“Oh, awesome, you got that out. Now you can have lunch.”
“Ball buster,” he mumbled as he passed her holding the countertop overhead, aware of her gaze on his chest. She’d spent a good portion of the morning with her eyes in the same place, he noticed.
Once he was back in the house, he grabbed the T-shirt he’d long ago discarded and pulled it on as she set up sandwiches and drinks for them in the living room.
“Now he dresses,” she said as he came into the room.
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“You heard me talking to my stepmother. You could have stayed quietly in the kitchen until she left.”
What was he? A dirty little secret? “You want to hide me, Beth?”
She sat in a chair with a sigh, shaking her head. “No. Have a seat.”
“Not on your white leather sofa in filthy jeans.” He dropped to the floor and picked up the sub sandwich. “Thanks.”
“No mayo,” she said. When he looked up at her, she smiled. “Funny how little things stay with you. I remembered you hate it.”
He waited until his heart readjusted a little, starting to get used to the whiplash inflicted on that organ around her.
“Hey, c’mere.” He patted the floor next to him. “Let’s make it a living room picnic.”
She hesitated for a moment, then slid out of the chair and sat next to him, taking her own sandwich from the wrapping paper. “Oh, Ken,” she said. “What a mess this is.”
He saw the comment as a slightly open door and plowed right through it. “I don’t see it that way at all,” he said before taking a bite. “It’s unconventional and unexpected and un…” Wanted? He couldn’t bring himself to say that.
“Uncharted territory,” she finished for him. “For both of us.”
They ate in silence for a moment, and after she wiped her mouth and sipped some water, she leveled her gaze at him.
“I’m not sorry,” she said. “I’m scared and uncertain, but I’m not sorry, even though it was never supposed to happen.”
“I’m not sorry, either. In fact, I’m kind of…” He gave her a half smile. “Impressed with us.”
“Impressed?”
“Well, it’s supposed to be so impossible.”
“So, what? Now your nickname at the station will be Super Sperm?”
He choked on a bite of food. “Please, don’t give them any ideas.”
“Oh, I’m sure there will be a pool to bet on delivery date, gender, name, and weight.”
Oh man. How long until that pool was started? Not very. And damn, he’d want to be a proud papa like all the guys were, but…would she ever let him be?
“Of course,” he said. “There’s a pool for every baby. It’s tradition. And the father gets to set the menu for his first shift after the baby’s born.”
A silly tradition, he thought, but one he wanted to enjoy.
He washed down the next bite with a swig of sweet tea, the much-needed food finally giving him enough stamina to have the conversation he’d come here to have. “All right, let’s talk about our baby.”
She stiffened. “My baby.”
And just like that, they’d gotten to the heart of the problem. He didn’t shoot back a correction, wanting to avoid hot spots. Instead, he asked, “You don’t want to share your baby?”
“I intend to share her with everyone.”
“Her? You know what it is already?”
“No, but I have a feeling.” She patted her stomach.
“That’s right. You’d never call a boy ‘cupcake’.”
She smiled as if she might, if she felt like it.
“Look, I’m his…or her…father, and I am going to raise this baby with you. So, you better get used to the idea.”
Silent for a moment, she put her sandwich down, barely eaten. “I don’t really see how it can be done.”
“What? Two parents raising their child? It’s kind of ‘done’ every day.”
“Of course I understand you wanting to know your child and…and having a role in her—or his—life.”
A role? “I’m this child’s father.” How many times did he have to remind her?
She sighed. “I know, and I respect that, believe me. You are the first and only person I’ve told. But…” She clasped her hands, pressing so tightly her knuckles whitened. “But I don’t want anyone making decisions I’d rather make myself. It’s compromising, and I don’t want to do that. It’s letting someone else call my shots.” He could hear her voice tighten on every word. “It’s everything I’ve worked to change in my life, and now you automatically get the privilege of doing all that, too. I want this baby to be mine.”
“This baby is yours. And mine. That is a fact of life, Beth.”
She looked at him. “It’s important that she knows I’m one hundred and fifty percent there for her.”
“Why wouldn’t he?” He said the gender to tease and lighten the mood, but he could see that wasn’t happening. So he leaned a little closer and lowered his voice. “I think there’s a reason God gives you two parents.”
“Two parents who love each other, like yours did,” she replied. “Two parents who are of one mind and soul. But two people who barely know each other and, for painful, historical reasons, can’t exactly blend seamlessly? That’s going to be hard for a child. There’s nothing worse than being born into a broken home.”
He took a breath and finished closing the gap of space between them, close enough to let their shoulders touch, although somehow he managed to resist the temptation.
“We’re not broken, Beth,” he whispered.
She stared at him. “But we’re not—”
He reached out and put a light finger on her lips. “Shhh. We can do this. We can become of one mind and soul and…what was the other thing? Oh, blend seamlessly, which sounds kind of fun. In fact, I think it’s how we ended up at this point.”
She eyed him, silent.
“Your overwhelming excitement for my idea is flattering.” He smiled and nudged her shoulder with his. “C’mon. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking that it sounds good on paper.” She slowly shook her head. “In execution? It won’t work.”
“There’s the attitude.”
She tried to say something but didn’t seem to be able to make a word form. Instead, she eased away, lifting the sandwich and putting it back down again. She started to push up to a stand, but he clasped her arm.
“Don’t leave. Talk to me about this.”
“I hear my phone buzzing.”
He heard it then and let go. She got up and walked to the dining table, fishing her phone out of her handbag to answer it.
“Hello?”
He finished his sandwich while she listened to her caller.
“But I don’t understand,” she finally said. “I didn’t cancel today.”
She listened for a minute, trying to say something, but whoever was on the line kept cutting her off. Then she sucked in a breath. “What? Why?”
Her eyes squinted as she listened to the caller, she came back to the living room and dropped onto the leather sofa, clearly not happy with what she was hearing. He watched her face, trying to imagine what news she was getting, but mostly got a little lost in the pretty angles of her cheeks and the softness of her lips.
So soft. How was he possibly going to get through this day without kissing her?
“But why didn’t you know that when you took the job in the first place?” Her voice rose in frustration. “The whole kitchen and both bathrooms?”
He could hear a man’s voice coming through, but couldn’t make out the words. But he certainly got the gist of the conversation. She was not a happy house-flipper right now.
“I don’t understand where this is coming from, Dave. Okay, okay…” She squeezed her eyes shut in surrender. “Yeah, I guess I will. Thanks. Bye.” She tapped the screen and dropped the phone on her lap.
“Bad news?” he guessed.
<
br /> “The worst. I hired a contractor, which isn’t something I normally do at this stage, but I knew I needed subcontractors to do the labor. Good subs are always tied to one contractor, and this guy was the only one who’d take the job at the last minute. But he just backed out of the job because, after looking at his schedule, he couldn’t fit this one in after all.” She dropped her head back with a grunt. “What a mess.”
“Wait, did that contractor hire the tradesman who didn’t show today?”
She lifted her head and looked at him. “He said he had a message this morning canceling that sub. He thought it was me, but I didn’t call him. It’s all BS. He got a bigger job, and now I’m out of luck. Damn it.” She reached for her water, but he pointed at the uneaten sandwich.
“But you do need food. Eat your lunch.”
“I’m not hungry anymore.”
“Baby needs food.”
She glared at him.
“Or not.” Because giving orders to a woman who lived for independence was one thing. A pregnant woman who lived for independence? Death by dirty looks.
“What am I going to do, Ken?”
“Do you have to have a contractor?”
“I can’t find the subs to do the work on the bathrooms and kitchens without one, and all the good, reliable ones are booked through next fall. By then I’ll be…” Her eyes widened. “Very fat.”
“You’ll be so pretty.” Aaaand she sliced him again with a vile look. So, no orders and no compliments. “Or not.”
“Sorry,” she said with a laugh.
“S’okay. You’re stressed about this.”
“Incredibly. The baby’s due December twentieth. I have to be in another house by then, with this one sold and money in the bank. Without a contractor and subs lined up? I could wait months to get anything done.”
There was the slightest note of panic in her voice, and without really thinking, he said, “We can get it done.”
“We?”
“If I’m your sub, you don’t need a contractor.”
“But…can you do it?”
“Go look at the kitchen and tell me I can’t. I’ve worked construction on and off for years.” He folded up the paper that had held his sandwich, purposely making it neat as a pin to impress her. “I have plenty of days off, including four in a row every so often and twenty-four-hour days in between. With your direction, we can renovate this house before the baby comes.”
“Ken, I can’t—”
He shot up on his knees in front of her. “Stop saying you can’t. You can’t get pregnant. We did. You can’t share the baby. We are. You can’t finish the house. We will.”
“We…” She whispered the word. “It’s not the can’t. It’s the we.”
“You hate that word.”
“It’s not my favorite.”
He leaned against her legs. “Then I’m gonna make it your favorite word. Just like I’m gonna make this your favorite house. And I’m gonna make me your—”
“Shhh.” This time, she put her finger on his lips. “Don’t push your luck.”
He kissed the sweet, soft skin and smiled at her. There was no luck involved. Only timing, and now, if he renovated this house with her, he’d have all the time he needed.
Chapter Eight
Beth pulled the plug on work around dinnertime, and without an invitation to stay or go out to eat, Ken finally left her house with the kitchen well past halfway demolished. She’d promised not to lift a thing, and he’d promised to be back on Thursday morning, his next day off. That, and the four days he had free from Saturday through Tuesday, would give them a huge jump on the work and hopefully make her feel better.
It hurt to see her tense and stressed out at a time when she should be happiest.
But with a plan to help her in place, he felt like he’d made progress, but he desperately needed a shower and bed. When his cell phone rang as he drove out of her neighborhood, he almost didn’t answer, but then saw it was Law Monroe.
The high school reunion had sparked a friendship, which Ken enjoyed because it was damn nice to hang out with guys who weren’t firefighters for a change. He and Law and Mark Solomon had been the only men on the planning committee, and that had given them a chance to get to know and like each other.
He took the call. “Hey, what’s up, Law?”
“You’re off tonight, right? Mark’s in town for a few days, and I’m off tonight, too. I thought we could grab dinner together at the Toasted Pelican in half an hour. Can you come over to Mimosa Key?”
He closed his eyes, the need for sleep strong after a twenty-four-hour shift and taking a kitchen apart. “I’m on Mimosa Key, but dead on my feet.”
“You gotta eat, man. Burger and a brew. Hour, tops.”
“Why the Toasted Pelican, Chef?” Ken preferred to use Law’s official title than the unofficial nickname he’d carried for years—Lawless. Though, to be fair, he’d earned them both. “You hate shitty food, and you don’t drink, so it can’t be for their cinder-block burgers and flat beer.”
“I’m still trying to figure out who owns it—or at least who’s running it—so I can buy that dump and use my incredible talent as a chef to turn it into the gastro pub this island needs. If I need to suffer a bad burger, I will. Come on, Mark’s only here for a couple of days.”
“Here to see Emma, I assume, not us.”
“Yeah, but she’s got a work thing at the resort,” Law said. “So Mark’s ours for a while.”
Mark and Emma had met two months ago at Casa Blanca Resort & Spa, and following a highly unorthodox courtship that included convincing everyone involved with the reunion that they were engaged. But they’d fallen hard and for real.
Maybe Mark could give him some tips, Ken thought. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
He turned toward town at the four-way intersection and found a parking spot in front of the watering hole that had to have been part of Mimosa Key longer than any other business. The TP hadn’t been updated in decades, despite the fact that it allegedly was under new ownership since the guy who’d been behind the bar for Ken’s entire life had died many months ago.
And Law was right. With the money coming onto the island faster than ever before, the upscale concept Law had in mind for the local landmark—especially with his considerable culinary skills—would be a boon to the little town.
But now, the Toasted Pelican was a bust. Inside, the bar was mostly empty and the dinner tables not even half full.
“Hey, Cav!” Law was in a booth in the back of the bar, holding up a bottle of O’Doul’s in invitation. He flashed Ken his easy smile and ran a hand through the hair he’d recently cut short.
Ken wandered over and slid in, giving his friend’s hand a shake.
“Man, you do look dead.” Law’s dark green gaze moved up and down over Ken. “And filthy.”
“I was house renovating, so I do look the part.”
Law made a face. “Get a brew, then. And make it stronger than my usual.”
His usual was always a non-alc beer. Law didn’t talk much about the fact that he didn’t touch booze, but he made no bones about the love-hate relationship with the stuff, and that he’d been stone cold sober for ten years.
Ken looked around and immediately caught sight of Mark Solomon walking into the bar area. At forty-eight, Mark was the oldest of their trio. A professional adventurer who’d made a killing when he sold his Internet company, Mark strode toward them with an air of authority and confidence. But there was something different about the widower Ken had met when the three of them realized they were the only Y chromosomes on the planning committee. Something…lighter.
Emma had made him whole and happy, Ken thought with a surprising twist of envy.
Mark approached the table, greeting the men with a smile and handshake. “Reunion-planning committee 2.0,” he joked, sliding in next to Law.
“You can have my left nut before you get me to sign up for that again,” Law said.
“So it’s all final and official now?” Ken asked. “Emma’s taking the job in marketing for the resort, and you’re both moving down here?”
“And getting married on the beach at Barefoot Bay,” Mark added with a very satisfied smile. “We’ve already met with the wedding planners and, get this, one of them is the daughter of Donny Zatarain.”
“The lead singer of Z-Train?” Law asked, clearly impressed. “Is he going to play the wedding?”
“No, but even better, she thinks she can get Eddie James and The Lost Boys. Emma’s favorite 80’s band.”
“They’re still alive?” Ken asked.
Mark cut him with a look. “Eddie James is a year older than I am, young man. They’re thinking about a reunion and might do this favor as a test run. And I will get my wife to be her dream band.” He slipped into a smile. “I want to make that woman happy.”
“Damn,” Ken said, unable to keep a note of longing from his voice.
“Damn,” Law echoed, only his sounded like Mark just got a death sentence.
Mark laughed at the two reactions. “You’re right,” he said to Ken. “Law, you’re pathetic.”
“All right, all right. You’re happy.” Law signaled the waitress, a twentysomething surfer blonde who was already on her way over. “Let’s celebrate.”
“What’ll it be, gentlemen?”
Law leaned toward her, no doubt about to deliver a one-liner about a real man. “How do you like working here…” His gaze dropped. “Shelby?”
She gave him a dubious look. “Uh, s’okay.”
“You like the management?”
She nodded slowly, not at all sure how to take the unexpected interrogation.
Barefoot at Moonrise (Barefoot Bay Timeless Book 2) Page 9
