by Jamie Beck
“What?” She rocked Colt while speaking to Ian.
“Sometimes I wonder.”
“Wonder what?”
“He used that ‘Put others first’ motto to justify his personal crusade, but let’s be honest. There were two people he never put first, weren’t there?”
He’d never before criticized his father and now had the sensation of falling through the sky without a parachute. His mother’s offended expression didn’t help.
“Are you calling your father a hypocrite?”
“No, Mom. I’m just saying maybe he wasn’t as selfless as everyone thought.”
“He died trying to save a child,” his mom sputtered. “That’s the epitome of selflessness.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I loved him. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have followed him all over the world, or spent so much time with Archer and Stanley to see this thing in Haiti through.”
Her expression turned pensive; then she frowned. “Has living here, in all this grandeur, made you second-guess our values?”
“No,” he lied. Another first. Lying to the woman who made sure there was strawberry jelly in the house because it’d been his favorite. Who’d baked up a storm for every school fund-raiser. Who’d read countless books to him and taught him how to drive. “You brought up marriage and family. That made me wonder if life the Crawford way can truly make a woman happy.” Specifically, Gentry. Not that his mom could answer that question. Only Gentry could, but asking her wouldn’t be fair play on the cusp of Smith’s arrival. He shouldn’t add to the things vying for her attention.
“Happiness is relative. If people have some idealized idea of marriage and love, they’ll be doomed to disappointment. I loved your dad, and the life and family we created. It might not be for everyone, but I’m proud of what we accomplished together. The good we’ve done. Those things make me happy.” She patted his thigh, smiling. “Your dad and I managed to give you a good start, too, right?”
“You did.” Ian rubbed his mother’s arm, eager to reassure her of his love and admiration. “You did, Mom.”
“Are you giving up on C-VAC?”
“No.” Was he? The part of him that had laughed, loved, and been trusted in this home wanted to chuck it all and stay put.
“Good.” Her relieved smile might as well have been a nail to the cross that was his life. “How’s it coming?”
Better, actually, since he’d been in touch with Marcus Fairfax, the auto dealer. “I might have secured some sweet vehicles, but it’s not nailed down. Still waiting on some conditions. I think the guy wants us to involve his son in the venture. We could use extra hands, but I don’t know if the kid has what it takes.”
“You’ll figure it out.” When his mother raised Colt in the air, the baby treated her to a wide, wet smile. Colt had been unusually pleasant this past thirty minutes. Was that a sign? “Will you miss this little one? He knows he’s darling, doesn’t he?”
Colt did seem to have inherited his mother’s ability to recognize her own appeal.
“I’ll miss him a lot.” An understatement, although Ian wouldn’t miss the poop explosions.
“Maybe Gentry will send you pictures. She sure has enough of them.”
On cue, they heard the door to the garage open. The sound of Gentry’s bag hitting the ground let them know she’d entered the house. Her heels clicked on the wood floor but weren’t loud enough to drown out her voice as she made her way toward the living room.
“I survived the day from hell. I need sleep, although if you’d strip down and join me in—” She had rounded the corner to the living room, raising her heel to remove her shoe, and then stopped short when she saw his mother.
Ian froze, too, eyes closed, wondering what in the world his mother must think of him. Farrah had ended their engagement only a month ago, and he’d already slept with another woman. Seemed he wasn’t quite as good of a man as he or his mother had always thought. Like father, like son.
“Oh, hi, Gloria!” Gentry set her shoes aside and resumed her approach, head held high. Her demeanor reminded him of that first morning when he’d caught her in her undies. That image wouldn’t help him do the right thing where she, Colt, and Peter Smith were concerned. Right now she looked almost as irresistible as she had then, in her fitted summer minidress that showed off her legs and every single curve. “Nice to see you again. Sorry about that crack. I’m a little punchy from lack of sleep. Bad joke.” She shrugged unapologetically, then gazed lovingly at her son. “He’s beautiful, isn’t he?”
“Adorable. I was telling Ian that I can’t wait to be a grandmother.” His mother traded smiles with Gentry.
“Oh?” Gentry’s gaze sharpened, and an edge of jealousy honed her voice. “Is Farrah whatshername pregnant?”
“Goodness, no.” His mom looked at him. “I’m just projecting.”
Ian couldn’t look at either woman, so he kept his eyes on Colt.
“Ian will be a good dad and make pretty babies.” Gentry reached for her son, whom she smothered in kisses, like always. “Of course, no one will be as pretty as you, Boo. No one ever.”
“Thank you for helping out the other day with the blessing bags, Gentry.” His mom smiled. “We can always use extra hands and donations.”
“You’re welcome. It was enlightening.”
“That’s what my husband and I always believed.” Ian’s mom didn’t look at him, but he knew that message had been directed at him, not Gentry. “Well, I’ll take off now. Nice seeing you again.”
Ian laid his hand on his mother’s lower back as they walked to the door. “See you later, Mom.”
“Okay.” She kissed him on the cheek. “I’m so glad for your good news. Keep me posted on your other progress.”
Once his mother left, Gentry asked, “What good news?”
“Timmy’s been recovered and arrests made.”
She jiggled Colt. “That’s cause for celebration, but right now I can’t keep my eyes open. I’ll take Colt and see if he’ll nap with me.”
“He just woke up ninety minutes ago.” Ian gestured for the baby. “Leave him with me.”
“It’s after six. I don’t want to take advantage of you.”
He cocked a brow. “Liar.”
“Jokes! Will wonders never cease?” A saucy look lit up her tired eyes. “I like the effect I’m having on you, McJ. Maybe you should come nap, too.”
Sorely tempted, he sealed his mouth shut and gestured for Colt with his hands. “You look like hell. Get some sleep.”
Gentry stepped closer. “Remind me again why we’re keeping our hands to ourselves.”
It wasn’t easy to remember why, especially when she stood so close it made him throb with the need to wrap his arms around her. “Because I’m going to Haiti, and you want a real family for your son.”
“Oh yeah.” She huffed, then settled her hand on his chest. “Sometimes, when I’m near you like this, I forget to care about all that.”
Electricity in her touch bound them together. “Me too.”
“So maybe we shouldn’t ignore these feelings. I mean, what’s the shortest length of time you could be in Haiti and get the center off the ground?”
He shrugged. “To cement relationships with local government and hospitals, secure donor money and an ongoing medical supplies relationship, train enough locals . . . another year. Maybe nine months.”
“Maybe I could wait nine months.”
He grabbed her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Smith will be here in a few days, and you could feel differently soon.”
She withdrew her hand. “It’s bad enough that my mom is pushing me to be with him. Now you?”
“Your mother?” The idea that her family might push her into Smith’s arms punched him in the gut. He didn’t know Smith, but he hated him already. “She doesn’t even know the guy.”
“If I’m with Smith, the shared-custody problem is solved.” Ian’s face must’ve reflected disapproval, because Gentry said, “I kn
ow. She’s twisted. Although there’s a certain logic to it. And, as you like to point out, Smith is Colt’s dad.” She snapped her fingers. “Instafamily.”
Her words tumbled over him like ten gallons of ice water. Jealousy never suited him, so he pushed away from it hard. “Then take your mom’s advice.”
“Don’t pretend you don’t care. Even if you’ve decided that we’re a lose-lose situation, I still have feelings.”
“So do I.” Strong feelings. Ones that couldn’t stand the idea of Gentry with any other man. They stared at each other while he took Colt from her.
“Well, that’s something, then.” Free of Colt, she yawned, stretching her arms wide. “Let’s not argue. I don’t have a single working brain cell left. I need some sleep.”
She kissed Colt’s head and, without waiting for a reply, wandered to her room.
He stood there, holding her son, with a bunch of words stuck in his throat. Maybe they’d come out if he could answer one preposterous question for himself before Smith arrived. Was he already in love with Gentry Cabot?
Chapter Sixteen
Relief
According to Merriam-Webster: removal or lightening of something oppressive, painful, or distressing
According to me: Smith’s demeanor
“Gentry, relax,” Ian called from the kitchen. “Your heels will wear a rut in the hardwood.”
Nothing irked her more than being ordered to relax. Especially following a long week of rising stress levels in the office and the anticipation of meeting Smith. Five days that had felt like ten. “I need wine.”
“Not a good idea.” Ian came out of the kitchen with a clean binky for Colt. Smart thinking, because Smith would be here any minute, and she didn’t want him to be scared off by Colt’s crying.
“Since when has that ever stopped me?” she scoffed, and started for the kitchen.
Ian blocked her. “You’ll want your wits about you.”
Wits? She’d lost those days ago. Who could keep her head together when navigating so much gray area? She and Ian had shared a few tender kisses that went nowhere because their circumstances hadn’t changed. But there’d been moments when she, Ian, and Colt had felt like a perfect family. When the dream sparkled like pixie dust, and she thought she could will it to be. Then Archer would call, and Ian’s wall would go back up.
Smith’s arrival today would not improve matters.
“I wonder if he’s already checked in?” She’d recommended the nearby B&B, Lakeside Cottages, and sent over a nice bottle of wine to kick things off on the right foot.
“Probably.” Ian crossed his arms, looking rather grim. “I should go up to my room and give you two some privacy.”
“Don’t leave me alone. Smith should meet you, considering . . . everything.” She waved her hand between them, unable to find the words to describe their current relationship. She only knew that her heart chased him like a dog did a butterfly.
Ian sighed and took up a position by the playpen.
She kept pacing, occasionally adjusting photographs and other knickknacks. Anything to keep in motion because, when she stood still, her stomach lurched.
The knock at the door caused her to flinch.
The evening sun streaming through the picture window cast Ian in shadow. Deep down, she’d hoped Smith’s arrival would make Ian rethink his future. Ian’s expression remained aggravatingly neutral, although his silhouette took on a superhero quality—legs in a wide stance, arms crossed. “I’m right here with you. Take a breath.”
She nodded, as if convincing herself that this had not been a colossal mistake. Smith—Peter—stood mere yards away.
Her son’s father. A stranger. The black metal door between them remained the only barrier between what was and what would be.
“Gentry?” Ian asked.
A second knock spurred her to action. She crossed to the door, her Manolos clicking like offbeat maracas. Would Smith like her home? Would he be patient with their son? Who were his friends and family? What the hell had she done?
She gripped the cold bronze handle, yanked the door opened, and nearly stumbled backward.
Smith’s crooked smile flashed, although unlike before, this time he offered it up awkwardly instead of as a weapon of seduction. “Artemis.”
Gentry crinkled her nose. “We should probably use our real names now, although it’ll be hard to think of you as anything other than Smith.”
He hesitated, both of them uncertain of the proper etiquette for this meeting.
“My friends call me Smith, so you can stick with that.” He stepped into the entry, his eyes searching hers instead of exploring her home or hunting for Colt.
She’d forgotten how tall he was. Six three or four, and broad. Overwhelming, and as handsome as he’d been that night in Napa.
“Okay.” She tried to smile. “But no one calls me Artemis.”
“Got it, Gentry.” Her name sounded funny coming from him. She’d reveled in their role-playing that night last year. Loved the anonymity. Now she’d have to expose herself, and that always wore her out.
After an awkward embrace, she gestured toward the living room. “Thanks for being so gracious about everything.”
“I’m blessed—or maybe cursed—by having been trained by my mom to confront awkward situations with extreme optimism. Doesn’t mean I’m not uncomfortable, or make me a pushover, though. But let’s muddle through together and make the best of it. We got on well before, so I have high hopes we can manage this, too.”
Gentry almost said something about his mother, knowing from the PI file that he’d lost her years ago, but she decided to wait until he wanted to share more. “I’ll do my best.”
Smith stepped down into the living room, at which point he noticed Ian. His brows rose and fell before he stepped forward and offered his hand. “Hello, I’m Peter Smith.”
“Ian Crawford.” Ian didn’t smile or scowl when he introduced himself, nor did he specify his role in her life.
How could he, with it still so unclear? Humanitarian. Friend. Temporary nanny. Lover. Soon to be a memory. That thought lodged itself in her throat. She couldn’t think of that now, though. Smith was here to meet his son.
“Nice to meet you.” Smith mimicked Ian’s aggressive posture. They stood there, each taking measure of the other, until Colt whimpered from behind Ian, drawing a sharp turn of Smith’s head.
Smith’s eyes sparkled—anticipation tinged with trepidation—as he parted his lips.
Gentry scooted around Ian to lift Colt out of the playpen. She’d dressed him in a gorgeous Armani Junior piqué and chambray shortall. The conservative outfit should appeal to Smith, whose taste in clothing apparently still leaned toward Brooks Brothers. She faced Colt outward, her grip a little more possessive than normal. “This is Colt.”
Smith stood arrested, eyes wide, half-dazed. She flicked a glance at Ian, hoping he might intervene, but he never looked her way. He, too, remained stiff, his gaze trained on Smith. If she had to guess, McJ was compiling a list of snap judgments about Smith’s French cuff shirt and polished shoes.
“Would you like to hold him?” she finally asked Smith, having confirmed with a quick sniff that Colt’s diaper wasn’t stinky.
She noticed Ian’s jaw clench.
“I would.” Smith gingerly reached out to accept the squirmy bundle.
“He fusses a lot, so don’t take it personally,” she warned, her arms a bit shaky.
“Got it.” Smith stared, apparently still thunderstruck by the reality of this visit.
When Gentry placed Colt in his father’s arms for the first time, she had to fight to catch her breath. Smith’s frame dwarfed their son. Their son. Those words sounded odd after two months of Colt being only hers. But now they stood in her home, together, like a real family. Colt finally had his father.
She hoped to wipe her wet cheeks without being noticed. Smith was too mesmerized by Colt to see anything else, but Ian handed her a tissue, which t
hen drew Smith’s attention.
His eyes shone with misty tears, too.
“Sorry.” She sniffled, relinquishing all pride. “It’s a little overwhelming to see you two together, and not just because it’s clear that Colt got none of my genes,” she teased, but the joke didn’t help her breathe any easier.
Smith cleared his throat. “Seeing him in person . . . even without the DNA results, I’d know he’s mine.”
He sniffed his child’s moisturized skin, touched his chubby cheeks, and kissed his downy head. Colt fussed a bit, seeking the comfort of familiar arms. Smith tried swaying and speaking softly, but it only ramped up their willful son. With a half-cocked grin, Smith glanced at Gentry. “I think maybe he got a few of your genes, after all.”
She welcomed the laughter that burst from her chest. It boded well that Smith joked with the easy repartee they’d shared last year. Earlier, she’d been unsure whether he’d arrive with latent anger and bitterness. His pleasant mood helped her relax, even if it proved that Colt’s ornery side definitely came from her. “Let’s lay him on the blanket and sit on the floor. He’s probably a little nervous because he doesn’t know you yet.”
She took Colt, whispering lovingly in his ear, and laid him on the blanket she’d spread earlier. Smith watched them intently, as did Ian.
She tugged at her short skirt and tucked her legs to one side. “I should’ve asked if you’re thirsty or anything.”
“I’m good, thanks. Just tell me all about him.” Smith’s fascinated gaze studied Colt, even as he casually stretched onto his side nearby, propped up by one elbow.
Gentry recalled the earliest days following Colt’s birth, when she couldn’t tear her eyes away from him. Even with his constant crying, hours would pass where she’d done nothing but catalog the shades of his skin, count his tiny eyelashes, stroke the minuscule fingernails. She’d memorized the swirling pattern of his hair, cradled him to her chest, and marveled at the miracle of her own body’s ability to have produced this tiny new life.
Colt had been, and continued to be, the most wondrous part of her life. She almost envied Smith for experiencing that novelty now, but guilt about how he’d been denied months of knowing his son tempered the feeling.
