Noah's gaze, wide and curious, fixed on him then moved to the stuffed plane in his hand. He took a hesitant step toward Harland then paused and looked up at his mother. He pointed with his free hand, his tiny fingers moving.
Harland watched as Courtney did something with her own hand, her two inside fingers folded under, the other three spread out. She moved her hand, palm angled down, back and forth twice. Stopped, repeated it.
Noah's face scrunched up in concentration as he tried to mimic whatever Courtney had done. After the third time, she smiled and closed her hand into a fist and moved it back and forth, her head nodding at the same time. She looked at Harland, her hesitation clear, and sighed.
She made the spread-finger motion with her hand once more. "This is the sign for 'plane'." She released her hold on Noah and gave him a reassuring pat on his back. "Go ahead, sweetie, you can take it."
Noah gave her an uncertain look then stepped toward Harland. He hesitated, took another step, then grabbed the plane from Harland's hand and hurried back to Courtney, stepping behind her once more.
She bent down, put her hands on her hips, and gave Noah a stern look. Harland smothered a smile: he didn't need any help interpreting that look. "What do you say, young man?"
Noah grinned, ran back toward Harland, and made a sign like he was blowing him a kiss. Then he ran back to Courtney once more. This time, at least, he didn't seem to want to hide behind her as much.
"That means 'thank you'."
"Oh." Harland stood back up, ignoring the stiffness in his legs. "Does he, um, can he hear at all?"
"No, not really. Not enough to matter. He can sense vibrations, so if you stomp or if something has a particularly heavy bass line, he more or less feels it."
"Oh. I thought…well, when you talked to him, I just thought he could hear you."
"That's just mom-language. I think it's universal." A small smile played around her mouth, sending a shot of warmth surging through him. Could she tell? He didn't know, just tried to hide his disappointment when her smile faded.
Harland looked back at Noah. One small hand was clutching the plane, holding it tight against his small chest like a deformed shield. The other hand was attached to Courtney's leg—not in a death grip, but definitely not eager to let go, either. And Noah was still watching him, his light brown gaze both curious and wary.
"He didn't seem this shy the last time I saw him."
"He's only seen you once, Harland, and that was almost two months ago, in his own home, not in some strange place. And you look different now than you did then."
"Oh. The suit?"
"Not just the suit." She motioned toward his face. "The cut, the bandage. The bruise on your jaw."
What she said made sense. It didn't mean it had to sit well with him. He had convinced himself that Noah would remember him, that he'd slide into the role of fatherhood with no problems. No, maybe it hadn't been a realistic expectation, but what did he know? Nothing, apparently.
"So. Are you guys ready? Was there any place in particular you wanted to go?"
She shook her head. "Not really. But he needs to eat. And wherever we go, we can't stay long."
Harland clenched his jaw, tamping down the sudden spurt of anger. "Courtney, don't do this. You said today would be fine because it was an afternoon game. You said there was no time limit—"
"I know. There isn't. But Noah goes to bed at eight and he still needs a bath before then." She bent down and started putting a coat on Noah, moving the stuffed plane from one hand to the other so she could get his arms into the sleeves. She glanced over her shoulder, her face carefully blank. "It's later than I thought. I, uh, I forgot how long your games could take."
There was nothing he could say to that, not without looking like a total ass, so he just waited while she bundled Noah into his jacket then shrugged into hers. Should he take Noah's hand? No, he didn't want to push too much. And he didn't want to feel any disappointment if Noah shied away from his again. There'd be time for that later.
They took another elevator downstairs to the small parking garage, this one smaller and nowhere near as well-lit as what he had become used to in Baltimore's arena. The chill was sharper down here, a little more biting, and he no longer questioned Courtney's choice of coat for Noah.
"Did you get the car seat?"
"Yes." Harland led them through the garage to the SUV, unlocking it with the remote before they reached it. He opened the back passenger door and pointed. "I'm not sure if I got it in right. The woman at the store helped but you might want to check, just in case."
Courtney nodded. She made a sign to Noah then released his hand and climbed into the back seat, muttering under her breath as she tugged and pulled and twisted.
Something small and warm touched Harland's hand and he looked down, surprised to see Noah looking up at him with a lopsided grin. Then, very slowly, the little boy reached up with both arms, the plane still carefully clutched in one hand.
Harland didn't move. He couldn't move. He was afraid if he did, the spell would be broken, that he'd scare the kid. But Noah was insistent and kept reaching up, a small wheezy grunt spilling from his lips.
Harland looked at Courtney, wondering how pissed she'd get. But she was still busy with the new car seat and wasn't paying any attention to them. Well, why the hell should he care what she thought? Noah was his son. If he wanted to hold him—if Noah wanted him to pick him up—then he would.
He reached down and placed his hands under Noah's arms then lifted him up. Harland wasn't quite sure what to do next, though. He didn't need to be because Noah leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Harland's neck and dropped his head on his shoulder.
A lump formed in Harland's throat and an even bigger one lodged in his chest. It would be so easy to tighten his arms around the small body resting against him, to never let go. He couldn't do that. Hell, he was even afraid to move. What if he tightened his arms too much? What if he was holding him the wrong way? Would the kid break?
He didn't want to hurt Noah but he had no idea what he was doing. He felt small in his arms, his weight barely noticeable. Fragile. Delicate. Precious. The most precious thing in the world.
"Everything looks good. I can—"
Harland caught Courtney's gaze as she climbed out of the backseat. A flash of irritation lit her eyes then disappeared, leaving her gaze carefully blank. Hooded. Did he look as guilty as he felt? Ridiculous. There was nothing to feel guilty about. He hadn't done anything wrong. That didn't stop him from trying to explain, to come up with an excuse.
"He wanted up. I didn't mean to—he just kept raising his arms like he wanted me to pick him up and—"
"It's okay." Courtney cut him off, her voice softer than he expected it to be. Did she understand? Maybe she did. "But now you're going to have to get him into the seat. And trust me, that isn't going to be easy."
"What do you mean?"
She sighed then walked to the other side of the SUV and opened the door. "Watch his head climbing in. And just prepare yourself."
"Prepare myself? For what? It can't be that hard." As soon as he said the words and climbed into the back, he learned exactly what she meant. It was like someone had thrown a switch and the child in his arms suddenly became possessed. His body stiffened and his back arched as Harland tried to put him into the car seat. His arms flung out, swinging, refusing to be restrained. He kicked out with his legs then twisted from one side to the next, over and over. Every single time Harland thought he might have Noah in place, he arched his back and started flailing again.
He glanced over at Courtney, noticed that she was biting back a smile. "You're not much help."
"Sorry."
"Does he do this all the time?"
"Not all the time, no. But I had a feeling, the way he was hanging on to you, that he might."
"Oh." Harland swallowed back the disappointment at the thought that maybe Noah hadn't wanted to be picked up for the reason he had thought. Stu
pid. What did it matter? It didn't.
Except the kid was still struggling, making it clear that he was not happy about being put in the seat. Courtney climbed up on the seat, on the other side of Noah, and tried to get one arm through the strap. She paused, made a quick motion with her hand, saying "No" at the same time.
Noah stared at her, his small eyes narrowed. He mimicked the sign, shaking his head back and forth. Then he arched his back once more and swung out with both arms. One hand—his empty one, because he was still somehow holding onto the stuffed plane—caught Courtney in the mouth. She made a small sound of muffled pain and pulled away, one hand covering her mouth, the other making that same sign again.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah, fine. It was just an accident."
"I don't care if it was an accident or not. I've had enough of this. Show me that sign."
"What sign?"
"The one for 'no'. That's what you were telling him, right?"
Courtney nodded, the unasked question clear in her eyes. But she remained silent and showed him how to make the sign.
Harland watched closely then turned back to his formerly-angelic-but-now-possessed son. He placed his left hand in the middle of Noah's chest, holding him in place, and carefully—forcefully—made the sign as Courtney had showed him.
"No!" His voice was stern, with just an extra hint of volume. He repeated the sign and said it again: "No!"
Noah's eyes went wide with surprise and his body went limp, almost like he was too shocked to keep fighting. His gaze never wavered from Harland's as he slipped Noah's arms into the straps and snapped the buckle into place between his legs. Noah watched him for another few seconds then smiled and pulled the stuffed plane in front of him, busying himself with playing with it.
"I don't think I've ever seen him settle down so quickly before."
"Yeah?" Harland was helpless to stop the sense of warm accomplishment that spread through him. It didn't hurt that Courtney actually smiled at him, too. Just a small one, nothing more than a brief lifting of the corners of her mouth.
Who knew? Maybe this parenting thing wouldn't be so bad after all.
Chapter Twelve
How the hell had it gotten to this point?
Courtney dried her soapy hands on one of the towels then sat back on her heels, trying to decide if this was a dream—or a nightmare.
Trying to decide which one would be worse.
Noah was splashing in the soapy water, getting as much on her and the floor as he was on himself. He kept bouncing up and down, making the soft strangled sounds that equated laughter for him. Each bounce created waves in the old tub, which sent each of the rubber boats rocking. And the rubber animals, and the rubber alphabet blocks. He had so many toys floating around him, it was a wonder there was room for him in the tub.
In other words, it was nothing more than normal bath time—except for the man kneeling on the floor next to her. His shirt sleeves were rolled up past each elbow, his hands dangling in the soapy water. Courtney watched him from the corner of her eye, just watching, not thinking. Fine hair, now dark with water, sprinkled his arms. The muscles of his forearms rippled each time his arms moved, which was pretty much non-stop because he was trying to catch Noah. He finally laughed and shook his head, dropping the washcloth into the tub.
"I give up. You're like an eel. A slippery little eel."
Noah couldn't hear him, Courtney knew that. But her son knew Harland was saying something, something to him, something funny. Noah made his grunting little laugh and bounced up and down again. A wave of water sloshed along the side of the tub, soaking the front of Harland's shirt before he could sit back.
Noah must have thought that was particularly funny because he did it again, using his hands to make even larger waves.
"Noah! No, stop." Courtney didn't bother wasting time to sign, just leaned forward, trying to grab him. Her hand caught his arm, slipped off. She tried again, with the same result.
Why was she even bothering? He was turning it into a game. She had learned how to pick her battles long ago, and this was one time where it was better to back off. If she did, it wouldn't be a game any longer.
She sat back on her heels one more time, wondering if she should share that wisdom with Harland. He was the one reaching for Noah now, only he was having worse luck than she did.
And she still wasn't sure how he had ended up here, kneeling on the old tile floor of the dated bathroom, helping her with Noah's bath.
They had gone to dinner at a chain restaurant not far from the arena where the Bombers played. Harland had insisted on driving them home, flat out refusing to let them take the bus. Courtney didn't argue with him, not when she was grateful for the ride. She didn't mind riding the bus herself—she did it almost every single day. But she wasn't a big fan of taking Noah with her, not if she didn't have to.
So she had accepted the ride, not thinking anything of it. And she hadn't made a big deal of it when Harland insisted on carrying a half-sleeping Noah inside. The entire situation made her uncomfortable—Harland, actually wanting to be part of Noah's life? It seemed surreal. Unbelievable. And part of her was still convinced that he would disappear once the novelty wore off.
There was more to being a father than simply having your name on a birth certificate but Harland had insisted. Insisted? No, it was more like threatened. She had given in, for reasons she still didn't quite understand. What did it matter if his name was listed? It didn't, not when being a father encompassed so much more.
Had she really thought that he'd let it go at that? Yeah, she had. It didn't matter that he insisted on this time with Noah—and not just tonight, either. Courtney had wanted to fight him on that, too, but she didn't know how. She'd talked to an attorney—a friend of Beth's, since she couldn't afford one of her own. He told her she could fight if she wanted to but that it would be better if she worked with Harland. He'd told her that if Harland pushed back, he'd probably win. Not only that, as Noah's father, he could potentially go after her for custody, even if it was only partial. He was Noah's father, he was making an effort.
She didn't feel like she had a choice. She didn't want to push, didn't want to lose. And she was secretly afraid that if she did push, Harland and his attorney would push for even more. Courtney couldn't bear to even think of what might happen then.
She couldn't do anything except wait and hope the novelty would wear off and that Harland would eventually disappear from their lives again. The thought left her unsettled, made her feel helpless—and more than a little afraid, because it wasn't just helplessness she was feeling. No, there was definitely more to it than that. Disappointment. Fear. Sadness at the idea of him disappearing once more.
And that scared her more than anything. She shouldn't be feeling any of those things, not after everything that had happened between them.
"Um. Hey, Court? I, uh, I think something's wrong with the little guy."
"What?" The words startled her as much as the old nickname and she straightened, immediately alert as her gaze shot to Noah. He was standing still, slightly bent over, a look of concentration on his face as he held himself.
She jumped up and snagged him from the tub, dripping water on the floor as she carried him over to the plastic potty chair sitting near the regular toilet. She plopped him down then stood back, a wide smile on her face.
"Potty? Do you need to use the potty, Noah?" She made the sign for him: her right hand closed in a fist, her thumb between her index and middle fingers. "Potty?"
"What are you doing?"
She glanced over her shoulder and frowned. "What's it look like I'm doing? We're trying to get him potty trained."
"By having him sit?"
"How else would we do it?"
"Court, boys don't sit to take a piss."
"They do to poop."
"He was holding his dick. Since when does that mean poop?" Harland stood up and grabbed a towel, drying his arms and wiping at the front of his
shirt. She ignored the way the material clung to his broad chest and focused on his choice of words instead.
"We don't say dick. Do you have to be so crass? He's not even three!" It didn't matter that Noah couldn't hear the word, she didn't want anyone using inappropriate language around him.
"Okay, sorry. What do you want me to call it? His pee-pee?"
"No. It's 'penis'." And oh God, did she just say that? To Harland? Yes, she did. And worse, her eyes had dropped to the front of his pants when she said it. She didn't know why, hadn't even realized she was going to drop her gaze. Heat filled her face. It was foolish to think he hadn't noticed, not when she saw the way his eyebrows quirked before she looked away.
"Fine. He was grabbing his penis. The boy needs to piss and boys don't do that sitting down. You need to teach him the right way to do it."
"Really? And just how am I supposed to do that? I'm not exactly equipped to demonstrate the proper technique, you know."
"No, you're not."
Courtney didn't miss the underlying warmth in Harland's voice, didn't miss the way his mouth curled up at the corner. She shook her head, felt her face grow even warmer. Why would he even say something like that? Should she respond? No. God no. That would make things even worse.
Harland moved toward her, that grin still in place. "Time to let the expert teach him."
"What are you doing?"
"I'm teaching my son how to piss like a man." He leaned down and pulled Noah from the small potty chair, then set him on his feet and turned him around so he was facing it. One hand reached for his belt, pulling the end loose from the buckle. "Okay, kid. This is how we do it."
"Harland! Don't you dare!"
He paused, his hand on the button of the dress pants. "What?"
"Did you forget I'm standing here?"
"Yeah? And?"
"You can't be serious." Oh God, he wasn't serious, was he? Did he actually plan to show Noah while she was standing right there? Her gaze met his and she saw the amusement flashing in the depths of those honey-colored eyes. Amusement and something else. Was he teasing her? Daring her? Damn him. She couldn't tell, wasn't sure she really wanted to know.
[York Bombers 01.0] Playing the Game Page 8
