Meant-to-Be Mom

by Karen Templeton

  * * *

  “Wondered where you’d gotten to.”

  And wasn’t it telling that, despite the ninety-degree temperature outside, a chill scampered up Sabrina’s back at the sound of Cole’s voice. With her legs stretched out in front of her on the chaise, she smiled.

  “One thing I’ve never been able to do in New York. Sit outside at night like this. Listen to the crickets.”

  She sensed more than saw him sit in the chair beside her. “No stoops? No fire escapes?”

  “No crickets. None that I could hear over the traffic noise, anyway.”

  “So Jersey does have its pluses.”

  “Not that you’ll ever get me to admit that,” she said, smiling, and he snorted.

  He had no idea, of course, that—because, open door and small house—she’d overheard his conversation with Wes earlier. Not all of it, but enough. Enough to feel a tingle of almost painful pleasure that he’d stood up for her. Even though she wasn’t staying.

  Of course, there was the possibility that his taking his son to task had less to do with her and more to do with Cole being the kind of father who wasn’t going to let his kid get away with crap.

  The kind of dad Pop had been. Still was.

  The kind of man...

  She lifted her glass of iced tea to her lips, stopping the thought. The fantasy.

  The dream.

  “Kids in bed?” she said.

  “Probably. Di took them swimming. That always conks them out early.” She felt him look at her in the dark. As in, literally felt, as though his gaze was actually heated. Considering the temperature, no easy feat. She shuddered again, and things...perked. “Great pizza, by the way,” he said.

  She chuckled. “The parts were already there. All I did was put it all together. And you added the extra pepperoni, if you recall.”

  “True.”

  She could hear the smile in his voice. Now she looked over, although she couldn’t see much in the dark. Down by the wall, dogs snuffled. “You sound...at peace.”

  “Do I?” He blew out a breath. “I guess I am, at the moment. Wanna know why?”

  No. “Sure.”

  “The same reason I used to when we were kids. When we’d hang out.” He extended his long, muscled legs, lacing his hands behind his head. “Only time I did feel that way. When I was with you.” At her silence, he said, “Have I spooked you?”

  Hell, yes. “No, not at all. I’m glad...well. Just that. I’m glad.”

  “As you damn well should be.”

  Sabrina smiled, wondering how she could feel so comfortable with someone who made her so uncomfortable. Who made her squirmy and itchy and fluttery and achy. Oh, dear God, achy. Feelings she’d felt before, alas. Which always led to Things That Did Not End Well.

  Always.

  “Have you decided on a school for the kids?”

  A moment’s beat told her he was parsing the subject change. “We’re on a couple of waiting lists, but if they don’t pan out, we could homeschool for a year, if we had to.” He softly laughed. “Providing the kids and I don’t kill each other.”

  “There is that.” Then she frowned. “A couple of lists? So...private school, then?”

  “Or charter. Whatever’s best for them. We have options.”

  “Not a whole lot in Maple River.”

  “Like I said...” Now when he turned toward her, she saw the flash of his smile. “Options.”

  And why that single word made the hair stand up on the back of her neck, she had no idea.

  * * *

  A few days later, Cole was in the kitchen preparing dinner—with the usual entourage of panting, hopeful pugs—when he heard the front door open, the telltale clunk of Bree’s tote bag hitting the tiled entryway floor and Brooke’s excited chatter as she regaled the poor woman with every single detail of her day. A minute later, a chuckling Bree stuck her head into the kitchen, the only person he knew who could make worn-out look sexy.

  “God, that smells good.”

  Or could make such an ordinary comment sound sexy.

  “Spaghetti. Garlic bread. Not exactly gourmet.” He frowned at the shopping bag dangling from her hand. “Saks?”

  “What shopping bag?” she said, mischief dancing in her eyes. “And spaghetti sounds amazing. Going to change, these shoes are killing me.”

  “Can I come with?” his daughter asked.

  “Of course.” She rattled the bag. “Who do you think this is for?”

  Cole sighed. “Bree...”

  “Summer clearance, dirt cheap,” she said, her grin infectious as she took his beaming daughter by the hand. “I swear.”

  “Dinner’s in about a half hour, when Wes gets home from Keenan’s.”

  “Great. I’m starving.”

  After they left, though, Cole’s own smile faded. In the past three days she’d had four appointments, two of which were new referrals from current clients. Meaning—if her bright-eyed expression when she’d told Cole the news was any indication—she’d soon have the funds she needed to start the apartment search. In the city. Which also meant his window of opportunity was rapidly closing.

  Although to accomplish what, exactly, he’d yet to figure out. Since even if by some miracle they worked out whatever the issues were between them, no way would Bree ever move back to Maple River. And Cole still couldn’t see himself living in New York. Not without a steady supply of happy pills, anyway.

  Then there was Wes, who, although living up to his end of the bargain about being respectful to Bree, still wasn’t entirely reconciled to her being there. And he knew Bree would never even consider anything more as long as Wes was resistant. Not after what she’d just gone through with her ex’s kid.

  Sighing heavily, Cole clamped the glass top back on the spaghetti-sauce pot. Sure, they were all getting along okay. More than okay—he wondered if Bree even realized how easily she fit into their lives, sharing meals and chores, even agreeing on what movies or TV shows to watch. On the surface, things were hunky-dory, despite the occasional worried sideways glance, as if she was wondering when he was going to pounce.

  Hell, he had no idea what he was doing. How to level up. Since gold coins or magic flowers or special hammers weren’t magically appearing to help him out.

  He turned when Brooke reappeared, wearing a conglomeration of clothing he couldn’t have described if his life had depended on it. But he definitely saw the short shorts—or at least, they seemed pretty damned short to him—which made her legs look...long.

  Legs which ended in a pair of the ugliest, clunkiest shoes he’d ever seen.

  If he lived to be a thousand, he’d never understand women’s fashion.

  “Bree’s taking a shower. Want me to make a salad?” she asked, clomping to the fridge. Like a giraffe in Frankenstein shoes.

  “Sure, that’d be great,” Cole said, grabbing the loaf of French bread to slice as Brooke chattered from the other side of the kitchen. And his chest ached, at how much she’d changed over the past few weeks.

  Because of Bree, who’d worked the same wonders with Brooke as she had with him. A gift she didn’t even know she possessed, he thought as the woman herself appeared, smelling of body wash and shampoo and wearing shorts and a tank top that left far less to the imagination—Cole’s, anyway—than she probably realized, her hair hanging in curvy ropes around her shoulders. He allowed himself a second’s torturous kick to the gut before turning back to the bread.

  She came around to sit on the other side of the breakfast bar, her hands folded in front of her. And apparently unaware that a drop of water from her wet hair was trickling into her cleavage. Slowly. Glistening...ly.

  Cole reminded himself that he was a dad. A dad on duty. In charge of impressionable young humans.

 
; “Thanks for the clothes,” he muttered, cutting off a chunk of butter to melt for the bread.

  “Couldn’t pass them up, not at that price. Plus, I knew how cute they’d be on the kid,” she said, grinning at Brooke behind him. But when her gaze glanced off his, he saw the caution. The doubt.

  Which is when it hit him. Like a freaking sledgehammer between the eyes.

  Why would she be cautious if she didn’t feel anything?

  “Crap!”

  He jerked around at his daughter’s cry, reaching her a split second before Bree did. Trembling, Brooke was holding her hand.

  Her profusely bleeding hand.

  Out of nowhere, paper towels appeared, which he quickly and tightly wrapped around the wound before yanking the poor kid’s hand above her head.

  “I don’t know what h-happened, I was being so careful—”

  “It’s okay, sweetie,” he whispered, touching his forehead to hers before stealing a glance at Bree, calmly cleaning up the...mess.

  “Hey,” she said, “you didn’t get blood on your new clothes, did you?”

  That got a shaky chuckle. “I d-don’t think so.”

  “So, silver lining, right?”

  That got another little laugh before Cole carefully lowered his little girl’s hand and even more carefully peeled away the blood-soaked towel. The cut was deep enough to make his heart jitter, but the bleeding had pretty much stopped, thank God. Bree gave the counter one last swipe with a paper towel, then looked over.

  “What do you think?” Cole asked. “Stitches?”

  “Definitely—”

  “Dad! No!”

  “Go on, get her to Urgent Care,” Bree said. “I’ll hold down the fort here. Hey, hey, hey...” At Brooke’s whimpering, Bree cupped the back of the girl’s head. “You see this?” She lifted up her shirt to show a three-inch scar on her waist. “You don’t even want to know how I got this, trust me. And my poor father—I swear, he turned green. Twelve stitches.” She lowered her shirt. “But by the next day it was no big deal. You’re gonna be fine, cookie, I promise.” She smiled. “And maybe I’ll bake something while you’re gone.”

  “Wh-what?”

  “Have no idea, depends on what we’ve got. So get outta here,” she said, kissing Brooke on top of her head, then rewrapping the kid’s hand in a clean paper towel. “Keep holding the towel tight, like that. Okay?”

  Her lower lip quivering as she nodded, Brooke started for the living room as Cole grabbed his keys from a hook by the patio door.

  “Thanks,” he said softly, and Bree shrugged.

  “No big deal.”

  “Like hell,” he said, slipping his hand around her neck, underneath her still wet hair, and quickly—but firmly—pressing his mouth to hers.

  “Yeah. That,” he said to her startled expression, then booked it the hell out of there, thinking, Game on, honey.

  * * *

  Clearly, her staying here was a mistake.

  Ya think?

  A couple more jobs, Sabrina thought, her eyes burning as she slammed baking pans and such onto the counter, and she’d have enough to at least start looking for a place. Maybe in Washington Heights. Or Jackson Heights, she wasn’t picky.

  The past few days had been hell. Not in the way most people would use the word, but hell nonetheless. Because—Wes’s grumpiness aside—she fit in too damn well with this family. Like she...belonged.

  A thought that beckoned and teased, even as it settled like a lead weight in her stomach. Because to accept the promise, only to have it ripped away from her—again—would kill her.

  Worse, though, was what it would do to these kids. Brooke, anyway.

  And Cole. Oh, hell...the look in his eyes, after he’d kissed her...

  She closed her own against the pain. Only to snap them open again when she heard the front door open.

  “Dad?”

  “In here, Wes,” Sabrina called back, quickly swiping a napkin under her eyes.

  Frowning, the boy appeared on the other side of the breakfast bar. “Where’s Dad?”

  “Your sister had an accident—nothing too serious, she’ll be fine—but he had to take her to Urgent Care for stitches.”

  “Stitches?”

  “Paring knife. Cut hand. And I repeat, she’ll be fine. Um...if you’re hungry I can put on the pasta, we can eat whenever. Or we can wait—your dad texted me a few minutes ago, they were already in with the doctor. So it shouldn’t be too long.”

  “I’ll wait. Thanks.” The boy crossed his arms, his hands stuffed in his armpits as he glowered at the things on the counter. “What are you doing?”

  “Making an applesauce cake. Thought it’d be good with vanilla ice cream after dinner. While it’s still warm. The cake, I mean. Oh...and I got you something on the way home after work. It’s on the coffee table in the living room.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll have to go see, won’t you?”

  The boy disappeared, returning a minute later with the book, a hundred-pound tome on the history of filmmaking.

  “And if nothing else,” Sabrina said, not looking at him as she poured applesauce into the cake batter, “you can use it to build up your abs.”

  The sound he made was more snort than laugh. “Okay, if this is you trying to, like, pay me to like you...”

  “Hey. Saw the book, thought of you, bought it. End of story. Deal. Or don’t.” She spooned the batter into a greased pan, shrugged. “Up to you.”

  At his silence, she looked up, nearly crumpling at his conflicted expression. Which vanished so quickly she almost thought she’d imagined it.

  “So, when are you going back to New York?” he asked, thunking the book on to the bar and cracking it open, then slowly turning the pages.

  “Can’t wait to get rid of me, huh?”

  “That’s not—” The book slammed closed. “It’s not horrible, having you here, okay? I mean...” He nodded toward the pan, and Sabrina smiled, then slipped the pan into the hot oven. “It’s...I don’t know. I can’t always explain what I feel. And I know it seems like I hate you and stuff, but—” he blinked “—I don’t.”

  Ah, hell. Twist her heart inside out, why not?

  Sabrina leaned on the counter, her hands folded in front of her. “I think what you hate is feeling like everything’s turned upside down.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” Big, gray eyes lifted to hers. “What you said, at the wedding? Is that still true?”

  Slowly, she nodded, even as her eyes stung. “Pretty much. It’s just...” She looked at her hands for a moment, then back at Wes. “It’s never a good idea to start something new when you’ve still got junk to deal with from the past. Things get too...mixed-up.”

  “But you like my dad.”

  “I like all of you guys—”

  “Not what I asked.”

  “I know. But that’s my answer.”

  His gaze tangled with hers for several seconds before he pushed himself off the bar stool. “Thanks again for the book,” he mumbled, hauling it into his arms before trudging away.

  Yeah, Sabrina thought, giving the spaghetti sauce another stir. The sooner she made her escape, the better. Because one broken heart was bad enough.

  Four, however...not happening.

  If it wasn’t already too late.

  Chapter Twelve

  The next morning, Cole was up before the kids, putting on coffee when his phone dinged.

  Unexpected appointment, the text read. Didn’t want to wake you guys. Will be in the city most of the day. Don’t hold dinner, I’ll get something here.

  Straightforward enough. No lines to read between, really. And yet dread shuddered through him, an apprehension brought on by Bree’s strangeness the night
before, after he and Brooke got back from Urgent Care and they all had dinner and then watched a movie—his daughter’s pick, since she was the one with the boo-boo. And that whole time, even though Bree had laughed and joked with the kids as usual, even as he’d sensed she and Wes had at least inched closer, he could tell something was off.

  More off, anyway.

  He was guessing the kiss had something to do with that. A kiss that had clearly shocked her, yes, but hadn’t disgusted her. Because if it had...well. This was Bree they were talking about. He’d seen her smack the living daylights out of some dude who’d for whatever reason felt entitled to make a grab at her. And that was twenty years ago. He highly doubted anything had changed on that score, that she’d have no trouble letting a guy know when he’d crossed a line.

  He also doubted he’d imagined how her pupils had dilated. The flush that had swept across her chest, up her neck, to bloom in her cheeks. Yeah, he knew how things worked now.

  Except how to make things work with her.

  And time was running out.

  At least the day passed uneventfully enough. As Bree had predicted, his daughter seemed barely aware of her stiches—only two, and in a spot that wouldn’t see much action, thank God—and one of the kids from church had taken Wes over there to shoot hoops for the afternoon. Now, edging toward ten, Cole was in the living room watching Breaking Bad for the third time when, as one, the dogs lifted their heads at the sound of a car pulling into the driveway, then leaped to their feet and pranced toward the door. Cole stood as well, his hands rammed in his pockets, his heart knocking against his ribs.

  “Hey,” he said softly when Bree opened the door to a sea of quivering, buff-colored canine love. Wearing one of those straight, sleeveless dresses she apparently had in every color imaginable, her eyes glanced off his as she set her purse on the floor, a habit he’d already grown accustomed to.

  Her smile seemed shaky. “Hey, yourself. Kids asleep?”

  “In their rooms.”

  “How’s Brooke?”

  “Resilient. How come you didn’t ask me for a ride to the station this morning?”

  “Um, the kids?”

  “Considering neither of them were up before eleven, they would’ve been fine for an hour—”