by Loree Lough
“Cake?” Connor said, pointing.
Grateful for the legitimate excuse to break the intense eye contact, she kissed the baby’s cheek. “How about a cookie instead?” She carried Connor to the dessert table and chose the smallest treat. “Pretty soon,” she said, handing it to him, “Gram will light the candles on her cake, and we’ll all sing ‘Happy Birthday,’ and then you can have a slice, with a big fat frosting flower on—”
“Whoa. What’s this? Miss I Hate Sugar giving the okay to eat a cookie and cake?”
“I don’t hate sugar,” she defended, “in reasonable doses.”
Hunter chucked Connor’s chin. “Hear that? I’m your witness, buddy.” Facing Brooke, he said, “So you and my mom are pals now?”
She hadn’t said or done anything to rile him—at least, not that she knew of—so why did he seem so angry?
“Your mother is lovely, and so was our conversation.” Until the woman pointed out that Brooke had caused—and eased—Hunter’s grief. “But I’d hardly call us pals.”
He responded with a dismissive shrug. “Think Deidre will squeeze enough money out of her guests to get her theater program up and running?”
Brooke shifted Connor to her other hip, putting herself between him and Hunter. “I think you knew the answer to that even before you asked the question.” She forced a smile. “When my grandmother sets her cap for something, she doesn’t give up until she gets it.”
He leveled her with a steady gaze. “The way she coerced poor old Percy into marrying her?”
Not a hint of humor on his face, she noted, nor in his voice.
“Hope that isn’t part of the O’Toole genes.”
Even if trickery was in her family’s DNA, she failed to see how it concerned him, since they’d never be more than… Brooke didn’t know how to define their relationship, so she didn’t even try.
“Connor’s sippy cup is empty,” she said. “I should get him a refill.”
Hunter relieved her of it, unscrewed the top and looked inside. “Instant lemonade? I’m surprised you’re okay with him drinking this stuff,” he said, filling the cup. “It’s loaded with preservatives.”
“And I’m a little surprised that you’re still beating that dead horse. Will you let the ‘natural foods’ thing go, already!”
When Hunter laughed, heads turned. And Brooke blushed.
He poured himself a glass and brought it to his lips. “So what sort of family secrets did my mother reveal?”
He looked a little sexy—and a whole lot dangerous—staring at her that way over the glass’s rim.
“No secrets.” Brooke tried to sound as bored as possible. “She just reiterated what everyone else has been saying…that Gram is a saint for trying to help underprivileged kids, and I’m a saint for taking Connor in when not everyone would.”
His eyes narrowed. “I would. In a heartbeat.”
Five words, each sounding more like a threat than the last. For the hundredth time, she wished that Beth and Kent had left a will.
He sipped his drink, then nodded at Connor. “How did he sleep last night?”
“Better. Two three-hour stretches, with a one-hour cry-fest in between.”
“Me, too.” He chuckled. “Except for the cry-fest. Well, that isn’t entirely true. I blubbered a little thinking about that big fat check I wrote to your grandmother.” His eyes widened as Brooke stiffened. “What, she didn’t tell you?”
“Gram still sees me as a little girl who needs protection from any discussion involving money. Not that it’s any of my business who contributes and who doesn’t. But no, she didn’t tell me about your donation.”
“Secrets, huh? Another O’Toole trait?” A humorless chuckle punctuated his comment. “Then I guess it’s safe to say she doesn’t know about your nest egg.”
Secretive and manipulative. Was that how he saw her? “She knows I paid cash for my town house and that when I sold it, I invested half and put the rest in the bank. But Gram being Gram, there’s no telling what Broadway thing was on her mind when we had that discussion.”
Hunter had roused countless negative emotions in her over the years, all related to what he’d done. But these past few weeks, it seemed that his very presence was enough to underscore her unattractive traits. Who’s the traitor—and the hypocrite—now? she asked herself.
“I need to get Connor upstairs,” she said. “He needs a nap.”
Connor squirmed in her arms. “No nap,” he said again. “No nap!”
“I hate to interfere, but you promised he could watch them light the candles and sing the birthday song and eat a big fat frosting flower.” He nodded toward the dessert table. “Doesn’t seem fair to put him to bed just as they’re about to cut the cake.”
It seemed more and more as if he was intent on inciting a verbal sparring match. Brooke dodged the comment, because she had no intention of throwing the first punch.
“You’re absolutely right,” she admitted. And to Connor, “You’ve been a really good boy today. You deserve a treat!”
Hunter held out his arms, and Connor willingly fell into them, leaving Brooke no choice but to tag along as he walked toward the cake. Brooke stood back slightly, listening as his distinctive baritone blended with Connor’s sweet voice, singing the birthday song.
Deidre was beaming when she said, “Help that sweet baby blow out the candles, Hunter!”
He leaned over the cake and showed Connor what to do, and when the job was done, the baby squealed with glee. “Blow!” he told Brooke. “Blow all gone!”
“Yes, sweetie,” she said as Deidre began cutting the cake, “the candlelight is all gone.”
Brooke grabbed a slice and a plastic spoon and, one hand on Hunter’s forearm, led him away from the dessert table. He didn’t say a word—and neither did Connor—as bite by bite the slice got smaller. When it was gone, Brooke wrapped a paper napkin around her condensation-dampened glass.
“There,” she said, using itto wipe crumbs and icing from her nephew’s face, “Connor is all clean and shiny.”
She stepped away just long enough to dispose of the napkin, spoon and plate. “I’m sure he’ll sleep like a rock,” she said, taking Connor from Hunter’s arms. And walking away, Brooke added, “It’s been quite a day, hasn’t it, sweet boy?”
She’d gone only a few steps when Hunter called, “Brooke. Wait up. There’s something I need you to see.”
Was it the grim set of his jaw or his no-nonsense voice that made her slow her pace? “Whatever it is,” she said when he caught up with her at the bottom of the stairs, “will have to wait until this little guy is asleep.”
He relieved her of the apartment keys and followed her up the stairs. “I’m in no hurry,” he said, unlocking the door.
Brooke was in no hurry, either. She took her time changing Connor into a comfy lightweight jumpsuit, then rocking him to sleep, because out there, pacing in her tiny temporary living room was the living, breathing reminder of the most painful event of her life and the reason she and Connor had to move into the apartment in the first place.
Exhaustion, frustration and confusion sapped the last of her energy, and she leaned into the rocker’s headrest and closed her eyes. She hadn’t been in the store that awful night, but that didn’t stop her from imagining what had probably happened. As drowsiness overtook her, the grisly pictures that so often startled her awake materialized: her mom, smiling as she shopped for vanilla ice cream and chocolate sauce. Smiling as she stood at the counter, waiting her turn to pay for the treat her girls’ straight As had earned. Smiling until a masked robber burst into the store waving a pistol, demanding money from the cash drawer, from the customers and the cop who stood in line as his partner snoozed in the squad car, mere feet from the register….
Connor sighed and squirmed slightly, bringing her back to the here and now. Thankfully, she’d had the good sense to pull down the window shade earlier, because if he saw tears on her cheeks, he’d cry, too.
> He yawned, stretched. “Bed,” he mumbled. “Conner go to bed.”
Brooke kissed his temple, then eased him into his crib. “Sweet dreams,” she whispered. “I love you.” He was asleep before she pulled his door shut.
In the hall, she summoned the strength to walk into the living room and the self-control to keep Hunter from seeing that the terrible nightmare had unleashed her tears.
Brooke headed straight for the kitchen and turned on the flame under the teakettle.
Suddenly, he was behind her. “That didn’t take as long as I thought it would,” he said. “Think it means he’s finally coming around?”
Brooke shrugged. “We can hope.”
He pulled out two kitchen chairs. “So about this thing I want to show you….”
She kept her back to him, putting tea bags and spoons into two mugs, taking the sugar bowl from the cabinet, thinking how ridiculous brewing hot tea seemed, since outside, people were sipping icy beverages.
“This pot heats up pretty fast,” she said, “so—”
“This won’t take long.”
She tried to shake the dream-image of him leaning back in the seat, his cop hat’s visor hiding his snoring face while—
“By the time it whistles, I’ll be gone.”
—while her mother lay dying.
“Unless you insist on waiting for the inevitable.”
The watched pot that never boils?
“All right.” She sat across from him. “So what’s this mysterious thing that just can’t wait?”
He had turned his chair around and now sat with one muscled forearm atop the other on the chair’s back. Hunter slid a folded envelope from his shirt pocket and placed it on the table.
Brooke couldn’t imagine what might be inside. A moment passed before he moved it a half inch closer.
“Well, are you going to open it, or do I have to do it for you?”
Brooke’s hands shook as she picked it up, opened it and leafed through the pages inside.
Surely she hadn’t read correctly. Brooke looked up from the materials list, building permits, a 9 x 12 blueprint—everything he’d need to rehab Beth’s house—and the zero balance on the last page.
“You’re crazy if you think I’d let you pay for all of this.”
His brow furrowed slightly. “I told you. Everything I’ll need is in my shop, taking up space.”
“Yes, I remember. But the permits…they weren’t just lying around gathering dust. And people don’t make up blueprints for free. And unless I’m mistaken, you have to pay your crew, and there’s a fee for every outlet and switch and—”
“Why don’t you just let me worry about all of that?” His frown deepened. “I’m doing this so Connor will be safe when he’s over there.”
“When he’s over there?” she echoed. “You make it sound like he’ll only be visiting. Occasionally. And we both know that’s just…just silly.” A nervous laugh punctuated her statement.
But he ignored it.
“Seems there were perks to working for an insurance agency,” he said. “Kent wrote himself a killer homeowner’s policy.” He nodded at the envelope. “Trouble is, it doesn’t cover wiring. Or plumbing. If he hadn’t written his own policy, the place never would have passed inspection. Never would have qualified for a mortgage. I’m sure he had every good intention of making repairs, but…you know Kent.”
Unfortunately, she did. “His credo was ‘Never do today what you can put off till tomorrow. Or the next day.’” She stared into Hunter’s eyes. “What I don’t know is…how you got a copy of the policy?”
Hunter lowered his head, clasped his hands. Oh, to know what was going on in that stubborn, handsome head!
“The only thing that should matter,” he said quietly, “is that I’m going to bring the place up to code. From basement to attic, inside and out. When I’m finished, Connor—and you—will be safe.”
“Is that your polite way of saying that unless I blindly go along with your plans, I’m not interested in Connor’s safety?”
He stared her down. “I didn’t say that.”
“Then…what are you saying?”
Hunter’s hazel eyes darkened and his lips thinned. “I’m saying that Kent bent the rules knowing full well that his wife and baby boy would have to live in that fire trap.”
“To be fair, they didn’t have Connor when they bought the house.”
“Doesn’t change the facts. They lived in it for more than seven years. I had my suspicions and never should have looked the other way. I should have nagged him. Helped him.” He grimaced. “Something.”
Brooke couldn’t escape the fact that if Hunter hadn’t stumbled on the wiring problem, she and Connor would still be living in that fire trap.
She put the paperwork back into the envelope. “I appreciate what you’re proposing,” she began, “but I can afford to take care of Connor and the house he lives in. I have my savings and some investment income. And my new job. Plus there’s some money left from my grandfather’s estate. I don’t need your charity.”
“Charity?” he growled. “You’re impossible!”
He got to his feet, and as she stood, Brooke shoved the envelope nearer the edge of the table.
“Keep it,” he said, facing the door. “I have copies.”
The teapot whistled, and she used it as an excuse to turn away from his accusatory glare.
“None for me,” he said as she filled her mug. But she poured him a cup anyway.
He was half in, half out the door when he said, “So you need some recommendations, then?”
“Recommendations…?”
He looked at the ceiling, as if the answer to her question were written up there.
“Other contractors. Guys who’ll do the job without ripping you off.”
“I…I never said I didn’t want you to do the work.” She placed both mugs on the table. “I only said I can’t let you do it for free.”
He was staring right at her, so why did Brooke get the feeling he wasn’t seeing her?
“I didn’t notice a signature page,” she said, pointing at the envelope. “What do I need to sign? To get things under way, I mean.”
He was looking at the toes of his shoes when he said, “You don’t need to sign anything. I trust you.” Hunter exhaled a frustrated sigh, then met her eyes. “I’ll get a crew over there tomorrow. We’ll start by tearing down the plaster walls so I can see what’s behind them.”
It dawned on her that Deidre’s house—and every outbuilding on the property—was on the registry of historic homes. How could she be sure that this apartment was any safer than Beth and Kent’s house? She voiced her concerns to Hunter.
“When your grandmother turned this place into a boarding house years back, I redid the wiring and plumbing. Installed new windows and doors, new insulation, new roof,” he said, thumb pointing upward, “here in the apartment and on the big house, too. So don’t worry. You’re safe. Besides, you’ll only be here for a couple of months.”
“Tomorrow, after you have a better idea what’s involved, maybe we can discuss a payment plan.”
“For the luvva Pete, Brooke, will you quit being so mule-headed? I’m doing the job. No strings attached. Because I love that kid. Because I—” One hand slapped the back of his neck, the other formed the Boy Scout salute. “You’ve got my word on it.”
“I can count on one hand,” she said, more to herself than to Hunter, “the number of people I can take at their word.”
“You can take this to the bank. I’m one of them.”
He held her gaze for half a second, then left without another word.
Staring at the closed door, Brooke absentmindedly stirred sugar into her tea. She shouldn’t trust him so completely, and yet, she did.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“LISTEN TO HIM back there,” Deidre said, “chattering like a chipmunk.”
Brooke glanced into the rearview mirror. “I’m almost afraid to say it out loud,
for fear of jinxing things, but it’s good to hear something other than whining out of him for a change, isn’t it?”
“I’ll say!” And when Brooke turned onto Route 40, she said, “Where are you taking us?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“You know I hate surprises….”
“Yeah, right. And I hate chocolate.”
They shared a moment of quiet laughter that even Connor joined in on. But Brooke knew Deidre: if she didn’t change the subject soon, the woman would start talking about the play. Or the theater project. And the whole point of this Saturday outing was to get her mind off work.
Now, how to steer the conversation from anything related to the stage….
“I had the best week at the hospital. I think maybe I am cut out for this job.”
“I never should have said you weren’t.”
It was as close to an apology as she’d ever get from her grandmother, and Brooke smiled.
Deidre leaned forward as far as the seat belt would allow and peered through the windshield. “Where are you taking me, anyway?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. Just sit back and enjoy the ride.”
Deidre’s crazy schedule had forced her to cancel two lunch dates with her sorority sisters. So when Brooke ran into one of the ladies—a volunteer at the hospital gift shop—she’d decided to make sure her grandmother didn’t miss another. And while the ladies were at lunch, Brooke would run a few errands—including a stop at the post office to see if the guardianship papers had arrived.
“You’re awfully quiet for a girl who’s supposedly tickled pink about her new job. What has your brain in such a knot?”
“My brain isn’t in a knot,” she said, grinning.
“Oh. Really. They maybe you can tell me why you look like the Cheshire cat.”
“Gosh, aren’t you good for a girl’s ego!”
“Hey. I calls ’em as I sees ’em.” She reached across the console and patted Brooke’s hand. “Seriously, honey, you’re beginning to worry me. Judging by those dark circles under your eyes, you haven’t slept a wink since my birthday party.”
