by Heidi Betts
Taking a deep breath, she checked herself over in the bathroom mirror one last time—though she wasn’t sure why she bothered. Yes, it had been a while since she’d had a reason to get so dressed up, let alone get so dressed up twice in one day.
But even though jeans and tennies were more her style these days, Marc had seen her in everything from ratty shorts and T-shirts to full-length ball gowns and priceless jewels. Besides, she wasn’t attempting to impress him this evening, was she? No, she was pacifying him.
After showing him to the Harbor Inn and then letting him drop her off at The Sugar Shack once again, Vanessa had finished off her day at the bakery, closed up shop, and headed home with Danny and her aunt. While Helen had fixed dinner for herself and kept Danny entertained, Vanessa had run upstairs to change clothes and retouch her makeup.
She wasn’t fixing herself up for Marc, she told her reflection. She wasn’t. It was simply that she was taking advantage of a dinner invitation that included the chance to look like a woman for a change instead of a frazzled working mother struggling to be a successful entrepreneur.
That’s the only reason she was wearing her favorite strapless red dress, strappy red heels and dangling imitation ruby earrings. It was over-the-top for even the priciest restaurant in Summerville, but she didn’t care. She might never get the opportunity to wear this outfit again…or to remind Marc of just what he’d given up when he let her go.
The doorbell rang before she was ready for it and her heart lurched in her chest. She quickly swiped on another layer of lipstick, then made sure she had everything she needed in the tiny red clutch she’d dug out of the back of her closet.
Halfway down the stairs, she heard voices and knew Aunt Helen had answered the door in her absence. She didn’t know whether to be grateful or nervous about that; it depended, she supposed, on Aunt Helen’s current disposition.
At the bottom of the landing, she found Aunt Helen standing inside the open door, one hand on the knob. No shotgun or frying pan in sight, which was a good sign.
Marc stood on the other side of the door, still on the porch. He was dressed in the same charcoal suit as earlier, forest-green tie arrow straight and jacket buttoned back in place. His hands were linked behind his back and he was smiling down at Aunt Helen with all the charm of a used car salesman. When he spotted her, Marc transferred that dimpled grin to her.
“Hi,” he said. “You look great.”
Vanessa resisted the urge to smooth a hand down the front of her dress or recheck the knot of her upswept hair. “Thank you.”
“I was just telling your aunt what a lovely home she has. At least from the outside,” he added with a wink, likely because Aunt Helen had obviously failed to invite him inside.
“Would you like to come in?” Vanessa asked, ignoring her aunt’s sidelong scowl.
“Yes, thank you.” Marc ignored the scowl, too, brushing past Aunt Helen and into the entranceway.
He gave the house a cursory once-over and Vanessa wondered if he was comparing it to his own lavish residence, possibly finding it lacking as an appropriate place for his child to be raised. But when he turned back, his expression held no censure, only mild curiosity.
“Where’s Danny?” he asked.
“The kitchen,” Helen supplied, closing the front door, then moving past them in that direction. “I was just giving him his dinner.”
Marc shot Vanessa a glance before waving her ahead of him as they followed Helen through the living area to the back of the house. “I thought you were still breast-feeding.”
She flushed, feeling heat climb over her cheeks toward her hairline. “I am, but not exclusively. He also gets juice, cereal and a selection of baby food.”
“Good,” he murmured with a short nod, watching as Aunt Helen rounded the kitchen table and took a seat. “The longer a child breast-feeds, the better. It increases immunity, builds the child’s sense of security and helps with mother/child bonding.”
“And how do you know that?” she asked, genuinely surprised.
Danny was strapped into his Winnie the Pooh swing, face and bib spattered with a mixture of strained peas, strained carrots and applesauce. He looked like a Jackson Pollock painting as he kicked his feet and slapped his hands against the plastic sides of the seat that held him.
Without waiting for an invitation, Marc sat down opposite Aunt Helen, leaning in to rub Danny’s head. The baby giggled and Marc grinned in return.
“Contrary to popular belief,” he murmured, not bothering to turn in her direction, “I didn’t become CEO of Keller Corp by nepotism alone. I actually happen to be quite resourceful when I need to be.”
“Let me guess—you dug out your laptop and hit the internet.”
“I’m not telling,” he answered, tossing her a teasing half smile. Then to Aunt Helen, he said, “May I?” indicating the array of baby food jars spread out in front of her.
The older woman gave him a look that clearly said she didn’t think he was capable, but she waved him on all the same. “Be my guest.”
He picked up the miniature plastic spoon with a cartoon character on the handle and began feeding Danny in tiny bites, waiting long enough in between them for the baby to gum and smack and swallow.
Vanessa stood back, watching…and wishing. Wishing she hadn’t agreed to go out to dinner with Marc this evening, after all. Wishing she hadn’t invited him in and that he hadn’t wanted to see Danny before they left. Wishing this whole scene wasn’t so domestic, so bittersweet, so much of a reminder of what could have been.
Marc looked entirely too comfortable feeding his son, even dressed as he was in a full business suit. He was also oddly good at it, which she wouldn’t have expected from a man who hadn’t spent much time around babies before.
When Danny began to fuss and wouldn’t take another bite, Marc set aside the jars and spoon, and brushed his hands together.
“I’d like to pick him up for a minute,” he said, splitting his gaze between his expensive suit and his infant son, who was doing his best imitation of a compost pile, “but…”
“Definitely not,” Vanessa agreed, grabbing a damp cloth to wipe the worst of the excess food from Danny’s mouth and chin. “Let Aunt Helen get him cleaned up and maybe you can hold him when we get back, if he’s still awake.”
Marc didn’t look completely pleased with that idea, but since the alternative was ruining a suit that probably cost more than most people’s monthly mortgage payment, he wisely refrained from reaching out and getting covered by Gerber’s finest.
“Shouldn’t we go?” she prompted as he pushed to his feet and Aunt Helen rounded the table to scoop Danny from the swing.
Still looking reluctant to leave, Marc nodded and followed her back through the house to the front door. Outside, he led her to his car, which was parked at the curb, and helped her inside.
“What do you do when he’s a mess like that?” Marc asked once he’d climbed in beside her.
She twisted in her seat to face him, noticing the frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. “What do you mean?”
“How do you not pick up your own child?”
Vanessa blinked, wondering if she’d heard him correctly. Oh, she heard the words clearly enough, but was that a hint of guilt stealing through his tone? Guilt from a man she hadn’t thought understood the concept? Who’d let her walk away without a fight, with barely an explanation?
“Marc.” Shaking her head, she ducked her chin to keep him from seeing the amusement tugging at her lips. “I know this is all new to you. I know finding out about Danny was quite a shock, but you have nothing to feel guilty about. He’s a baby. As long as all of his needs are met, he doesn’t care who’s feeding him, who’s holding him, who’s changing his diaper.”
If anything, Marc’s frown deepened. “That isn’t true. Infants know the difference between their parents and simply a babysitter, between their mother and their father.”
“All right,” she acquiesced,
“but rest assured that there are plenty of times I don’t pick him up right after he’s eaten because I don’t want him to get food on my clothes. Or worse yet, yurk on me.”
“Yurk?”
“It’s what Aunt Helen and I call a ‘yucky burp,’” she explained, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “Believe me, once you’ve had soured milk or formula spit up all over you, you learn fast not to wear nice clothes around a baby and to keep a towel handy.”
Without a thought of what she was doing, she reached across the console and patted his thigh. “If you’re going to be in town for a while to spend time with him, get yourself some nice, cheap jeans and T-shirts, and expect them to get dirty on a regular basis. But don’t worry about tonight. I didn’t hold him this morning, either, because I was dressed up for my meeting with you. That’s one of the great things about having Aunt Helen around. I can’t do everything all by myself and she helps to pick up the slack.”
Meeting her gaze, Marc wrapped his fingers around hers, holding her hand in place, even when she tried to pull it away. “I should be the one helping you with Danny, not your aunt. But don’t worry, we’re going to talk about that over dinner. Among other things.”
Despite the threat of The Big Talk and being pinned to her chair like a bug under Marc’s intense scrutiny and personal version of the Spanish Inquisition, dinner was actually quite enjoyable. He took her to the hotel’s dining room, which was actually one of the more moderately upscale restaurants in town and attempted to ply her with wine and crab cakes. Of course, since she was breast-feeding, the wine was a no-no, but the crab cakes were delicious. Maybe because he let her eat them in peace.
As soon as the waitress topped off their coffees and they’d made their dessert selections, however, she knew the stay of execution was over. Marc cupped his hands around the ceramic mug and leaned forward in his seat, causing her to tense slightly in her own.
“What was the pregnancy like?” he asked, getting straight to the point, as usual.
Vanessa blew out a small breath, relieved that he was at least starting out with an easy question instead of immediately launching into demands and ugly accusations.
“It was pretty typical, I think,” she told him. “Bearing in mind I’d never been pregnant before and didn’t really know what to expect. But there were no complications and even the morning sickness wasn’t too bad. It didn’t always limit itself to mornings, which made getting the bakery open and working twelve-hour days a bit of an adventure,” she added with a chuckle, “but it wasn’t as terrible as I’d expected.”
From there he wanted to know every detail of Danny’s birth. Date, time, length, weight, how long her labor had lasted—all facts that she’d taken for granted. In his shoes, though, she could imagine how desperate she would be to learn and memorize every one of them.
“I should have been there,” he said softly, staring down at the table. Then he lifted his gaze to hers. “I deserved to be there. For all of it.”
Her heart lurched and she braced herself for the onslaught, for every bit of anger and resentment she knew he had to be feeling…and that she probably deserved. But instead of lashing out, his voice remained level.
“As much as it bothers me, there’s no going back, we can only move forward. So here’s the deal, Vanessa.”
His green eyes bore into her, the same look she suspected he gave rival business associates during mergers and tricky acquisitions.
“Now that I know about Danny, I want in on everything. I’ll stick around here for a while, until you get used to that idea. Until I get the hang of being a father and he starts to recognize me that way. But after that, I’m going to want to take him home.”
At that, at the mention of his home, not hers, Vanessa went still, her shoulders stiffening and her fingers tightening on the handle of her coffee cup.
“That’s not a threat,” he added quickly, obviously noticing how tense her body had gone. “I’m not saying I want to take him back to Pittsburgh forever. I honestly don’t know yet how we’re going to work out the logistics of that, but we can discuss it later. I’m only talking about a visit so I can introduce him to my family, let my mother know she has another grandchild.”
Oh, Eleanor would love that, Vanessa thought with derision. She’d be thrilled with another grandchild, especially another male grandchild to carry on the Keller name. But that grandchild’s mother was another story—and Marc’s mother would only truly be happy with Vanessa out of the picture.
“And what if I don’t agree? To any of it.”
One dark brow winged upward. “Then I’ll be forced to threaten, I suppose. But is that really the direction you want to go? I’ve been pretty amicable about this entire situation so far, even though I think we both know I have more than enough reason to be furious over it.”
Taking a sip of his coffee, he tipped his head to the side, looking much calmer than she felt.
“If you want me to be furious and toss around ugly threats you know I can follow through on, that’s fine, just say the word. But if you’d rather act like two mature adults determined to create the best environment possible for their child, then I suggest you go along with my plans.”
“Do I have a choice?” she grumbled, understanding better than ever the adage about being stuck between a rock and a hard place.
Marc’s smile was equal parts cocky and confident. “You had the choice of whether or not to tell me you were pregnant in the first place, and you decided not to, so…not really. The ball is in my court now.”
Six
The ball was most definitely in Marc’s court—along with everything else. But then, she’d known that the minute he’d walked up the stairs to the bakery’s second-floor apartment and discovered he had a son, hadn’t she? Her only option now was to play nice and hope he would continue to do the same.
Marc’s hand was on her elbow as they left the restaurant, guiding her along the carpeted passage toward the lobby. Old fishing nets and decorative life preservers lined the walls and she suddenly realized how odd the decor must seem to outsiders.
Those who were familiar with Summerville never gave it a second thought, but anyone coming into town for the first time must wonder at the hotel’s name and decor without a significant body of water nearby to back them up. Especially since the hotel’s dining room didn’t even particularly specialize in seafood dishes.
“Come upstairs with me,” he murmured suddenly just above her ear.
Tearing her gaze from a large plastic swordfish caught in one of the nets, she flashed Marc a startled, disbelieving look, only to have him chuckle at her reaction.
“That isn’t a proposition,” he assured her, then waggled his eyebrows in an exaggerated attempt at flirtation. “Although I wouldn’t be opposed to a bit of after-dinner seduction.”
At the lobby, he steered her to the left, away from the hotel’s main entrance and in the direction of the wide, Gone with the Wind-esque stairwell that led to the guest rooms.
“I have something to show you,” he continued as they slowly climbed the stairs, her heels digging into the thick carpeting, faded in places from years of wear.
“Now that sounds like a proposition. Or maybe a bad pickup line,” she told him.
He slanted her a grin, digging into his pocket for the key to his room. Not a key card, but an honest to goodness key, complete with a giant plastic fob in the shape of a lighthouse.
“You know me better than that. I didn’t need cheesy pickup lines with you the first time around, I don’t need them now.”
No, he hadn’t. He’d been much too charming and suave to hit on her the way ninety percent of guys did back then. Which was only one of the things that had made him more appealing, made him stand out from the pack.
When they reached his door, he unlocked it, then stepped back to let her pass into the room ahead of him. She’d visited the Harbor Inn before, of course, but had never actually been in one of the guest rooms, so for a second she st
ood just inside the door, taking in her surroundings.
Even if the large brass plaque on the front of the building hadn’t identified the hotel as a historical landmark, she would have known it was old simply from the interior. The elaborately carved woodworking, the barely preserved wallpaper and the antique fixtures all would have tipped her off. Certain things had been updated, of course, to keep the hotel functional and modern enough that guests would be comfortable, but a lot had been left or restored to maintain as much of the original furnishings and adornments as possible.
Marc’s room was blissfully lacking in the oceanside motif. Instead, the walls boasted tiny pink roses on yellowing wallpaper, and both the single window and four-poster bed were covered in white eyelet lace. Very old-fashioned and grandmotherly.
It was almost funny to see tall, dark, modern businessman Marc standing in the middle of all the extremely formal, nineteenth century finery. He looked completely out of place, like a zebra in the dolphin enclosure at the zoo.
But looking out of place and being out of place were two different things, and Marc didn’t seem to feel the least bit out of place. Closing the door behind them, he shrugged out of his charcoal suit jacket and tossed it over the back of a burgundy brocade wing chair on his way to the brass-plated desk against the far wall.
While he lifted the lid of his laptop and hit the button to boot up the computer, Vanessa stood back and enjoyed the view. Shallow of her, she was sure. Not to mention inconsistent, considering how vehemently she protested—to herself and anyone else who would listen—that the divorce had been a blessing and she was over him. Completely and totally over him. Being his ex-wife didn’t keep her from being a living, breathing, red-blooded woman, however. And every one of the red-blooded cells in her body appreciated the sight of a healthy, well-built man like Marc walking away.
His broad shoulders and wide back stretched the material of his expensive white dress shirt as he moved. Dark gray slacks that probably cost more than she made at the bakery in a week hugged his hips, and more importantly, his butt. A very nice, well-rounded butt that didn’t seem to have changed much since they’d been together.
