“I’m just not sure what to do next. Ryan would probably say, ‘Ask her to dinner.’ But that would make it worse, wouldn’t it? Then she might think that I thought she was the type of woman who would two-time her fiancé. You know what I mean?”
Hagrid laid his head on his paws. Kirk stroked his soft ears until his tail thumped happily.
“It’s tricky. And it makes it worse that it’s her. Because I don’t want to make a wrong move. Freak her out. Even more than she already is, I mean. Damn. Maybe I’ll see what the guys think.”
Even Hagrid seemed to think that was a terrible idea, judging by the snuffling noise he made as Kirk scratched the notch between his shoulder blades.
“I know. Bad idea. Not happening anyway.”
What could he do, besides hope that Pete would give him a call soon? He surged to his feet, so frustrated he tossed the empty tin of dog food in the garbage can with enough force to make it ring like a bell of doom. God, how pathetic could a man get, waiting for a call from a nine-year-old boy? Why had he made that offer anyway? All it guaranteed was time with Pete, not Maribel. He felt like a man wandering the streets, pressing his face against the window of a cozy home for a glimpse of the happiness inside.
Pete was going to be someone else’s stepson. Maribel was going to be someone else’s wife. He was going to move to freaking Alaska. And Hagrid? He’d make a few calls, see what he could drum up.
In the meantime it would probably be best for them all if his number got irretrievably lost in the chaotic jumble that lived inside Pete’s pockets.
BUT IT DIDN’T. The next day, Maribel called. Actually, the next evening. Kirk was playing pool when his cell phone rang and ruined his bank shot into the corner pocket.
“Yeah,” he answered abruptly, not bothering to check the number.
“Is this Kirk?” The sound of her soft voice made him straighten up, knocking the chalk off the side of the table.
“Yes. Sorry.” He swung around so the guys couldn’t hear him. “Maribel?”
“Wow! Good guess.”
Right. As if he wouldn’t know her voice anywhere.
“I . . . uh . . . have kind of a strange favor to ask. My babysitter canceled and I’ve been calling around everywhere, but no luck. Pete came up with the idea of hanging out with you tonight. I told him you were probably already busy, or else working, but I promised him I’d check. So this is me, checking. Please don’t be offended that I even asked; it was Pete’s idea and he gave me your number, and . . .”
“Sure.”
“Really?” The delight in her voice sent blood rushing to his head. “You’re free?”
“Well, I’ll be home soon. Say, ten minutes?”
“Oh my God, you’re a lifesaver. I can . . . maybe I can bring you some cookies or something? Fudge brownies?”
“Don’t worry about that. You can set me up with some more ornaments next Christmas, how’s that?” Kirk winced. His family would stage a revolt if any more ornaments came their way. He’d have to find a worthy charity.
“Done! For the next five Christmases, if you like. I always have a lot left over.”
Kirk gave her his address, then handed off his pool cue to Vader. Of course nothing was that easy; as soon as he explained, the teasing followed him right out the door.
“Thor, you wuss. Who are you, Mary Poppins?” Ryan winked. “Bet you’re after that spoonful of sugar.”
“Adventures in babysitting, dude. Adventures in babysitting,” said Vader cryptically.
“My sister watched that movie about a hundred times,” said Fred the Stud with deep nostalgia.
“I saw that one,” said Ryan. “Elizabeth Shue was cute in it. Damn, I just remembered . . . the bratty kid in that movie liked Thor. Wore a helmet and everything.”
“Thor the Babysitter. Never thought I’d see the day.” Vader shook his head.
Kirk managed to escape without bloodying anyone’s nose, which he considered a personal triumph. He cruised home on his bike, barely making it ahead of the battered old Volvo containing Maribel and Pete.
The thrill of Maribel at his front door, of his porch light striking copper starbursts in her glorious hair, of her apple-blossom fragrance drifting inside his living room, gave him a high that ended only when Pete explained, gloomily, that Duncan was in town and Maribel wanted some time alone with him.
At that point, Kirk figured he deserved every scrap of ribbing the guys could dish out—and then some.
MARIBEL RUSHED HOME, where Duncan was still finishing up a phone call. He didn’t even look up when she burst into the house. “Ready!”
“Who’d you find?” Duncan asked vaguely, though Maribel knew he didn’t really care and wouldn’t remember the answer if she told him. Maybe the news that a handsome fireman was looking after Pete would make him sit up and take notice, but probably not. If Duncan was jealous of other men, he’d never shown it during six years of a long-distance relationship.
“Just a friend.” A friend who’d kissed the sense out of her, but no need to go there.
Their dinner date was not what Maribel had hoped for. Duncan’s phone call had put him in a bad mood. Maribel knew the signs. Prolonged silences, preoccupied glances, sudden bursts of animated ranting. Moments of great charm directed at the waitresses alternating with sullen monologues about why the West Coast scene was entirely inferior to New York’s. There was no point in debate; Maribel knew her role. Listen sympathetically, offer unquestioning support, be the haven he saw her as.
The thing was, she didn’t feel like a “haven.” She had things on her mind. Pete, for one. When Duncan’s flow of complaints seemed to be easing, she grabbed the opportunity. “Have you thought about what you want to do with Pete while you’re here?”
“Huh?” He looked at her blankly, almost as if he’d forgotten she knew how to speak.
“You know, some Pete-and-Duncan alone time. To give you two a chance to bond.”
“Oh.” He waved his fork, on which perched a chunk of baked Brie. “I don’t think that’s going to happen this trip, baby. Next time.”
“What? Why not?”
“Haven’t you been listening? The Chicksie Dicks are freaking out. They want a reshoot.”
The Chicksie Dicks? That didn’t sound right. She really had been zoning out while Duncan vented. She wanted to ask if the Chicksie Dicks were a real group or if he was making fun of the Dixie Chicks, but now she didn’t dare. He’d never forgive her if he knew she didn’t hang on his every word.
“But Duncan, you keep talking about being Pete’s stepfather. You want us to be a family.”
“Of course I do.”
“Shouldn’t you get to know him better?”
“What’s to know? He’s a nine-year-old boy. I was nine once. I know what it was like. It sucked. If someone had come along and offered me backstage passes to the Beastie Boys, I’d have been his slave for life.”
“But Pete’s not that into music. He likes to read. He’s got a great imagination. You should hear some of the things he makes up. He’s convinced an owl will show up when he’s eleven with an invitation to Hogwarts. He’s even written his own novel—well, started it. But he’s two chapters in and it’s fantastic . . .”
But Duncan’s phone had buzzed; a text had come in. He immediately began scrolling through the message and cursing. Maribel wanted to scream with frustration. His distraction had never bothered her until now. It hadn’t really mattered because their lives were so separate. But if they really were going to become a family, it did matter. She couldn’t let this slide. She waited until he finished his reply text, watching the top of his sandy brown head as he hunched over his phone. Duncan was good-looking in a bland, prep-school sort of way. He’d grown up in the suburbs of New Jersey with the sole dream of breaking into the Manhattan hip crowd. He’d done it too, and wore the black jeans and horn-rimmed glasses to prove it.
She’d assumed the fact that he’d chosen her, someone with no social connec
tions or any kind of status in his world, meant he wasn’t really the snob he appeared to be. But was that really true? Why did he want her?
“Duncan,” she said, when he’d finished his text. “Why do you think we should get married? I mean, things are good the way they are, right? We do okay, for a long-distance relationship. We’re both busy with our careers. I’ve got Pete, you don’t really want more kids.” This gave her a secret pang. Pete would love a sibling. She forged ahead. “Why mess with a good thing?”
Duncan dragged his gaze from his phone. “What?”
“Did you hear any of that? Do I need to repeat the whole thing?”
“Sorry, baby. You know how it is.” God, his phone seemed to have a gravitational pull stronger than Jupiter’s. It was winning again; she was losing his attention.
She kept it short and sweet this time. “Why do you want to get married?”
“What?” He frowned behind his horn-rims. “I told you. Because you’re my haven.”
“Okay, but . . . do you think you could elaborate just a little? How am I a haven?” And how was that not like being compared to a retirement home? Ooooh. She drew in a breath. Was that it? Did Duncan see being with her as the equivalent of an emotional retirement from the Manhattan dating scene?
“It means”—he shot an angry glance at his phone, where apparently things were not going well—“you’re not needy and demanding. You let me do my thing without wanting to take over my life. And usually you don’t irritate me. But right now . . . Jesus, Mari, do you think you could back off?”
She flinched back in her chair in shock. In six years, Duncan had never spoken to her like this. They’d always had a romantic, swoony kind of relationship, full of endearments and sappy little e-mails and kissy-faces over Skype. He’d swept her off her feet with expensive dinners at the Ivy and weekend getaways to Santa Barbara. He found her amusing and adorable, and never got impatient with her occasional dreamy fogginess—her creative mode—which drove most people crazy. But he understood, because he was an artist too, right?
“Duncan, I’m not trying to annoy you. I’m just concerned about my son. I want to make sure we’re on the same page.”
“I highly doubt that,” he said brusquely. “Fortunately for him. But seriously, Mari, your timing sucks. I can’t deal with this crap now. I’ve got a superstar rock group imploding on me, and you’re bugging me about . . . what, again? I don’t even know. Can we just finish dinner so I can get back and take care of this mess?”
Fury such as she had never known swept Maribel to her feet. “Consider it finished.” She threw her car keys on the table. “I’ll grab a cab.”
“Mari, chill out. For God’s sake.”
She ignored him and made for the exit, afraid she’d throw his Portuguese bouillabaisse in his face if she stuck around any longer. She could put up with a lot—she did put up with a lot, probably too much, but that was another story—but she absolutely would not put up with someone dismissing Pete in such a callous way. It wasn’t in her; she couldn’t do it. Even for Duncan, who she . . .
But did she love him?
Luckily, a cab was just dropping someone off in front of the restaurant. She snagged it and gave the driver Kirk’s address. She spent the drive fuming over Duncan’s attitude. How could she marry him? How could she marry a man who thought Pete was just like any other little boy, that they were all the same, not worth the trouble of getting to know individually? The need to be with her son, her precious, one of a kind son, beat through her veins like a bongo drum.
Kirk opened the door with a finger to his lips. Barefoot, he wore drawstring workout pants and nothing else. His chest was a muscular blur in the dimmed light of his living room. “He fell asleep during Hannah Montana,” he mouthed.
“Hannah Montana?!”
“I knew he’d think it was boring and I figured he needed some sleep.”
“How’d you know?”
“What?”
“How’d you know he wouldn’t like it?” She edged past him to check on Pete, who was sprawled on Kirk’s blue-plaid sofa, his mouth open, eyes shut tight. With one part of her mind, she took note of Kirk’s bachelor décor. With another, she realized Pete must really trust Kirk to fall asleep so deeply on his couch. But most of her mind was taken up with one all-consuming question. “Is it because all nine-year-old boys are the same?”
“What?” Kirk looked nervous. He ran his hand over the back of his neck, a gesture she’d seen him make before. “Of course not.”
“Prove it.”
“Excuse me?”
“What, am I being too demanding? Prove it!”
“Huh?” Poor Kirk seemed truly bewildered, and she couldn’t blame him. She was bewildered herself. None of this had anything to do with Kirk. But for some reason she found it a lot easier to yell at him than at Duncan.
“Tell me why my son, Pete Boone, wouldn’t enjoy an episode of Hannah Montana.”
“Well,” said Kirk slowly, as though drawing out each word in the hopes she’d calm down. “As you know, I’m sure, Pete’s not really into music or TV or singing, which is what Hannah Montana is about. He’s more into fantasy and magic-type stuff. He wanted to work on his book but he’d left it behind. He told me the plot. At length. Pretty cool, what I can remember.”
She felt tears well in her eyes. In all the times Pete had told her the plot of his book, she rarely remembered the details either. They seemed to change too. It was a work in progress, as was her occasionally temperamental, sometimes fierce, always wonderful son.
“I’m done with Duncan,” she said, almost choking on the words. “He doesn’t deserve to be in Pete’s life. And he can’t have me without Pete, can he?”
Kirk went very still. Now that her eyes had adjusted to the light, she couldn’t help staring at his bare chest. It was spectacular, though it looked as though a shark had taken three bites out of his torso. The wounds had scarred over, but they didn’t affect his magnificence anyway. It was as if Michelangelo had returned to chisel a flesh-and-blood work of art. Ripped muscles ran in a syncopated pattern from the waistband of his pants to his taut shoulders. In the center of his chest, a light covering of blond fur begged to be petted.
“Sorry,” Kirk said, pulling on a T-shirt. “When he fell asleep, I decided to work out for a bit. I’m still trying to get my strength back.”
“That’s okay,” she said in a strangled voice. “It’s fine with me.”
“So you were saying, about Duncan.”
Who? she almost asked. Then the temporary daze created by his bare chest wore off, and the memory came flooding back. “He thinks all nine-year-olds are alike. And he thinks I’m a haven. Translation: I’m supposed to shut up and not bother him.”
“Are you sure about that?” Kirk gestured for her to follow him into the kitchen so they wouldn’t wake Pete up.
She waited until they’d reached the cozy kitchen and he was pouring her a glass of water from the faucet. “You weren’t there, watching him with his Brie and his bouillabaisse and his stupid phone.”
“It’s just that . . . never mind.”
“What? Are you taking his side? What is it with you men? Maybe you’re all alike!” She put down the glass of water with a click, the liquid sloshing onto the table.
“The word ‘haven’ doesn’t sound like an insult, that’s all.”
“Forget it.” She turned away, intent on collecting Pete and getting the hell out. Of course he didn’t understand. Why should he? Just because he was nice to Pete and cared about dogs didn’t mean he knew anything about her. Or cared, for that matter. “I’d better go.”
“The hell with that,” she heard him mutter through her blur of frustrated tears. Then strong arms came around her. Her feet were lifted off the ground. She was being held tight against a hot male chest.
Chapter Six
* * *
IT WAS THE wrong move. Of course it was. He was supposed to be showing her how much he respected her,
not mauling her the second she dumped her fiancé. But she felt so good in his arms, a bundle of warm, sexy, tender woman. And the fact that she hadn’t even blinked at the sight of his scars made him want her even more.
“Kirk!” She gaped at him, but she didn’t look like she minded.
He stared down at her hazel eyes, noticing the way the gold-flecked irises had nearly disappeared as her pupils went wide and dark. “You’re so beautiful,” he said in a whisper.
Oddly, that statement seemed to confuse her. “You think I’m beautiful?”
“Why do you think I can never put two words together when I’m around you?”
Her mouth fell open, and that was that. He couldn’t resist a second longer. Lowering his head, he brushed his lips against hers, savoring the incredible softness of her mouth. It wasn’t a kiss so much as a question, tender and tentative. Her lips tasted so sweet—was that coconut? What had she been eating at dinner with Duncan? The reminder of Duncan made him draw back. This was stupid. Asking for trouble. What if they’d just had an ordinary fight and would be back to normal by tomorrow?
Then she wrapped her arms around his neck and all regrets were obliterated. She grabbed him with passionate enthusiasm and suddenly her mouth was on his, hot and eager. This one wasn’t a kiss so much as a statement. I want you. I will have you. He kissed her deeply, completely, irrevocably. Unable to get enough of her, he explored her mouth with his tongue: the slippery hardness of teeth, the pointed tip of her tongue, the delicious slickness of the roof of her mouth. She slipped out of his arms and pressed her entire body against him. He gripped her head in both his hands, tilting it to dive deep, to take her into him like air into lungs.
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