by Loree Lough
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised.” He sat in the nearest chair. “How ’bout if I keep an eye on this li’l guy while you fix her a sandwich or something?”
First she frowned. Then she stood. “Skipping meals at any age is a bad idea, but all those medications Gram takes? On an empty stomach?” She groaned quietly.
“I’m hungry and tired,” Deidre said, “not deaf…no thanks to our mini-human siren over there. So don’t you dare wake him, because—much as I hate to sound like a grumpy old crone—the peace and quiet is a blessed relief.”
Connor started fussing, as if on cue. But thankfully, he wasn’t fully awake yet.
“Deidre, keep your voice down, will ya?” Hunter said, rocking back and forth, rubbing soothing circles on the baby’s narrow back as Brooke disappeared into the kitchen.
“Remember what I told you about Billy’s drum,” Deidre said.
“Sorry. No disrespect intended. It’s just—”
“Oh, no need to apologize. Or explain. These past few days have beat us all up pretty well. I can’t wait until the black cloud that’s been following us around fizzles out. I’m sick of all the moping and frowning!”
Hunter assumed she must have forgotten how long it had taken her to get back into the swing of things when Percy died.
Five minutes later Brooke returned carrying a snack-laden tray. “I made extra,” she said, handing a plate to Deidre, “in case you’re hungry….”
Hunter eased out of the chair. “Think I’ll see if I can get him into his crib without waking him.” He started for the stairs. Wish me luck.”
“While you’re up there,” Deidre said, “give a thought to changing your pants, why don’t you.”
“Why?”
“Because somebody’s diaper leaked. You’re about Percy’s size. Help yourself to a pair of his jeans. They’re in my closet.”
Odd, he thought, but he hadn’t noticed the dampness until she mentioned it. On the way upstairs, Hunter pictured Deidre’s third husband—the only one of three who’d earned Love of My Life title. He pictured himself wearing the man’s trademark bib overalls and considered the possibility that he wasn’t wet and Deidre needed comic relief.
As he eased Connor into the crib, Hunter felt the cold, clammy proof that the diaper really had leaked. He grabbed a fresh one and got to work. When the kid was fast asleep like this, nothing short of a shotgun blast would wake him. But just in case, Hunter took his time. As he cleaned up, the baby’s eyelids fluttered. “Daddy?” He sighed. “Daddy-Daddy-Daddy.”
If anyone had told him that a simple two-syllable word could hit him like a blow to the jaw, Hunter would have laughed it off. But the stark, quiet reminder of Kent’s death hit hard. Leaning on the crib rail, he hung his head.
“Nothing would make me prouder than to call you son,” he said, smoothing soft bangs from Connor’s forehead. “But it won’t be easy filling your dad’s shoes.” The admission made him wonder why Kent worked so hard to give some people—Brooke in particular—the impression that he didn’t have a heart when in truth he had an immeasurable capacity for love.
“I’ll do my best to fill your daddy’s shoes, buddy.”
Satisfied that the boy was safe, Hunter covered him with a light blanked and walked across the hall. Draped in gauzy lace, Deidre’s four-poster bed was piled high with heart-shaped pastel pillows, and on the night tables, china dolls garbed in ruffly ball gowns wore lampshade hats. Ornate perfume bottles sparkled from the marble top of the mahogany makeup table, and in the closet, dresses of every fabric and hue hung in order by length. Beneath them a multi-tiered rack sagged under the weight of four, maybe five dozen pairs of shoes.
Up against the far wall, separated from the other clothes, one pair of coveralls had been draped over a padded hanger. Why had she discarded all of Percy’s other clothes and kept these? A quiet reminder, perhaps, of happier moments spent with her husband, the former stand-up comic.
Hunter tucked his soiled trousers into a plastic bag found on the floor of Deidre’s closet, then changed into the overalls and went back to check on Connor, who had turned onto his side and was cuddling a fuzzy teddy bear. Except for twin dimples—Beth’s contribution to his facial features—Connor was the spitting image of Kent. Had he inherited his dad’s “do everything by the book” nature, too, Hunter wondered as tears stung his eyes, or his mom’s easygoing personality?
What was wrong with him lately? Seemed like every time he turned round, tears threatened. Connor sighed, and Hunter knuckled his eyes. “Don’t be in too big a hurry to grow up, okay?”
“That’s what I told him,” Brooke said, stepping up beside him, “when I tucked him in on the night of the crash. I guess it’s a blessing that he’s so young, because he won’t remember how he lost his mom and dad.”
“Yeah, but we’ll make sure he knows what sort of people they were.”
For a moment, Brooke stood, content, it seemed, to watch Connor sleep.
“So how’s Deidre?” he asked.
“She’s fine. I told her if she didn’t eat that ham sandwich, I’d make her take a nap.”
He chuckled as Brooke sighed.
“It won’t be easy,” she said, “admitting to Connor that I didn’t know his dad very well.”
It seemed she was thinking out loud, but that didn’t stop him from saying, “Kent wasn’t an easy guy to get to know.”
“I’m not made of glass, Hunter. I can handle the truth.”
Before those punishing meetings at the bank and funeral parlor before the graveside service, he might have disagreed, based solely on what Kent had told him about her. But he knew better now.
“All I meant,” he defended, “is that I’ll make sure Connor gets to know his dad.”
“You’ll make sure?”
“I’ll help, I mean. If it’s okay with you.”
Brooke looked up at him through thick lashes. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
Oh, I don’t know…maybe because I killed your mother?
She avoided his gaze. “Beggars can’t be choosers. I’m in no position to turn down any help that’s offered.”
She’d easily convinced both managers that Connor would soon become her son legally. If he hadn’t had that DVD to tell him otherwise, she might have convinced Hunter, too.
Connor had kicked off his blanket. “You did a pretty good job,” she said, pulling it up again, “diapering him.”
Hunter hooked his thumbs into the pockets of Percy’s overalls and puffed out his chest. “Yep, that’s me,” he drawled, “Old Put ’Em to Sleep Stone.”
“No need to be modest.” She raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure Jenna lost a few night’s sleep over you, because…” She exhaled a groan of frustration. “Let’s just say Connor seems very much at ease with you and leave it at that.”
In the past, it seemed she’d worked at putting him in his place. This time, it seemed, the opposite was true. If she hadn’t looked so uncomfortable, he might have kept her on the hook a little longer.
“I’m glad, because I couldn’t love him more if he were my own.”
A strange expression—something between regret and annoyance—flitted across her face, and he didn’t know what to make of it.
“Well, in any case, I hope you’ll feel free to visit him anytime.”
Soon, I won’t need your permission.
Connor stirred slightly, and Hunter said, “Guess we’d better get out of here before we wake him. And that would be a shame—the poor kid’s plumb tuckered out.”
He followed her toward the hall, and as he pulled the door shut, his stomach growled.
“Talk about good timing,” Brooke said, jogging down the stairs. “I made extra sandwiches, so—”
His stomach rumbled again.
Brooke turned and looked up at him. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” She grinned, but quickly suppressed it. “Just like I’ll pretend that your pants aren’t two inches too short.”
Hunter
peered down and realized if he’d worn white socks today, his ankles could have lit up the landing. He might have shared his absurd observation if she hadn’t already disappeared around the corner. Just as well. In the weird mood he was in, he might blurt out something reckless and stupid, like, It isn’t nice to poke fun at a guy who’s starting to like you…
…maybe a little too much…
CHAPTER EIGHT
BROOKE GLANCED OVER her shoulder. “Look at him back there, fast asleep.”
Hunter nodded. “Don’t know how he does it, all cramped and confined by that contraption.”
“I hope it’s a sign he’s beginning to come to terms with…” She shook her head. “I can’t even say it. Not that it matters. Because he’ll never get a handle on what happened. None of us will.” On the heels of a ragged sigh, she added, “Wasn’t it Deepak Chopra who wrote, ‘It is the nature of babies to be in bliss’?”
He could tell that she’d almost lost it for a minute there, and he admired how fast she’d pulled herself together. Another of Kent’s myths debunked, because Brooke could handle adversity.
“She’s gorgeous and well-read,” he said. “Be still, my heart.”
The instant the words were out, Hunter regretted them, mostly because of the self-conscious flush they put on her face.
“I have to admit,” he quickly added, “I envy the kid’s ability to sleep.” Was his comment enough to blot out memory of his verbal faux pas? Not likely. But with any luck, he’d sidelined it. “And I’m with you—I hope it’s a sign that he’s getting used to not seeing his mom and dad around every corner.”
“Yeah,” she said, staring through the windshield, “me, too.”
They spent the last ten minutes of the drive between Deidre’s and the Sheridans’ in companionable silence. With any other woman, Hunter would have felt obliged to fill it with idle chitchat—commenting on landmarks and weather, complaining about some crazy driver who’d cut them off, pointing out another of the county’s speed cameras—but with Brooke, the quiet seemed…right. He wondered about that, because before the crash, he’d always felt ill at ease and out of place in her presence. The sensation reminded him of his days in Bosnia, a full-out peacekeeping mission that left troops wondering where the next strike might come from.
The sun hung low in the late-March sky. Squinting, he decided a topic change was in order.
“Ever seen the green flash?” he asked, pulling into the Sheridans’ driveway.
“I’ve never been in the right place at the right time.”
He pocketed his keys and got out of the truck. Too late again to open the door for her.
“Yeah, if that isn’t one of those ‘the conditions are right’ things, I don’t know what is.”
While she fiddled with Connor’s seat restraints, he recalled a line from the 1882 novel Le Rayon vert. “Didn’t Jules Verne say that the flash is a color no artist could duplicate on his palette?”
“He also said if there’s green in paradise, surely it’s that green.”
Hunter slammed the back passenger door. “Sorry,” he said when she lurched. “Darned thing needs a new latch.”
“I know.”
Had he told her about the faulty handle? he wondered, extending one hand.
Without a word, Brooke dropped her keys into his upturned palm. Hunter unlocked the front door and got a whiff of lilacs—or was it lavender?—as Brooke stepped past him and into the house. Following her, he watched as she removed Connor’s hat and jacket.
“I’m surprised…”
She tucked the baby’s hat into his jacket sleeve. “About what?”
He raised his voice so she could hear him over Connor’s wailing. “That you’re a sci-fi fan.”
“I’m not. But I had a professor in college who was, and it didn’t take long to figure out that an occasional Verne quote could make the difference between a B and an A.”
“Hmm…”
“Now what?” she asked, hanging the jacket on the hall tree.
Things between them had been fairly harmonious. No way he intended to sour things by sharing his thought: Are women born manipulators, or do they work at it?
“I aced a high school literature class,” she added, “thanks to extra-credit papers I wrote on the elusive green flash. Unfortunately, that didn’t get me to Hawaii. And chances of ever getting there are slim to none.”
“But I’ve seen it in the Alleghenies, on a Florida beach, even from the fishing pier in Ocean City.” Pausing, Hunter then added, “What’s stopping you from going to Hawaii?”
“Time, mostly. Connor is too young for a trip like that.”
Still mapping out his future, was she? But that was an issue for later, after she’d had a chance to recover from the crash.
“What kept you from going before now?”
She gave the question a moment’s thought. “Never met anyone I wanted to spend that much time with, I guess. Don’t like the idea of vacationing on my own.”
The image of her with another guy put every nerve on edge, and he didn’t get that. Didn’t get it at all. She held Connor closer and said over his whining, “I’d much rather stay home with this little guy than jet off to some white-sands island.”
He pictured Brooke walking hand in hand with him on a sunny beach as Connor splashed in the surf beside them. “Maybe someday,” he said distractedly. Kent had told him all about Brooke’s bad luck with relationships….
She headed for the stairs. “I’m going to run a bath for Connor.” Looking into the baby’s face, she added, “And after he’s all clean and shiny, I’ll put on his pj’s.” She nuzzled Connor’s neck. “Early to bed, early to rise, young man.” Any second now she’d say something like Lock up after you let yourself out.
Halfway up the stairs, she stopped. “Would you like to stay, help me tuck him in?”
Good thing he wasn’t a betting man. “I’d love to.”
If he had a lick of sense, he’d follow her up the stairs.
If he’d never seen the disc, he wouldn’t be in this untenable position now, trying to forget the years she’d spent exploiting his guilt. He should feel justified using Kent’s tirade against her. But he didn’t.
If he could find more proof that Kent had been wrong about her, he wouldn’t need to go forward with his plan to adopt the boy. And if Connor’s well-being didn’t hang in the balance, he’d take a hammer to the DVD.
Doing the right thing for Connor shouldn’t be this hard.
So, then, why was it?
Because, you idiot, you’re falling for her.
Which was beyond foolish. The occasional bursts of cordiality he’d witnessed over the past few days were probably nothing more than Brooke feeling obliged to show gratitude for the chauffeuring and Connor-hauling. If he didn’t watch himself, Hunter would be in for a world of hurt, because chances that she’d ever feel anything but hostility toward him were slim to none.
If. The most powerful little word in the English language.
Then he remembered that Beth had loathed him, too, until he put some of his mother’s advice into play, and put everything he had into showing Beth how sorry he was about his part in what had happened to her mother. And in time, she’d forgiven him.
How would Brooke react if he tested that theory on her?
Only one way to find out.
Brooke was fastening the top snap of Connor’s pajamas when he joined them in the nursery.
“You know,” he said, “until I met this little guy, I had no idea they made long johns this small.”
She lifted the freshly powdered and pj’d toddler from the changing table, carried him to the big wooden rocker beside his crib. “Tell your uncle Hunter that long johns are for lumberjacks, and blanket sleepers are for babies.”
“Baby,” Connor echoed, rubbing his eyes. “Brooke sing?”
“You betcha, cutie-pie, any lullaby your little heart desires.” And then, blushing, she looked at Hunter. “Connor probably
won’t mind if you stay, but I don’t perform well in front of an audience.”
“Gotcha,” he said, backing into the hall. “Take your time.”
And then he hotfooted it down the stairs as an idea took shape.
In the living room, he scrolled through the numbers in his cell phone’s contacts list and highlighted his favorite pizza shop. Not knowing if Brooke preferred hers fully loaded or plain, he ordered both. And while waiting for the delivery guy, Hunter slipped out the front door and hurried over to his place. After grabbing the bottle of Beaujolais nouveau from his pantry and a couple of wineglasses, he went back to the Sheridans’ and set the stage.
Too much light, and not even the wine would relax her enough to listen to his confession; not enough light, and who knew what she’d think he was up to.
Last summer he’d helped Kent install a dimmer and pot lights above the fireplace. He’d never used it himself but soon realized that Beth had been right: it took an excessive amount of fiddling to achieve a soft, relaxing glow. If he’d paid more attention to Beth and less to Kent’s “it’s fine the way it is” assessment, he could have tweaked the switch months ago.
Hunter made a mental note to fix it, then he checked the cable TV movie guide. Roman Holiday…too romantic. Casablanca…too depressing. “Where’s a good old-fashioned Western when you want one?” he complained.
Cat Ballou flashed in the list, and he clicked on it. If things worked out as planned, he would know where he stood with Brooke by the time the credits scrolled down the screen.
He’d barely finished pouring the Beaujolais when a car door slammed. Hunter stepped onto the porch to catch the delivery boy so the doorbell wouldn’t startle Connor. He slid the pizza box between the goblets on the table and he headed back upstairs to see how much longer it would take her to get Connor down for the night.
A familiar melody stopped him just outside the baby’s bedroom door, but it had never sounded like this.
“…toora, loora, loora, hush, now, don’t you cry…”
Suddenly, it wasn’t enough to hear her voice. Hunter needed to see her sing, too. He eased into the doorway in time to see her form the final notes.
