Timmy, she looked both enchanting and seductive. Timmy had snuggled as close to her as he possibly could, and Jillian's arm was around him protectively. With a wry shake of his head, Scott wished he was the one she was holding so lovingly. In spite of his best efforts, a spurt of jealousy toward his little brother coursed through him.
Was he losing it? How could he be jealous of little Timmy? His baby brother. The child he called his son, and who brought him daily and profound joy. No, he wasn't jealous. He was just longing to exchange places with him.
The impact of seeing Jillian extend a motherly hand to Timmy hit him hard, an arrow to his heart. He wanted to lean down and kiss her, but how could he disturb the peaceful image they presented, even to take Timmy into his arms and leave?
Scott could stretch out on the couch in the living room, and get Timmy home in the morning, in time for Mrs. Benson to get him ready for school.
Immediately, Scott nixed that idea. That would break too much into Timmy's sleeping pattern. He would just bring him home tonight and be done with it. That way, Timmy could get up at his usual time in the morning.
Stooping down next to the bed on Jillian's side, he gently patted her arm. "Jillian," he whispered.
Her long, dark lashes fluttered against her creamy skin. She opened her sleep-filled eyes, gazed at him momentarily, then turned on her side and faced him, closing her eyes again.
"Uh-huh?" she mumbled.
Unable to resist the urge to smooth her baby fine hair away from her face, Scott leaned in closer to her. Her skin was warm, kissable, beckoning to him. Giving in to the urge to kiss her, he planted a kiss on her delicate cheek, not daring to brush her lips with his own as he wanted to do; he swallowed at the contact.
"I'm leaving, Jilly," he whispered, caressing her chin. She leaned into his hand and a flash of desire rippled through him. Valiantly, he ignored it. "It'll be easier for Timmy to wake in his own bed."
A deep, contented sigh served as Jillian's only response. Straightening himself, he went to the other side of the bed, and lifted his sleeping brother into his arms. Then, shifting Timmy to his shoulder, Scott held him with the other hand, using his free one to secure all locks and other safety precautions at the Breakfast Nook, before making his way to his van.
As he drove away from Jillian's place, he made a firm decision. Not only would he help her out of her financial jam, he would also ask her out on a date.
10
"Rave, don't you have something to do, or someplace to go?" Jillian asked with irritation, glaring at the charred food on the counter. It was too late to prepare anything else, even if she'd had the food to prepare. She'd overslept and her guests would be down at any moment looking for nourishment, and Weizel's weasel-act from yesterday left her cupboards bare of pastries.
"Girl, get a grip!" Rave chastised. "You bought food for a hot breakfast last evening, so your guests won't starve. Life is just too short to get all bent out of shape over a few burnt biscuits."
"A few!” Rave was a prime target for murder, and Jillian felt she was just the person to do the deed. Wondering how he could have burned her breakfast pastry, she ignored the worry creasing Rave's brow. He hadn't burned just a few, as he so casually put it. He'd burned everything—the croissants, the biscuits, and the rolls. She should be grateful for Rave's attempt to help her while she overslept, but looking at the incinerated, frantically-bought food, gratitude escaped her. Her annoyance even overshadowed thoughts of Scott, and the vague memory she had of his invasion into her bedroom to collect Timmy.
Stomping to the counter and snatching one of the three large cookie sheets, she emptied the blackened croissants into the garbage disposal and switched the appliance on. "What happened to your newly wedded friends," she snapped, repeating the process with the other two cookie sheets. "They never came."
"We did the town last night, honey," Rave answered, his mood quite subdued this morning.
This wasn't the Rave she had come to know and love. Something was definitely wrong, but before she could question him, he started talking again.
"It was after one this morning when we got in, so I showed them to their suite.” He went to the newly-encased refrigerator and opened the door. Soon, margarine, ham, breakfast sausages, eggs, bacon, and sliced, white and wheat bread lined the counter. "I hope you don't mind that I did that, Jilly. They were quite ready to crash by the time we got here."
* * *
Feeling guilty, Jillian shook her head. How could she stay angry with someone who was always willing to give her a hand whenever he could?
Quietly, he got instant grits from a shelf, and several frying pans from the cabinet next to the stove. An unaccustomed silence grew between them, descending like a heavy mist. With a pang, she realized she had never really delved into Rave's life the way he'd delved into hers. But no matter what he was always there for her. Until she met Scott, she'd been so wrapped up in her own problems and concerns, her own desire to see her inn become a success, she never had time to really be a friend.
Last night, when she'd gone to her room, and found Timmy sitting dejectedly in front of the television, instead of going to bed as she'd thought to do, she'd spent some time with the child. After the problems of the day, it had actually felt good to read a children's book to him and watch another short video before they'd retired to her room. She'd given something to the little boy that she didn't believe she would ever give to anyone else after Douglas’s betrayal—herself, her undivided attention. And now Rave asked the same thing from her. For the first time in two months, she felt up to the job of just being a friend. Regarding Scott and her feelings for him, she still wasn't as self-confident and sure of her next move. She only knew that she had to make a decision soon. The job would be complete in ano
ther ten days and what would happen then?
"Talk to me, Rave. What's wrong?"
Rave looked up from his task of opening the packages. The lashes lengthened with additions or heavy mascara lowered over confused eyes. He smiled.
"You have enough to worry about—"
"No, Rave, if I can help, I want to. I want you to tell me what's the matter."
Rave hesitated. "Melba's pregnant."
* * *
Looking at the emotion on Rave's face, Jillian wasn't quite sure how to react. She wondered how Scott had reacted when he discovered his wife was carrying Timmy. Rave, however, needed advice, and she searched her mind for the correct thing to say. Having never been in a similar situation, words eluded her just then. She said the first thing that entered her mind. "Do you and Melba need me to do anything for you?"
"Honey, please!" he said with a slight laugh. "There's not much you can do now."
"Is she happy?"
"Ecstatic."
Unsure if she should ask her next question, Jillian shifted her weight. "Are you?"
For a moment, he stood silently, his expressive face unable to mask his whirling thoughts. Then, he nodded and said, "Believe it or not, I am. I'm just in shock, more so than Melba. Although we talked about the prospect of having a family, we never made a firm decision. Or at least I thought we didn't. Apparently, Melba had."
"When is the baby due?"
"Late December or early January."
Jillian went and wrapped her arms around Rave's neck. "Congratulations, sweetie. I just know you'll be the best dad this side of the Mississippi."
"I sure hope so," Rave said with a nervous laugh.
"Are you doubting yourself?" Jillian asked incredulously. "The man who wears dresses for a living with bold aplomb? Has something finally put a chink in that amazing armor of self-confidence you possess?"
* * *
"Jillian, think about what I do for a living," he answered. "Tell me, honey, how will my son react to seeing his father wearing huge wigs, pantyhose, and makeup? Or if it's a girl, how will she feel when I ask to borrow her lipstick? Either way, my kid might grow up with a serious complex."
"Rave, you're blowing this way out of proportion."
"Am I?” Rave went to the table and sat. He rubbed his temples. "My impersonating business is what I do best; it's the only thing I'm really good at. But faced with the prospect of becoming a father, well, I don't know."
"What does Melba say?" Jillian sighed, wishing she had something more to say, but the only words that kept rolling off her tongue were questions. She didn't think she was helping matters.
Rave drew in a heavy breath. "She wants me to sell the company. Or else she's leaving and raising the baby on her own."
"That's quite a decision to make so soon," Jillian said with sympathy. Rave had worked long and hard to see his company to the success it was today, and it really wasn't fair of Melba to make such an ultimatum. "Oh, honey, I'm so sorry. Melba will...” She paused. She really wasn't sure what Melba would or wouldn't do because she didn't know the woman. Making empty reassurances wouldn't help either. "Somehow everything will work out."
"Yes, I know, Jillian, but whether it works out with me keeping my wife and child as well as my business remains to be seen. Problems inevitably do have a way of being resolved. The catch is, it might not be resolved the way we would have liked or expected."
Rave had a certain outlook on life that never ceased to amaze her, and always helped her, even when she wanted to be on the giving end of the advice. The problem Weizel left her with when he didn't deliver her food had certainly worked out, although she didn't like the end results—or the other resulting problems. Her attraction to Scott was also coming to a head, hastening by his approaching departure. Now whether it was a solution she wanted was another story.
* * *
"I'm sorry, Rave. For everything. I guess I haven't been much help—"
"Jilly, honey, you've been more help to me in twenty minutes than anyone has been in weeks. You listened. There's no more of a way a person can show how much they care than that."
"Thank you."
"No. Thank you.” Rave stood and smiled at her as he returned to the counter.
Although he still had a sadness about him, he seemed more at peace than he had the entire morning. A deep sense of satisfaction entered Jillian and she too stood.
"Well, there you are," a feminine voice said.
Jillian turned to the sound and stopped in shock. A petite, blue-haired old lady greeted her, a wide smile wreathing her wrinkled face. "Hello, dear. You must be Jillian. You poor thing. Any word on the knuckle head who stole you blind?"
The impact of the old lady's words sank in and Jillian's eyes widened. She glared at Rave, who stood unrepentant. "Raveno Territo!" she screeched. "Why don't you just put it on the six o'clock news!? Your mouth is big enough to shove a mack truck through it!"
"Good one," the blue-haired old lady said with a laugh. "But he didn't do it on purpose. After his third Cyclone, he told us about both your problems. His wife's ultimatum and your predicament. Don't feel bad, dear. I've known Rave forever."
"Who is this person?" Jillian asked through gritted teeth.
"Meet one half of the honeymoon couple, Jilly. This is Ally.” A twinkle entered Rave’s eyes. "Mrs. Ally R. Gator."
* * *
"No!" Jillian managed. Did she have a magnet that attracted the weird and outrageous to her and her inn? In that moment, she seriously considered changing the name of her inn from the more conservative Breakfast Nook to the more appropriate Breakfast and Bedlam. She smiled weakly at Mrs. Ally Gator. "Th-that's a rather unusual combination of names, isn't it?"
Ally fanned a well-manicured hand in front of Jillian, the iridescent nail polish catching a spark of sunshine. "I know, dear.” She gazed around. "I heard you need a crash course in cooking. We'll do that later. Right now, I'm just going to help Rave with breakfast. Where do you keep your aprons?"
Speechless, Jillian pointed to a baker's rack next to the pantry.
"Actually, Jillian," Ally continued, tying the apron around her small waist. "My name is Allison. But you know how young people are with nicknames and all.” She nodded in Rave's direction. "Take Raveno. It does nothing for him until you shorten it to Rave, then it takes on showbiz quality.” With a frown, she glanced around the kitchen. "Rave, dear, go find out what everyone wants for breakfast. Let's all hope it isn't pastry."
"Oh no, Mrs. Gator!” Jillian quickly said, watching helplessly as Rave rushed out of the kitchen. Disaster imminent, her mouth went dry. Suppose someone asked for something she hadn't bought last night at the supermarket? "Mrs. Gator, we'll just prepare what we have and place it on the sideboard. That way everyone chooses their preference."
Before the words were fully out of her mouth, Rave returned to the kitchen with half the guests in his wake.
"Where's the little lady?” A big, brawny gentleman with a Stetson on his head, and a drawl accenting his words, stopped at the table. "What's her name? Alla Gater?"
* * *
"Ally Gator," Jillian moaned. There was something to be said about taking control of a situation. So far, her skills at doing just that were going from bad to worse. She needed to reassess her attitude and her initiative. "Her name is Mrs. Allison Gator."
Rave looked at her with sympathy as the horror she felt must have showed on her face. Still, he pointed to the little blue-haired lady next to her. "That's her. That's Ally Gator."
"Mornin' ma'am," the gentleman said, tipping his hat to her before meeting Jillian's gaze. "Don't you worry none, Miss Jilly. We'll git you through this and we're gonna find that rattlesnake who runned off with your money and the antick bracelet that got passed down to you from your ancestors."
"What bracelet?"
"You know, Jilly, the bracelet!” Rave's look told her to keep quiet. "The bracelet."
"You's too delicate a little lady to know what we do to cow
pucky like that down in Texas. But when we ketch him, you'll hear him hollering clear down to the Rio Grande! Now, you just go over there on that stool and sit down, while we fix breakfast this morning."
"No," Jillian said firmly. "I really can't. I must ask you all—"
"Not to burn anything else," Rave snapped. "Hush, Jillian. We've got everything under control. Now, do as Jesse asked."
Vowing this would never happen again, Jillian went to the stool and sat down, becoming an onlooker to the chaos that was going on in her kitchen. Suddenly, she wondered if Douglas had taken advantage of her so thoroughly because she'd always been a spectator to the inn, and possibly her own life, instead of a participant. Oh, she'd did her fair share of everything as she still did, but she always relinquished control whenever Douglas, or anyone, asked that she do so. It was so much easier for her to rely on the help of others, then to do whatever needed to be done herself.
* * *
With a sigh, she glanced at the clock. Seeing the lateness of the hour, she wondered where Scott was. She vaguely remembered him telling her he was leaving last night, which was the last thing she remembered until she woke up this morning to the smell of charred pastry.
Remaining stoically silent, she listened to the sympathy generated on her behalf, and all the ways her guests wanted to make Douglas pay for his thievery—none of which would be pleasant to see. Yet, at the moment, she didn't know who she wanted retribution from first—Douglas for his treachery or Rave for his! He'd told the whole world about her problems and then embellished it with that antique falsehood.
"How would you like your eggs, dear?" Ally asked, thankfully interrupting Jillian's murderous thoughts. "That nice, big, Texan named Jesse is doing Egg Duty.”
Ally pointed to two women at the counter where the toasters were.
