No, each item was meticulously labeled in the distinctive handwriting she already recognized. Mr. Temporary, Mr. I’m-No-Family-Man, had taken the time and trouble to select the family memories that Daisy would take to her new life.
Weaver came awake in early morning’s dim light. He stretched beneath the twisted bedclothes, realizing he didn’t ache, didn’t burn, didn’t feel any leftovers of the illness except a sticky saltiness to his skin.
A brief warm shower in the bathroom next to his room took care of that problem. Now even more alert, he padded down the hall to Daisy’s room. She slept soundly under a neatly folded baby blanket. Obviously Molly had taken good care of her the day before.
Back in the hallway, Weaver noted a dull glimmer of light shining beneath the fourth bedroom door. Frowning, he strode the few steps and palmed open the door, swinging it inward silently. The room functioned as an office, and light from a small banker’s lamp spilled over the desk and onto the nearby leather couch.
Spilled like a moonbeam onto Molly’s tousled hair.
Weaver sucked in air. The nanny slept as soundly as her charge, curled on her side beneath a crocheted afghan. Suddenly he remembered Molly coming to his room last night, bringing a dinner tray and then bullying him into eating the soup and crackers. She’d touched his cheek and forehead with her palm, all the while grumbling something about hope and his chest.
A feverish tremor ran through him, and he wished he could blame it on the flu. Instead he knew it was a reaction to Molly.
He commanded his feet to back off, back away, but his size twelves stepped forward and he found himself settling into the stiff-backed chair beside the desk.
He liked listening to her breathe.
He stared at the sweet curve of her cheek, the promising roundness of her body beneath the afghan she’d pulled around herself. He remembered again the tender touch of her hand against his skin.
As if she heard his presence, her eyes opened. She blinked a couple of times then smiled at him sleepily. “Are you okay?” Her voice sounded hoarse. Sexy. “Do you need something?”
“I’m fine,” he said. “All better.”
“And Daisy?”
He had to smile back. “In dreamland.”
She untucked her hands from beneath her cheek to reveal a stuffed elephant made of soft terry. “Pillow,” she explained, stretching. Then she sat up slowly.
The elephant had creased her cheek. The afghan slid off her shoulders, revealing the T-shirt he remembered her wearing the day before. His gaze fell to the floor beside the couch and onto her jean shorts, just a scrunched puddle of denim beside her scuffed running shoes.
He liked the elephant mark on her cheek, her warm smile, the fact that she’d stayed the night when he and Daisy needed her.
A weird longing knocked on his doorless heart.
That’s it. He slapped his hands on his thighs. Time
to go. Feeling warm and fuzzy toward the nanny was a bad idea.
“I’m hungry,” he said, though he didn’t want food.
He needed to get away, and the kitchen seemed a logical escape.
Her arms stretched toward the ceiling. “Me, too. I’ll make waffles if you fry the bacon.”
What could he say? Next thing he knew he was dodging bacon splatters and Patch’s tail while Molly one-handedly whipped up buttermilk batter. With her free arm, she balanced Daisy on one hip.
The food tasted delicious. Thank God Molly read the newspaper in the same sequence he did. Without their unashamed squabble over who got the sport section first—followed by a ten—dollar bet on the baseball standings by the All—Star break—the morning hours might have been too comfortable.
Dishes went to the person least suited to put Daisy down for her morning nap.
“I hate the smell of dish-washing liquid,” he grumbled
“How do you feel about a dirty diaper?” Molly sent a significant look in Daisy’s direction.
He simply changed his story. “I love the smell of dish-washing liquid,” he answered, grabbing dishes and dashing for the kitchen sink.
Kitchen chores accomplished, he headed for the stack of paperwork in the office. He found Molly, her hair smoothly brushed and rebraided, sitting on the couch again. For some reason, he dropped back into the straight chair and watched her tie her shoelaces then neatly fold the afghan.
She laid the blanket on her lap and gazed about the room. “It’s cozy in here,” she said. “The whole house is cozy.”
Cozy.
The word startled Weaver like the chu-chunk of a loading shotgun. He must be going soft! Inhaled too much baby powder or something. Here he was, sharing another cozy moment with a cozy woman in a cozy house.
God.
He had no business sharing cozy. He had no business looking at Molly like he had, and she had no business looking at him like she was right now. As if he were husband and daddy material, or date bait at the very least.
His mind said run, but for some crazy reason his feet stayed firmly fixed to the floor.
He swallowed, thinking fast. “It’s sure nothing like my town house in Maryland. I bought it furnished and decorated—in bachelor drab—from another guy in the company.” There. He crossed his arms over his chest. Surely she’d get his meaning.
“Oh, this house must be a welcome change, then.”
She didn’t get it.
Weaver tried again. With words, that is, because his body still failed to respond to his command to leave the room. “My place doesn’t bother me. I’m hardly ever there.”
“You don’t live with anybody?”
Ah. Now they were getting somewhere. “Nope. I like living alone. I like being alone.”
She nodded, as if the picture was coming into focus. “There’s not a woman in your life, then?”
He leaned forward—his body seemed willing enough to move toward Molly—and rested his elbows on his knees. “Not permanently. Never permanently. Never cozily.”
Molly laughed.
Startled, Weaver straightened.
“I get it,” she said, and chuckled again.
He blinked. “Get what?”
“What you’re trying to tell me. You were worried that I was getting a little too comfortable here.”
He shifted uneasily in his chair. “I don’t know what you mean.”
She laughed again. “Give it up, Reed. You thought maybe I was taking this playing house too seriously.”
He wiped his palms against his pant legs. “I did not.”
She shook her head. “You don’t need to worry. I can recognize your type from a hundred yards and I’m immune to ‘em.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He didn’t like being a “type.”
“You’re a temporary. Temporarily in one place. Temporarily interested. Temporarily interesting. And I have a pearl-encrusted wedding gown, three moderately pukey bridesmaids’ dresses and enough engraved and unused wedding invitations to keep me innoculated for the rest of my life.”
The “temporarily interesting” kind of hurt. “And how do you know so much about it?” He frowned. “And where does a crusty wedding dress fit into the picture?”
She rolled her eyes. “Pearl-encrusted. I made the mistake of thinking I might marry a temporary once upon a time.”
“Why’d you do that?”
She shrugged and looked away. “Just one of those ten stupid things that women do. He thought I could change him. I thought I could change him. That our love would change him.”
Weaver already hated the guy. “You’re lucky to be rid of him.”
“That’s right,” she said. “I want marriage and family. So now I don’t let your type get to me. I’m not inclined or interested, and I’m unable to fool myself.”
“Fool yourself?”
“That I could ever change a man. She crossed her arms over her chest. “That a man can ever change. You’re either born with the love-and-family gene or you’re not.”
�
�I’ll give you that,” he said. The one thing in his background he was sure about was that the Reeds lacked the “family” strand of DNA. He scooted forward on the seat of the chair and leaned toward Molly. “However, I’d like to voice an objection to ‘temporarily interesting.’“
She sat up straight, pressing back into the leather sofa. “That’s your ego talking.” The banker’s lamp, still on, spotlighted a fluttering pulse in her throat.
Probably. But it seemed that his ego had more to say. “And maybe I don’t believe you’re immune, either.” Scooting farther forward until his knees bumped hers, he put his hands on the couch on either side of her thighs.
“Well, I am,” she said staunchly, though the telltale pulse kicked up.
“You know as well as I do that there’s some sort of attraction between us.”
She didn’t meet his eyes. “It means nothing.”
“So if I kissed you, you’d feel nothing.”
She nodded. “Right.” Her voice was almost a whisper.
“Just like the other day.”
Her eyes widened a tiny bit, and satisfaction drove through him. “What about the other day?” she said.
Nice try. “When we shared that kiss by mistake.”
She half smiled nervously. “Oh. That. You said it. A mistake.”
His thumbs inched over and stroked her thighs, making contact with the warm skin between her shorts and her knees.
She jumped as he found her smooth flesh. “A mistake,” she said again.
“Wanna bet? Another ten bucks?”
She squared her shoulders. “Fine,” she said. “Not money, though. Dishes for a week.”
But he wasn’t listening. Because the closer he got to her mouth, the less he heard from his ego and the more something…else was taking over. He’d call it sex, lust, libido, because it heated his blood, but it was twisted up with a tender emotion that…
His train of rational thought derailed.
5
Go ahead and kiss me, Molly thought. I’ll prove to you I am immune.
His mouth descended, hot and hard.
Heat blossomed on her skin and the strand of his hair that fell against her brow did nothing to cool her.
Oh, he tasted good. Toothpaste. Ninety-nine and forty-four hundredths percent pure soap. She parted her lips to inhale his warm breath, and he slid his tongue across the inner surface of her lower lip. She trembled.
Dishes were hers this week, she thought dazedly.
With a last effort, her fingers dug into the afghan on her lap, then surrendered to travel up the rigid columns of his arms. Her hands curled around his biceps. He slanted his mouth, pushing her willing lips open for his tongue.
Sweet invasion. He connected with her, his tongue running against her teeth, the roof of her mouth, rubbing against her own tongue as if he needed to know every surface. A moan. Hers. He groaned in response.
Maybe she tugged, maybe he fell forward. Whichever it was, suddenly he was on the couch beside her. Her arms circled his neck and he groaned again, his mouth pressing harder.
Heck, this felt so right. Lying against his torso, she shifted her legs restlessly, trying to untangle them from the blanket, which had unfolded and was strangling them.
“Molly,” he said against her mouth.
“That’s me,” she answered around the kiss, still struggling with the afghan.
He was sitting on a twist of blanket, and he rolled on one hip to jerk it free. Released, the afghan slid to the floor, revealing her bare legs, her shorts, the hem of her old T-shirt riding up around her midriff.
No time to sense the cool wash of air. From ankle to thigh, Weaver’s big hand stroked a hot path. “Honey.”
No time to question anything, not when his lips fell onto hers again, not when his tongue thrust its way to the hot heart of her mouth. His palm slid to her other thigh, traveled over her shorts, skimmed the clenching muscles in her belly.
Her heart booming, she tangled her tongue with his. This feels so right.
The maddening man lifted his head. “Honey?” His voice was deep and hoarse. “You make me crazy.”
Crazy. The word braked her heart to a shuddering stop. That’s right. This was crazy. The whole idea of necking with Weaver was nuts. Certifiable.
“We have no reason to be kissing,” she said. They had no future, and she was years past kissing for the fun of it. She ran a hand over her face, keenly aware of each of his five fingers spread across her midriff.
“Then we’ll stop,” he said, resolve just as thready in his voice. But his hand merely flexed against her skin.
Beneath her bra, her nipples tingled. “Okay.” Molly ignored the sensation and closed her eyes, bracing for the absence of his touch.
His hand didn’t move. “Maybe I can give you a reason.”
She opened her eyes to see in his not humor but need.
“I’ll be generous here. We can make that bet double or nothing.”
The pure ridiculousness of the offer made Molly laugh, then made her want to kiss him again.
He must have seen it on her face, because his lips came down satisfyingly hard. She pressed her tongue forward, entered his mouth, heard him groan. Oh, I’ve been waiting for this my whole life, Molly thought.
Lifetimes later, he lifted his head to pull in a ragged breath.
“Weaver,” she whispered, just to hear herself say his name. The sound of want in her voice made her tremble more, and his hand flexed again on her midriff.
He stared at her and put on a halfhearted grin. “Want another kiss? Could be fun.”
Cold reason doused her. Fun. She wanted more. She’d always wanted it all. The man, the house, the baby. This felt so right, but…
“No,” she said.
Molly heard crying. For a tiny second she thought it might be her heart, then realized Daisy Ann had awakened. Daisy Ann, her temporary charge, the temporary baby of this temporary man.
Weaver heard it, too. He straightened, his hand leaving Molly’s skin to automatically smooth down her T-shirt. They both rose from the couch.
He cradled her cheek in his wide, masculine palm. “You’re sure?” he asked.
His eyes betrayed no feeling, his expression remained blank. Against her ribs, Molly’s heart slammed. It felt too big, too fragile.
She nodded. “Dishpan hands can be terminal.”
A wave of something—pain? regret?—crossed his face. “Yeah,” he said. “You’re right.”
“Wrong again,” Gabe told Weaver over the phone. “I have not been using up my sick days or my vacation.”
“Then how come you haven’t found a soul to take Daisy Ann?” Weaver heard the racking frustration in his voice.
“What’s the matter, big guy. Tired of changing diapers and warming bottles?”
“I have a nanny now,” Weaver muttered.
“So what’s your problem?”
Weaver muttered again. “The nanny’s my problem.” Big problem.
Two days ago Daisy had come down with the same flu that had flattened Weaver. Though the pediatrician declared the bug nothing serious, thankfully Molly had moved into the house to provide Daisy Ann with round-the-clock care. And provide Weaver with round-the-clock frustration.
“Not exactly Mary Poppins, huh?”
Weaver closed his eyes. God, if only Molly would wear a pin-striped blouse and a long skirt. Hold an umbrella over her pretty face. Instead, her fresh smile and her daily getup of T-shirt and shorts were driving him to the edge.
That and the two of them on the office couch. He’d yet to find a way of dealing with the memory.
“Not exactly Mary Poppins,” he confirmed.
“Any bites on the house?”
Weaver sighed. “Don’t bring that up. If someone doesn’t offer soon, I’m gonna have to cut the front lawn.”
“Better do it today. You need to go for that curbside appeal.”
“What the hell is curbside appeal?”
“Saw it on one of those cable TV home shows,” Gabe answered. “You have something like seven seconds to attract a buyer. They drive past and make up their minds if they’re interested almost immediately. Maybe it’s three seconds.”
“Seven seconds?” Weaver repeated stupidly. “Three seconds?” Hell. He was in big trouble. The front yard was looking more ragged by the day, and a quick sell was his only path to sanity. He needed to get back to his old life.
He needed to get away from Molly.
He needed to find that family for Daisy Ann.
Which brought him back to Gabe. “Tell me you’re doing everything to find someone for Daisy.”
His partner’s voice lost its normally lighthearted edge. “You know I am. I want the best for her, too.” He cleared his throat. “Don’t worry about things here at my end. Worry about the house and that nanny.”
Weaver groaned. “Don’t get me thinking about the nanny.” He desperately cast about for a distraction. “The house. Now that I can do something about.”
Weaver did what he could. He washed the front windows until they sparkled, realizing it wasn’t so different from washing dishes—something every foster kid learned early. The front flower beds got weeded—another piece of cake. To reward his domesticity he allowed himself to wash the two cars he was selling. Washing and waxing the sedans wasn’t really necessary, but at least it was a familiar task. Detailing cars was a guy thing, not just a suburban guy thing.
Finally, only one task remained. The overgrown lawn. At the far corner of the front yard, Weaver stared down the lawn mower. The thing loomed large and ferocious and he wondered if he’d need a whip and chair to tame it.
“Mind control won’t work,” said an amused, feminine voice. “You have to pull the cord and then push the thing.”
Weaver refused to even glance Molly’s way. He already knew how she looked—effortlessly appealing in running shorts and a man-size T-shirt. Hair in a braid, yards and yards of leg.
Have Baby, Will Marry Page 5
