“I’ll leave you in peace.” Ford gave Harley a brief, fierce hug. “You need a wingman to help win her over, I’m your guy.” He slapped Harley’s back and let go. “If all else fails, buy a dog, and the pair of you can go beg on her doorstep with big puppy eyes.” Ford winked and threw over his shoulder as he walked away, “Preferably a breed that doesn’t shed, bro. You know how she is.”
Yeah, Harley knew how she was—anal, stubborn and so beautiful inside and out it made his teeth ache. While he didn’t know about adopting a dog, he was willing to do pretty much anything else to prove to Bree that he was in it to win it.
Chapter 20
Bree wasn’t an idiot. At least, not a complete, crazy-delusional person.
She knew Harley was up to something in the two weeks following the disastrous exhibition. The day she’d said no to a future with him…the day she’d broken his heart.
Or maybe not.
The broken-hearted Harley was currently high up on the scaffolding he and the guys had erected at his new house, whistling off key and rolling a pale, moss-green paint onto the exterior wall. The man was up to something, as sure as Ben Harland had been up to something when he’d tried everything from gutter cleaning to singing his heart out to win Kezia back. Granted—it had worked for Ben.
Harley had bought a big, beautiful house overlooking Horseshoe Bay, one with four bedrooms and a separate building in the back garden he planned to use as a studio. Oh, yes, she’d heard all about the property from Ford, who, as Harley’s wingman, felt compelled to give her a blow-by-blow account of Harley’s progress every couple of days.
It didn’t mean squat.
Didn’t mean anything had changed. Didn’t mean he wouldn’t take off back to New York or London or goddamn Peru once Junior had started teething and screaming the house down like a banshee.
So Bree had avoided Harley’s new place as if it was the local crack house. When, in reality, Harley was her crack, and she was going through some major pain-in-the-butt withdrawal symptoms.
Which was why she was jogging past Harley’s new house this bright and pretty summer Sunday morning, though anyone who knew her knew the only way Bree Findlow voluntarily jogged was if either an angry mob was after her, or if Ryan Reynolds waited at the finish line with cupcakes.
Visiting Harley—who was, as usual, sans shirt and covered with a light sheen of sweat that defined each delicious muscle on his broad back—was counterintuitive, you’d think. But like mums—and aunties—worldwide, she’d learned the simple lesson that ripping off an adhesive bandage fast hurt far less than peeling it away millimeter by millimeter. Avoiding Harley, as she had for the last two weeks, had been a slow, painful dissection of him from her life. And, of course, if the man really did intend to stay for a while, then Bree couldn’t avoid him indefinitely.
“Morning,” she called out from the safety of the roadside.
He ignored her, continuing to flex and arch to roller on a high section of the wall, and then—God, so much skin, and now he’s bending down, and the cargo shorts are pulling tight over his butt, and where’s a camera when you need it…
Harley glanced into his paint tray, and Bree spotted the thin white wires dangling from his ears. Damn. She was gonna have to go in there. Call her a masochist, but she had to prove to him and to herself that they could deal with each other and their impending baby in an adult manner.
Bree sighed and pushed open the gate. She had no idea, no freaking idea at all how to be an adult in this situation. She walked up the garden path and then veered off into the long grass toward the side of the house, where Harley was still oblivious.
She was so caught up with adulting and, okay, a little gushy teenager thrown into the mix, the appearance of a knee-high, timber-and-wire structure right in front of her caused a sudden flailing of arms, a throbbing kneecap and a bout of swearing. This made the two rabbits—one white, the other white with brown splotches—freak out and hop madly into the covered part of their hutch.
Rabbits. Bunnies. Perky-eared lettuce munchers. Harley had absolutely lost his mind.
She stood, fists on hips, slanting cautious glances at the now-empty hutch, as Harley finally noticed the intruder in his yard and climbed down from the scaffolding.
“I see you met the kids.” He swaggered through the overgrown grass, dragging out his earbuds and stuffing them into his pocket. “Or rather, their hutch.”
Out of all the questions she’d imagined herself asking Harley this morning, “Why do you have rabbits on your front lawn?” wasn’t one of them.
“I was out for a run.” Bree opted to ignore the obvious and stick with her story. “Saw you up there and thought I’d say hi.”
“Not going to touch on the rabbits?”
“Not with a ten-foot pole,” she said.
He sent her a smile that made her forget about her smarting kneecap.
“I went to the Invers SPCA, and since there were no puppies, I found this brother and sister. They needed a forever home.”
“Forever home? You must’ve been tripping on some pretty wild acid.”
Harley rolled a muscle-bulked shoulder forward in a shrug and knelt beside the hutch, making a clucking sound with his tongue. “C’mon, little-dude.” He squinted up at her. “That’s the white and brown one. I told Carter he could name him. He’s thinking it over.” This time, he made a kissing noise as a white nose peeped out from the hutch door.
That her ovaries suddenly went quivery-hot at the sight of Harley’s mouth making kissing motions just went to show that maybe she was the one tripping.
“Ah, there you are,” he said. “C’mon, Queenie.”
Bree folded her arms—in case her nipples had the same response as her ovaries—and pulled a sour-puss grimace. “Cute.”
Cute, in an aw-he-called-a-pet-after-my-nickname cute, but she still wanted to smack him one. And then force him to make those kissy noises again. Yes, right before she jumped him in the sweet-smelling summer grass, rolling around until all their clothes somehow disappeared.
“She’s the skittish one.” A meaningful stare as Harley wiggled an index finger through the wire. “She doesn’t trust me yet, but she’ll come around.”
Queenie’s little white nose edged out of the enclosure, followed by the rest of her as she hopped slowly to the hutch and delicately snuffled his finger. A cute but traitorous example of her gender. After the rabbit moved on to a juicy patch of grass, Harley sent her a what did I tell you eyebrow raise.
Please. As if she was a silly rabbit.
So she volleyed back with a you poor, delusional wee man stare and said, “Doing up a house and adopting a couple of pets doesn’t mean anything, you know.”
“Oh. It means something, Bree. You’ve just adjusted your life camera to macro, so you’re totally missing the big picture. I have faith you’ll zoom out and see it. Eventually.”
“I’m not a rabbit.” The pinnacle of wit her poor brain could come up with at that moment. Sheesh.
He licked the tip of his finger and marked an invisible scoreboard. “You have to admit that was a kick-ass metaphor.”
Bree huffed, and he smiled another knee-wobble-inducing smile.
“Or not.” Harley stood, brushing grass seeds off his knees. “Well, you saved me a trip by the studio later. I wanted to let you know you’ve got a day to pack up your essentials and find somewhere else to stay for at least three weeks, probably a month.”
Heat exploded into her face, and her heart raced for gold. “What? Why?”
“New, modernized bathroom, new paint in the kitchen, including the ceiling, re-wallpapering the two bedrooms, plus new carpet and installation of a new fireplace, since the one in your living room is a fire hazard waiting to happen.”
She could only gape at him.
“I’m your new landlord and therefore responsible for the apartment being in a liveable, safe condition—if that’s where you insist on staying once my son or daughter is born.”
She closed her gaping mouth, ran through the overwhelming list of objections spinning around her head, and opened it again.
“Non-negotiable,” Harley said before she could speak. “And I’ve already checked with Piper and West; they’re happy to have you there. Unless…” He shoved a hand in one of his many pockets then made a move toward her side of the hutch.
Bree immediately dropped the indifferent act and scuttled sideways—as skittish as the white bunny. Damn. But with Harley smelling of sunshine-warmed skin and fresh sweat, she’d be a goner if he got too close.
“You going to make me chase you, baby?” He drew out a keychain from his pocket. Two keys dangled from the wooden wheku charm. “Think fast.”
He tossed them, and Bree salvaged some pride by catching the keys with one hand.
“Unless,” he continued. “You’re ready to admit you miss me as much as I miss you.”
No way was she ready to admit it, even though every single word was true. She stared at the key chain in her hand like a, well, like a moron.
Harley added helpfully, “They’re the keys to my house. I finished painting inside a few days ago. Time on my hands, you know.”
“I’m not moving in with you.” She held out the keys, dangling them over the hutch. “Take them back.”
“Nope.” Harley folded his arms over his chest. His lovely, smooth-skinned, muscular chest that her tongue knew every inch of by heart. “And let’s not fight about it in front of the kids.”
Two bunnies stared up at her in accusation. Oh, dear God. She and Harley were losing their minds. At least she could blame the pregnancy hormones.
“I’ll be out by Wednesday morning,” she said stiffly. “And these”—she shook the keys and then dropped the keychain into her sports bra, causing Harley’s eyes to zoom in hawk-like on her cleavage. Served him damn-well right, since she was also a little turned on—“will be left on the kitchen counter.”
“Your call,” he said.
She turned and stalked to the garden gate.
Damn right, it was her call. Because it was up to her to protect her heart and her baby’s heart, even if her reasons for doing so had taken a dent from the whole house-painting and bunny debacle.
“Bunnies don’t mean anything,” she yelled and slammed the gate behind her.
Like a crazy-delusional person.
***
“You sure about this?” Harley asked.
He eyed the sleeping Michaela one last time, while West tucked the baby’s blanket more securely around her in the portable-sleeping-thingy.
“I mean…I know I volunteered, but…” You sure you trust me with this tiny bundle of pale-pink-skinned perfection? That was what Harley really meant, but was too scared to ask.
Suck it up, man.
Piper aimed an epic eye-roll in his direction as she picked up an envelope-sized purse. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I didn’t have to lug around a bag that exceeds aircraft cabin dimensions?”
“Ah, eight weeks?”
“Precisely. And I won’t even tell you how long it’s been since West’s had the opportunity to feel me up in his office.” Piper tucked the bag under her arm and smirked at her husband. “Looks as if tonight’s gonna be your lucky night.”
West made lovey-dovey eyes back at his wife and then glanced at Harley, who hovered a safe distance from the sleeping baby. “What I’m sure of, Harl, is if I don’t get some alone time with my wife tonight, I’m going to go batshit crazy. I’m also sure we’ll come back here and find my daughter has you wrapped around her little finger.”
“You’ll be fine,” Piper said. “And my God, the way you handled changing your first nappy the other day—well, I gotta give you props. By the time Harley Junior arrives, our Mickey will have you tackling poopy ones and bath time with no worries. Anyway, she’s milk drunk and should sleep until we get home. If she wakes up, she’ll quiet down if you walk her around the house in the front-pack.”
Right. The one thing he’d learned since he’d decided to self-treat himself with baby exposure therapy was that this kid had a voice on her to rival her mother. Quiet was not a word he’d associate with the obnoxiously cute Michaela Westlake.
Harley gave the cloth contraption Piper pointed to on the back of the couch a glance just as dubious as he’d given the sleeping baby. It looked far too complicated to figure out how to attach it to his body, let alone work out how to get a screaming infant into it.
“Bree’s due home in about twenty minutes. We haven’t told her we’re going out tonight.” West gave him a so don’t screw this up, asshole stare. “And Shaye’s melt-her-frozen-heart chicken casserole is heating in the oven. All going to plan, you can wow Bree with your mad baby-handling skills until we get home.”
Sure. With a plan like that, what could go wrong?
Harley waved off West and Piper and returned—okay, so he actually tip-toed—back into the living room. Fortunately, the parent-daughter psychic bonds were disproved, since Michaela appeared not to care one whit who her parents had left in charge and slept on.
Until five minutes later, when outside the back door Donny must’ve spotted something encroaching into his territory and let out one muted woof. Really not much louder than the mutt’s wicked farts when someone slipped him some leftover spicy food.
But two beats after that solitary bark, three whimpering sobs rose from the portable-sleeping-thingy, followed by a sound like an air-raid siren. Harley flung his legs off the couch and hurried over. Michela’s sleeping baby face had scrunched up into little wrinkles, her cherubic mouth gaping wide open in a stop-start, panting howl, her tiny fists waving around her head. The infamous Harland temper, right there on display.
Three weeks ago, when he’d stopped by to humbly ask Piper if she’d teach him how to hold Michaela, he never would’ve believed he’d get to the point where he’d willingly change a kid’s pee-soaked nappy. But he had. Only took him five more visits. And even though he was a little nervous, since this was the first time Piper and West had left Mickey in his care, the freaked out I’m going to break the baby if I touch her terrors had completely gone.
“C’mon, you grumpy little miss.” He picked her up and cradled her against his chest—one hand supporting the back of her nearly bald head, the other palming her little butt. Her damp little butt. Not as sharp as Sherlock, maybe, but he figured a nappy change and clean jumpsuit thingy was in order. Harley caught a glimpse of himself in the hallway mirror and nodded in satisfaction even though Mickey continued to scream and drool on his shirt.
“Uncle Harley has so got this.”
Ten minutes later, after a nappy change, jumpsuit change, and even the last-ditch offer of a pacifier, which was loudly rejected, Uncle Harley wasn’t quite so cocky. He gave himself some kudos for figuring out how to get Mickey into the front pack, and extra bonus points for then getting the damn thing and the baby safely strapped to his chest.
With the baby’s bootie-covered feet flailing—make that one bootie-covered foot, because God knew where the second pink woolly thing went to—Harley walked around the living room. Footsteps thudded on the stairs. Shit, she was back. Michaela sobbed like she’d been abandoned to a pack of wolves. No wonder Harley hadn’t even heard Bree come in.
So much for his plans to impress with his daddy-ing skills. He’d visualized Bree discovering Michaela peacefully snoozing while he set the table for their romantic dinner…or better yet, him cradling a cooing baby in one arm while he efficiently multi-tasked and set the table.
Harley did a little swaying, boogying shuffle, coordinated with a light pat on the baby’s back. Mickey gave a gigantic hiccup, and warm wetness soaked the front of his shirt. He glanced down at the goopy white liquid dripping onto the floor.
Oh, for Pete’s—
“What are you doing with Michaela?” Bree stepped into the living room, obviously having followed the sounds of hysterical cries.
“Babysitting,” he sai
d and side-stepped the white puddle, walking to the sideboard to select a soft, pastel-colored cloth from a stack. “Though not much actual sitting has gone on.”
He glanced up to see Bree staring at him as if he’d had a frontal lobotomy.
“What? You don’t think I can pull off a sitting gig? Mickey and I are like this—” Harley showed her his crossed fingers. “She’s my honorary niece.”
“She is, is she?” Bree rolled her eyes in a brief study of the ceiling, as if asking the universe for patience in dealing with such a dumbass male. “The same honorary niece who only six weeks ago you held like she was a hot potato.”
Mickey, who must’ve subscribed to the theory that it was better out than in, seemed quite content to rub her tiny nose on Harley’s shirt. Her feet had stilled, and her fingers curled loosely on his chest.
He dabbed at the wet patch on his shirt, fighting the urge to wrinkle his nose at the smell of stomach-soured milk. “I’ve developed some skills in the baby-wrangling arena since then.”
“Uh-huh. And apparently, older kid-wrangling, too.” She raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I saw you finger painting with a bunch of three-and four-year-olds at the pre-school—like you knew I would.”
“Completely unintentional.”
Not exactly, since Bree also took an hour art class once a week at the school, and the pre-school occupied a small, fenced-off section on the school’s property. It wasn’t his fault if the kids’ excited squeals as they’d covered large sheets of paper with rainbow-colored squiggles, streaks, splotches and perfect-little-handprints had drawn Bree’s attention there once she’d finished her class.
“A one-off session with finger paints proves nothing—even if you did buy enough art supplies for the school and pre-school to keep them in paint and brushes and paper for the next year.” Grudging admiration leaked into her tone.
So he’d been a little scheming, talking to Rhonda, the school principal, and bridging the financial gap that the government wouldn’t cover in such a small community for more than the very basic equipment.
Drawing Me In: A New Zealand Secret Baby Second Chance Romance (Due South Series Book 7) Page 29
