“I don’t care. I hate her.” Arms crossed, Dillon bowed his head.
“I happen to like her. A lot. But not nearly enough to officially make her your mom.”
“Then why’d you say she was going to be my mother?”
Sighing and raking his hand through his hair, Jackson said, “You like jokes, right?”
“Duh.”
“Well, what you heard was a joke. You know how I don’t really get along with Heather Jenkins’s mom?”
“Yeah. She’s really strict about how many juice boxes we get, and her perfume smells like Grandma Franny’s stinky hairspray.”
Chuckling, Jackson had to agree. “Right. So, Heather’s mom was being snooty about Rose, and it made me mad—just like when she yells at me about where to drop you off in the mornings.”
“You are a bad mom when it comes to school drop-off, Dad.”
“True,” Jackson said, laughing again, “but back to what I was talking about—the first part of my joke was that I told Heather’s mom that Rose was, um, Ella’s and my baby.”
“But, Dad…” Dillon looked up, eyes wide enough that Jackson feared his son might be doing the math on the mechanics of how babies were made. The adding up of what he and Ella would’ve had to do. The very thought raised Jackson’s core temp a good twenty degrees. “Me and Owen and Oliver found her fair and square.”
Whew. At least he was temporarily out of the woods on the whole How-Babies-Are-Made speech. “You did find her. That’s why what I said was a joke. What you heard, about Ella being your mother, was me getting in trouble. Ella was scolding me for even teasing about something like that. Something else you need to know, is that you are very important to her. She would never do anything to hurt you. My joke was a bad one. Inappropriate, and I’m sorry that for even a little bit, I hurt you.” Settling his arm around his son’s sagging shoulders, he gave him a hug. Kissed the top of his head. “I love you.”
“Love you, too, Dad, but please don’t do that again.”
“What? Joke about Rose?”
“No.” Dillon pulled away, turning sideways on the bench.
“Don’t say stuff about you and Ms. Garvey—” he blanched “—doin’ it. Mom wouldn’t like that.” So much for Jackson being in the clear on that speech.
“When you guys are getting married again, that’s not very funny.”
Rubbing his forehead, Jackson couldn’t quite figure how to tackle this latest cog in his struggle to become a better dad. How did he explain to his seven-year-old son that he wasn’t enthusiastic about the whole Let’s-Get-Remarried plan? A year ago, hell, maybe even a month ago, he might’ve thought differently, but since connecting with Ella, he’d found himself torn. It wasn’t as if he had any grand intentions toward his comely neighbor. Just the very fact that he was intrigued by her told him he wasn’t in the right mindset to embark on a second go-around with the woman who’d broken his heart.
“Dad?” Dillon asked. “You and Mom are getting married again, right?”
Inwardly groaning, Jackson struggled for the right words.
“Dad? Please say you’re getting married again.” Dillon’s voice cracked, and his eyes shone with unshed tears. The boy had never cried easily. Maybe it was an inherited trait from Julie, but even when he’d broken his arm falling out of a backyard tree, he hadn’t dropped so much as a tear. To see him now on the verge—just as he was when Jackson and Julie argued—spoke volumes on how much he was counting on his family getting back together. “Please.”
“Bud…” Jackson looked to the sky. Divine intervention would be nice. Unfortunately, about the only help in sight was a robin hopping beneath the slide. “I’m trying, okay? But, since your mom left, I don’t feel the same about her as I used to.”
“You don’t love her anymore? The other day you said you did.”
“I do love her,” Jackson said with an exasperated sigh.
“Without her, I wouldn’t have you, but it’s more complicated than that.”
“How?” Kicking at the ground, Dillon said, “If you love her, you love her. She’s pretty and nice and smells like flowers. All you gotta do is get married again, and she’ll live with us forever. You’re just not trying hard enough.”
Right. Only with Julie, forever didn’t have the same meaning as it did with the rest of the world.
“Please, Dad.” Dillon’s tears spilled, ripping Jackson in two.
More than anything, he loved his son. He used to feel that way about Julie, too. Maybe Dillon was right, and all he had to do was try harder to remember the good times and forget the bad.
But then there was Ella. Whenever he was around her, he felt better. Filled with hope. Actually excited about living in a way he hadn’t been in a long time. He didn’t have to try wanting to be with her. He just did. Being with Ella felt as natural as breathing.
He glanced up to see her heading across the playground, Rose in her arms. She must’ve left the carrier inside. In a red sundress with small blue polka dots, she’d never looked better. Only the worried crease between her eyebrows as she neared showed her to be anything other than relaxed.
“Hey, guys,” she said, voice breezy. “We were getting worried about you.”
“We’re fine,” Dillon snapped.
“Knock it off,” Jackson said, nudging his son’s ribs.
“Dillon,” Ella said, pausing in front of the bench. Rose had grabbed hold of a chunk of her hair. “How long have you known me?”
“I dunno,” he mumbled, head bowed.
“Like a million years?” she prompted.
“I guess.”
“In those million years, have I ever done anything to hurt you?”
He shook his head.
“Why do you think I would do something now?”
“Because you want to steal my dad from my mom?”
Jackson winced at the pain and shock on Ella’s features. She didn’t deserve this, and the only reason she was having to go through it was because of him and his big mouth.
“Actually,” Jackson said, “nobody has wished more for me to patch things up with your mom than Ella. She loves you, Dillon, and wants you to be happy. Especially if that means you getting to be back with your mom.”
“Oh.” The boy still held his head down.
“Do you think it might be nice for you to apologize to Ella?”
He shrugged.
“No apology necessary, sweetie,” Ella said. “I just want us to keep on being friends.”
Jumping up from the bench, Dillon tossed his arms around her waist for a teary hug.
“WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?” At seven that night, Ella lashed into Jackson the second Dillon dashed out the back door to join Owen and Oliver in their fort. Rose was content in her swing and Ella had just about finished preparing a simple meal of pork chops, mashed potatoes and salads when Jackson and Dillon had shown up at her front door. Supposedly, Dillon had wanted to play with the twins, but she suspected his father had had more to do with the impromptu appearance. “I told you not to mess with Marcia Jenkins, and look what happened. Dillon hates me. Practically accused me of being a home wrecker, when all along, I—”
Jackson stopped her rant by cupping her face with his hands, then wreathing her in the heat of a spellbinding kiss.
Back to her senses, she pushed him away. “What’d you do that for? What if Dillon had seen?”
“I know he couldn’t, because from here I have a clear shot of the backyard. I just—” He put his hand to his suddenly throbbing forehead. “You sounded so upset. I didn’t know any other way to make you feel better.”
She cocked one eyebrow. “Think that highly of yourself, do you?”
“Work with me, here, will you? I need your help.”
Turning her back on him to resume making the salads, she laughed. “Oh, you need help all right, but I’m not volunteering. This situation has powder keg written all over it.”
“How so?” he asked, snatching a cherry toma
to. “We had a nice talk back at school, you two seem back on good terms. Next time Julie’s in town, I fully intend to take a fresh perspective. But until then, I refuse to act as if I don’t care about you.”
Exasperated, she chopped down hard on a cucumber and ended up slicing her finger. Yelping in pain, she tugged a paper towel from the under-cabinet holder, then wrapped it around her bleeding wound.
“Let me see,” Jackson said, crowding her personal space, fogging her mind by taking her injured hand. “It looks bad. Think you need stitches?”
“No. Just a minute of direct pressure.”
“Allow me.” He held the makeshift bandage just right, not too hard to hurt, but firm enough to do the job. In the process, his proximity dulled her senses and made her want to spend the rest of the night standing alongside him. Resting her forehead against his chest, she exhaled.
“What was that about?” he asked, stroking her hair.
“This situation. It’s impossible. From what you’ve told me, it’s a lose-lose for everyone but Dillon. Oh—and Julie.”
Looking at her finger, Jackson said, “It’s stopped bleeding. Got a Band-Aid?”
“Third drawer on the left,” she said, pointing to the side of the stove. “SpongeBob, please. The antibiotic ointment is in there, too.”
“Yes, ma’am.” In no time, he was back, dabbing the ointment on her cut, then easing the bandage around her finger, kissing the tip. “Better?”
She nodded.
“I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault. I was the one with the knife.” She tossed the knife in the sink, then grabbed a fresh one from a drawer before resuming her task.
“I’m not talking about your gash. I feel bad about messing with Marcia. I feel worse about the things Dillon said. He didn’t mean them, you know. He’s just got this image of Julie moving back home and us all living happily ever after. He viewed you as a threat to that, and snapped.”
“I get that,” she said, now dicing a tomato, “but that doesn’t change the fact that exactly what he’s afraid of is true. I am in the way of you and Julie growing closer.”
Now it was his turn to cock an eyebrow. “Think that highly of yourself, do you?”
“OUR MOM WOULD sooo not marry your dad,” Oliver said, pointing his wooden sword in Dillon’s direction.
“Don’t get all mad with me,” Dillon said, pointing his plastic sword at Oliver. “I’m just telling you what I heard.”
“Our mom doesn’t even like boys,” Owen said, munching the oatmeal cookies he’d smuggled into the clubhouse.
“Except for us. She loves us.”
“Yeah, she loves us.” Oliver leaped from the cooler he’d been standing on to the old recliner their mom had let them have. The chair bounced a little, but didn’t break.
“My mom loves me,” Dillon said.
“Did we say she didn’t?” Man, Oliver wanted to stab Dillon with his sword for saying those things about his mom. No way would she ever cheat on him and Owen with Mr. Tate. He was cool and all, but not anywhere near cool enough to be kissing his mom. Only his dad was allowed to do that, and just as soon as he dumped Dawn and their bad kid, Oliver knew he’d be coming home. How? Because if Dillon’s mom loved him enough to marry his dad again, then Oliver’s dad for sure loved him and his brother enough to remarry his mom.
“WHOA,” RACHEL SAID Monday morning during a patient lull. She and Ella sat on top of the picnic table placed out back of the clinic for use as an alternate break room on sunny days. “Sounds like you had a seriously crappy weekend.”
“I’ve had better,” Ella said, tipping her face back to drink in the sun. “The worst of it wasn’t Dillon screaming he hated me, but knowing the look of betrayal in his eyes was because of me.”
“Stop.” Rachel, for once gum-free, rubbed Ella’s back.
“You can’t help the fact that Jackson’s over his ex any more than you can control your gorgeous smile that’s obviously making him want you.”
Ella snorted. “Jackson Tate doesn’t know what he wants. I’ll bet if Julie turned on her charm, she’d have him back on board in no time.”
“I think you’re underestimating your charms. What you need is a weekend away from the kids. Just you and Jackson, figuring out if there’s more here than just your garden-variety flirtation.”
Sighing, Ella climbed off the table to pace. “I already told you, I’m not figuring out anything in regard to Jackson. He’s off-limits. If Dillon’s reaction to a joke was that dramatic, think how he’d feel knowing Jackson and I have kissed.”
“Ah-hah!” Rachel said with a triumphant smile. “So you have macked on the hunky fireman.”
Ella rolled her eyes.
The office’s back door creaked open, and Paige poked her head out. “Ella! Hank’s on the phone for you.”
Rachel asked, “Think he’s got news about Rose’s mom?”
Making a face, Ella said, “Is it wrong that I’ve grown so attached to her that I almost hope not?”
Rachel patted her back. “Understandable, considering what a cutie she is.”
“Thanks.” Ella blew her friend a kiss before dashing inside.
“Hey, Hank,” she said a minute later on her office extension.
“What’d you find out?”
“Unfortunately,” he said in his gravel-toned baritone, “not a whole lot. We had a couple of good leads, checking out high-school girls who’d dropped out midsemester, but none panned out. The school route would’ve been easiest. Now, we’re branching out to neighboring high schools and the community at large, but it’s going to take time. You hanging in, or want me to call Child Protective Services?”
“I’m good,” she said, her stomach in knots at the mere thought of this innocent child being lost in government red tape. “Just keep looking, and let me know what you find.”
“WHAT’RE YOU DOING?” On the front porch Wednesday morning, Ella yawned, then gripped her fuzzy pink robe tighter.
“What’s it look like I’m doing?”
“Fixing my screen door.”
“Ding, ding, ding. Give that lady a prize.” He’d set up sawhorses, rested the door on edge across them and now used a planer to strip part of the wood from the bottom where it stuck. Even at seven, the day already promised to be muggy, and Jackson’s white T-shirt clung to his back. As he worked the planer, his biceps bulged, filling Ella’s belly with all manner of forbidden fires.
“Why are you fixing my screen door?” Making me even crazier wanting you? Ruining my whole day with the image of your muscles that’ll be superimposed over every patient’s chart?
“Because it needs fixing.”
“Oh.” The grin he shot her way was lethal—at least in regard to her willpower. Honestly, the man was criminally good-looking. “Your door does, too.”
“Already did it,” he said with a masculine grunt.
“This morning?” Impressive. Especially since she’d had a tough time even getting out of bed.
“Yep.”
“What’s got you so industrious?”
“Excess energy.”
“Interesting,” she said, perching on the porch rail, struggling to keep the halves of her robe together. “Care to expound on the subject?”
He eyed her strangely.
“That kind of energy?” Heat rose in her cheeks.
“Get your mind out of the gutter, woman. I had things on my mind.”
“Like what?” she asked, praying his answer was nice and dull.
“Women. Why is it when you want one, you can’t find one, then when you’re not looking, you end up with three?” He stepped up his pace.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” she said, only partially relieved his answer wasn’t risqué, “but don’t you only have one woman? Your wife?”
“My ex-wife. Then there’s Rose, who, after you told me about Hank’s call, I worry might be living with you till she’s eighteen considering the speed of his investigative skills.
Then, there’s you.” He punctuated his last statement by melting her with a heated stare. “And while technically, no, you’re not yet mine, the more I’m with you, the more I like you. A problem, considering my son’s stance on the matter.”
“Speaking of Dillon, where is he?” She hoped Jackson wouldn’t notice the change of subject. True, she did wonder where he’d stashed his boy, but she also had no desire to talk about the fact that the more she was around Jackson, the more she wanted to explore. His pecs. His abs. His scrumptious kisses…
“Dillon is gobbling my mother’s pancakes. Wednesdays she comes over to do laundry.”
“Nice. Send her my way when she gets done.”
Quiet for a second, Jackson seemed to be searching for his next words. “This may sound mean, but sometimes I wish Mom would butt out. I know she means well, but I’m pushing forty and know how to do my own laundry.”
“Did you ever think caring for you makes her feel good? Needed? Like she couldn’t help you fix your marriage, but she can make sure you and Dillon eat great and have clean socks and undies?”
“Thanks,” he said with a deep sigh. “Now, I not only sound mean, but I feel mean.”
“You’re not mean,” she said, fighting the urge to go to him and slip her arms around him for a strictly comforting hug.
“Just too proud for your own good.”
“How’s that?” He’d put down the planer to aim a dirty look her way.
“I’m just theorizing here,” she said with a smile, “but I’ve got you pegged for the superhero type who feels like he can do anything and everything himself. You don’t call plumbers or electricians, and having your mom taking care of you like she did in fourth grade makes you feel inadequate as a man.”
His eyes got all squinty and a muscle worked in jaw. Oops. Direct hit to the male ego?
Chapter Nine
“I’m sorry.” Ella did go to him, but stopped short of giving him that hug. “I’m jealous. My mom’s too busy with her clubs even to think of helping me around the house.”
Three Boys And A Baby (American Romance) Page 9
