by Nora Roberts
Harry eyed him speculatively. “Do you know how to play?”
“Please. You’re looking at the reigning town champ.”
“Nuh-uh.”
Beckett just smiled, flexed his fingers. “Bring it on.”
THEY WERE PRETTY good, even the little guy. It shouldn’t have surprised him to find himself in real competition. He’d been battling his brothers at video games at five. Harry had patience and a knack for strategy while Liam went full-out, a technique that either paid off big-time or went down in flames.
And Murphy? He just lived it.
They bitched and moaned a lot, accused each other or the game itself of cheating regularly. Beckett either ignored them or joined in. Once they got over the shock of not being called out for poor sportsmanship or not being told it was just a game and supposed to be fun, they got louder, and wilder.
“I smoked you!” Harry cackled, shook his fists in the air.
Not entirely pleased at being smoked by an eight-year-old, Beckett scowled at the screen. “Shit.”
“You’re not supposed to say bad words,” Murphy informed him.
“You’re not supposed to say bad words. I have a license to swear.”
Liam snorted. “Come on.”
“And it’s up for renewal next month. Let’s—shit,” he repeated when he noticed the time. “We were supposed to eat a half hour ago.”
“We’ve got another Ben 10 game.” Harry bounced up to get it out of the case. “We can play it first.”
“Gotta fuel up, otherwise your mom will kick all our butts.”
“Butts are behind so you know how to write a b.”
Beckett studied Liam. “Okay. Let’s eat.”
He didn’t tell them to pick up the games. Harry hesitated, then shrugged and raced to the kitchen.
In the spirit of solidarity Beckett chose a Hulk plate. It amazed him that they ate salad without whining about it, but maybe it was because they rehashed the games while they wolfed it down.
Or they were starving since dinner was late.
They asked for Coke. Murphy broke as Beckett poured it out.
“We’re supposed to have milk. We’re not supposed to have soda.”
Liam shoved him. Murphy shoved back.
“Cut it out. It’s a special occasion. Man Night. Sodas all around.”
“He hit me.”
“I did not.”
“Yeah, you did,” Beckett said before Murphy could come up with the inevitable “did, too.” “And you hit back. It’s a wash.”
“I’m telling Mom,” Murphy muttered.
“You can’t do that, man.” Beckett shook his head as he scooped spaghetti, without warming it up, onto plates.
Torn between insult and being called man, Murphy stared at him, bottom lip quivering. “How come?”
“Code of Brotherhood. It’s strictly enforced on Man Night. What goes on here, stays here.”
Murphy thought about it as he studied his plate. Nobody cut up the spaghetti or the meatball. Maybe because it was Man Night. He stabbed at the meatball with his fork, and sent it winging across the table to land in Liam’s lap.
“Two points,” Beckett commented.
Then all hell broke loose.
On a cry of rage, Liam scooped up the meatball, threw it at his brother. He had damn good aim, and bounced the meatball off Murphy’s forehead.
Beckett had to give the little guy credit. He didn’t cry; he didn’t hesitate. He attacked.
He bounded out of the chair, leaping toward Liam. Spaghetti flew like wet confetti. Beckett managed to hook an arm around Murphy’s waist, haul him back as he kicked enthusiastically at his brother. Wild to retaliate, Liam made a grab. Beckett shifted to block, bumped the boy into the table.
And the cup of soda dumped all over Harry.
Desperate to stop the war, Beckett scooped up Liam as Harry, fists bunched, jumped up.
“Hold it, hold it. Harry, that was my fault. I knocked it over. Take it easy. Everybody just stop!”
“He did it on purpose!” Liam accused and tried to wiggle around to punch his little brother.
“Did not.” Murder in his eye, red sauce on his face, Murphy got in one good kick. “He didn’t cut it up. It’s his fault.”
“Everybody stop! Quiet!”
The shouts and accusations snapped off. Three mutinous faces stared at him as Beckett surveyed the damage. “Wow, that’s a pretty big mess.”
The meatball that started it sat partially smashed on the floor. Noodles and sauce glopped over the table.
“Mom’s gonna be mad.” And now Murphy’s eyes shone with tears.
“No, she’s not. Look, kid, these things happen when men eat together without women around.”
“They do?”
“I’m looking at it, so they do. Everybody just sit down.”
“He threw a meatball at me.”
“He didn’t throw it at you,” Beckett corrected as Liam stared at Murphy with the active dislike only siblings can feel for one another. “It was an accident because I didn’t cut it up. It’s my first day on the job, so cut me some slack. Go on and sit down.”
“But I got meatball on my pants.”
“So what? We’ll clean up after we eat.”
He set Murphy down, then picked up the guilty meatball and tossed it in the sink before sliding Murphy’s spaghetti back on his plate. He got a knife, another meatball out of the take-out dish, then set to work cutting it up.
“Big Chief Murphy. You look like you’re wearing war paint.”
And the boy smiled at him, sweet as an angel. “I like pisgetti.”
“Me, too. Want yours cut up, Liam?”
“Okay.”
“Gut shot.” Beckett poked a finger on the red stain on Liam’s T-shirt. “And still up for the battle. Harry?”
“I like to twirl it.”
“Good plan.” Fairly exhausted, Beckett dropped into his chair. “Dig in, men.”
CHAPTER NINE
THEY ATE LIKE WOLVES, BECKETT INCLUDED. MAYBE virtual war followed by a minor meatball fight piqued the appetite. After the meal, the best solution he could come up with was to strip them down in the tiny laundry room off the kitchen. As he tossed his spaghetti-tagged shirt in the machine for good measure, the boys did what naked boys have done throughout history.
They ran around the house yelling like heathens.
He wasn’t sure which was more of a mess, the kitchen or the kids, but opted to deal with the kids first. Since he doubted Clare’s standards stooped low enough to deck out three sticky, sauce-stained kids in their pajamas, he herded them into the bathroom.
“It’s a three-for-one,” he announced. “Everybody into the pool.”
“Can we have bubbles?” Murphy asked.
“I don’t know, can you?”
“We got Spider-Man.” Harry reached onto a shelf in the splinter-sized linen closet, took out a Spidey-shaped bottle.
“Very cool.” Beckett dumped a hefty dose in the water. “Okay, hop in, and I’ll—”
“We need our toys.” Liam got a plastic basket out of the closet, dumped in all contents. From the sneaky look he shot Beckett, Beckett figured that wasn’t how their mom handled it.
But, it was Man Night.
“Okay—”
“We need our soap stuff.” Harry got a pump bottle. “You can wash your hair and your skin with it.”
“Handy.”
“But you gotta wash our hair,” Murphy told him.
“Okay.” Beckett studied the bottle. “Let’s go for it.”
They climbed in. If he hadn’t been distracted by Spider-Man, toys, and soap stuff, he’d have considered water displacement.
He switched off the taps, tossed a towel on the floor where the water had lapped over. Because he was currently shirtless, he metaphorically rolled up his sleeves and got to it.
Realized inside of thirty seconds he’d need more towels.
It brought back dim memories of b
aths with his brothers, the water battles, the floods, the silly fun.
The wheedling protests when it was time to get out.
“Here’s the deal about Man Night. Women come back. If your mom comes home and sees this bathroom, the kitchen, men, we are toast. It’s better to get rid of the evidence.”
He pulled the plug. Between the floor, the walls, the kids, he used half a dozen towels. And now naked boys ran around yelling again, but at least they were clean.
“Everybody go suit up.” Beckett grabbed wet toys out of the tub, tossed them in the basket. “I’ve got to go deal with the kitchen.”
He carted the towels down, switched the wet clothes to the dryer, dumped the towels in the washer.
He glanced at his watch. Jesus, how the hell did it get to be quarter to eight? Moving fast now while running feet and shouts sounded from upstairs, he stuck dishes in the dishwasher. He scrubbed off the table, swiped the sauce off the floor, then tossed the dishrag in the washer with the towels.
“Hey, you need to come down and put away these games.”
“We’re putting on our pajamas!” Harry shouted back.
The hyena laughter followed.
“Yeah, I bet.”
But time was running out. He made a dive for the living room, gathering up games, controllers, then charged up the stairs.
They’d pulled on the bottoms, and wore the tops on their heads like war bonnets as they sat on the floor around a small mountain of action figures.
“I can fart with my arm,” Murphy told him. “Liam showed me.”
He demonstrated to his brothers’ hysterical laughter.
“An important life skill, well executed. Tops on, guys. Your mom’ll be home any minute.”
“She says it’s rude to fart in public, even with your arm.”
“Words to live by.” Taking matters in his own hands, Beckett tugged down Murphy’s shirt.
And got that angel smile again.
“Can it be Man Night tomorrow?”
The oddest sensation of pleasure glowed in Beckett’s belly. “Can’t tomorrow, but we’ll do it again.”
“We can do it when it’s not school, then have a sleepover.”
Here’s hoping. “I’d like that.”
“Mom’s home. Mom’s home.” Murphy raced off, followed by, then passed by, his brothers.
When he started down they surrounded her, Murphy holding his arms up to be lifted, and all of them talking a mile a minute.
She laughed, hitched Murphy up, managed to kiss the top of Liam’s head and run her hand over Harry’s.
“Man Night, huh? Well, we’ll have to . . .” She looked up at Beckett as he came down the stairs. Blinked. “Ah, hi.”
“Hi. How’d it go?”
“Really well. Um, how’d it go here?”
“Good. We just played some poker, drank a six-pack.”
“Naturally. You boys have to go up and brush your teeth. I’ll be up in a couple minutes. Say good night to Beckett.”
He got high fives from Harry and Liam, a down low and leg hug from Murphy.
“We’re gonna have a sleepover,” Murphy told his mother. “Bye, Beckett. Bye!”
Clare set her purse aside as they raced upstairs. “So, everything’s okay?”
“Sure.”
“You didn’t have to give them baths.” She tapped the side of her nose when Beckett looked blank. “They smell like their bath soap.”
“Oh yeah, well . . . There was a little spaghetti incident.”
“I see. Is that why you’re not wearing a shirt?”
“Oh, right.” He glanced down. “Forgot. I tossed the shirt in the washer with their clothes. They’re drying. Ah, there was also some minor flooding, so I dumped the towels in the wash.”
It was her turn to look blank. “You did laundry?”
“Sort of. I deserve a reward.”
“I guess you do.” She stepped to him, kissed him on one cheek, then the other before laying her lips softly on his.
His bare skin was warm and firm, his arms strong as they wrapped around her.
“You smell like an orange smoothie,” she murmured. And wanted to lap.
“Sorry?”
“The bath wash I use on the kids. It’s different on you. Beckett—”
“Mom!” Liam’s shout made her jump. “We brushed our teeth. Harry’s got the book.”
“Okay. Be right there. Sorry, it’s bedtime, and I try to read to them for a few minutes most nights.”
“I’ll get going. I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow.”
“You can’t go out without a shirt.”
“I don’t think anything of yours will fit me.”
“But—”
“It’s still warm out.” He gave her another quick, light kiss.
“Well, thanks.” Flustered, she stepped back. She’d actually started to ask him to stay—until his shirt dried. Maybe have a glass of wine with her. Maybe . . .
“Mom!”
“No problem. I had fun. See you tomorrow.”
She sighed, locked up behind him. “Coming,” she called when Liam shouted again. Probably better this way, she thought. She could hardly—maybe—with Beckett while her kids were right upstairs.
BECKETT PULLED INTO his slot in the parking lot behind Vesta.
When he started down the walkway to the stairwell, Brad, their plumber, called down from his seat on the dining porch. “Hey, Beck! Rough night at the poker table? Lose your shirt?”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
In his apartment, he went directly to the fridge for a beer, then switched on the TV, flopped on the couch.
“Good God.” He felt like he’d just finished running the Boston Marathon.
How did she do it? How the hell did she do all that every day, and probably a lot more? But just the dinner, the squabbles, the mess, the sheer volume of stuff that needed to be remembered, done, handled with three kids. It was mentally and physically exhausting.
Fun, he admitted, but exhausting.
And she’d have to get up in the morning, get them up, dressed, fed. Then go to work. After work, she’d replay—basically—what he’d just done. And with all that, she still had to maintain the house and run a business.
Did women have superpowers?
Regardless, he was sending his mother flowers in the morning.
“WHEN I HEARD he came home shirtless, I thought, that Clare. She’s a wild woman.” Avery leaned back on her elbows on Clare’s bed.
“More like wild boys.”
“Flying meatballs, bath floods.” Avery shook her head. “And he’s still taking you out tonight. Shows character.”
“Once I convinced Murphy to make me an honorary man, he spilled his guts. Plus I found a couple spaghetti sauce handprints Beckett missed.” She picked up the earrings Hope had selected. “He did great, really, and got out fast. Didn’t even wait for his shirt to dry.”
“Is that code?”
“Not entirely. Though I was going to ask him to stay awhile, maybe open a bottle of wine.”
“You are a wild woman.”
“You know you can put men and sex on the back burner.” To test the earrings, Clare tipped her head from side to side. “In fact, you can take them off the stove altogether. It’s not easy to fit them into the schedule anyway. But . . . once I started thinking about Beckett that way, and realized he thought about me that way . . .”
“The heat got turned up.”
“The pot’s simmering away. It’s not as easy to keep it on the back burner now.”
“Move it up front. Be proactive.”
“I guess I’d better see how it goes tonight first. We’re sure this works, right?” She did a little turn.
“You look fantastic. That shade of blue, turquoise I guess, looks amazing on you.”
Clare narrowed her eyes at her reflection. She liked the dress’s simple lines, just a little flow to the skirt that stopped shy of her knees. “With or wit
hout the sweater?”
“Start with, then you can slip out of it later. Yeah.” Avery nodded approval. “A very nice end-of-summer look. Nervous?”
“A little. And excited. I’m going on a date, and for the first time with a man I’m actually interested in.”
“Proactive,” Avery repeated.
“I started back on the pill. Is that proactive or aggressive?”
