Play Dates

by Maggie Wells

  “P.C.?” Monica blurted.

  When he raised a challenging eyebrow, she laughed and shook her head. She watched as Emma handed over her prize as though the grungy doll were the Holy Grail.

  “Not very P.C. if you can’t even call the doll by her proper name.”

  “Not very P.C. for you to ask only the girls if the doll was theirs,” he countered.

  “Touché.” Monica inclined her head in acknowledgment of the hit, but she wasn’t about to let opportunity slip away. “Hi, I’m Monica Rayburn,” she said, extending her hand.

  He clasped her hand. “Colm Cleary.” He nodded to the boy who’d returned to his side so quickly she wondered if the two of them were magnetized. “This is Aiden,” he said, running a protective hand over his son’s head.

  She smiled down at the shyer of the Cleary men. “Hi, Aiden. I’m Monica.” Colm cast a pointed look at Emma. Startled from her trance, she laughed and placed her hand on her niece’s shoulder. “Oh! This is Emma.”

  “Hello, Emma,” Colm said, dipping his head in greeting. “Thank you for finding our friend for us.” He turned his attention to the boy clinging to his side. “Aiden, did you thank Emma?”

  “Thanks,” the little boy murmured.

  “You’re welcome,” Emma replied primly. “Monnie, can I go up to the slides again?”

  Monica gave one of the lopsided pigtails a tug. “Sure, kiddo. Knock yourself out.”

  Emma took three steps and skidded to a stop. Spinning around, she fixed her eyes on Aiden. “You wanna come?”

  In a flash, all vestiges of shyness disappeared. With Princess Clarissa dangling by her tattered tulle overskirt, Aiden took off after Emma without a backwards glance for his father. Colm exhaled long and loud, stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans, and dug the toe of his shoe into the recycled rubber chips.

  Amused by his undisguised relief, she turned to him, her lips curving as she spoke. “Crisis averted?”

  “We’re talking Charlie-Sheen-level meltdown averted. Without the swearing. Or the drugs. Or the hookers.”

  “Ah, well...winning.” She grinned.

  He rolled his eyes but rewarded her with a smirky smile. The lopsided flash of teeth packed a wallop.

  “So, uh, Colm,” she began, hoping her voice didn’t sound as high and squeaky to him as it did to her, “has Aiden always been a big Clarissa fan?”

  In an instant, the smile was gone and the squinty-eyed stare was in place. “Is there a five-year-old who isn’t?”

  Monica searched her memory, trying to access the detailed wish list Emma had presented to all members of the family at Christmastime. She seemed to remember a few items with a royal theme, but frankly had no clue if they had anything to do with the scraggly doll Colm’s son clutched as he climbed the rungs to get to the slide platform.

  Kid stuff was way beyond her areas of expertise. She could talk to him about buying and selling. Debate the ins and outs of various retirement plans and speculate on commodity futures. If he asked, she’d tell him to sink whatever extra cash he had on hand into pork belly futures. After all, there’s no safer investment than bacon. But if he asked her what Princess Clarissa’s story might be, she’d be toast.

  “So, what do you do?” she asked, scrambling to find a safe topic. She didn’t want this big, beautiful beast of a man to grow bored and wander into the trees.

  He answered the oh-so-innocuous question with a husky chuckle. The smirky smile made another appearance as he cocked his head and peered down at her. “I’m a partner in a security company. Trident Security. What do you do, Monica?”

  She chose to ignore the taunting edge in his tone. “I’m in commodities.”

  “Commodities?”

  He didn’t bother masking his confusion, so she launched into the canned spiel she usually saved for alumni events. “I advise people on what futures to buy and sell. Like stock investments, but I deal more with livestock, grain, and currency futures.”

  “Yeah, I know what commodities are. Cornering the orange crop like in Trading Places, right?”

  “Don’t forget the pork bellies.” She grinned. “Sexy stuff, those commodities.”

  He ran his hand over his jaw, and Monica found she was as pleased by the rasp of his stubble against his palm as she was the note of wonder in his voice.

  “You don’t...” He trailed off, dropping all pretense of subtlety as he let his gaze travel over her. “I didn’t peg you for the high finance type.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and swung her weight onto her right leg. “I didn’t peg you for the type to let his boy play with dolls.”

  Her assessment scored an honest-to-goodness laugh. When she spotted the dimple, all hell broke loose. Heat flared in her cheeks and her heart did a girly flutter she’d swear she hadn’t felt since Jeremy Lansford asked her to go to the Spring Fling dance in eighth grade. She didn’t want to think too hard about the effect the perfect little indention was having on some other bits of her anatomy.

  “You have to pick your battles, right?” He gave his head a rueful shake. “I admit I fought it to start, but you realize it doesn’t matter. I mean, girls play with trucks and Legos and stuff, right?”

  “Were you trying to sound less sexist?”

  He had the good grace to wince. “Came out better in my head.” Rocking on his heels, he cast her a sidelong glance and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I haven’t done this in a while.”

  She turned her most innocent gaze on him. “Engaged in conversation?”

  “With a woman.”

  His blunt answer chased away the impulse to tease. “Any woman? Don’t you have to talk to Aiden’s mother?”

  “No, I don’t. She’s dead.”

  Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh! I’m sorry.”

  Cringing, she felt her ears go up in flames as she let her palm slide down her throat until her fingers came to rest in the hollow at the base. All in all, a much better position to choke off any other embarrassing assumptions.

  Clearly regretting his blunt answer, Colm grimaced apologetically as he slipped his hands into his pockets once again. “She passed a long time ago.”

  “I am sorry, though. What I said was a stupid…I was trying to be all cool and clever,” she admitted, wrinkling her nose. “Never works for me.”

  He shot her a sly look from under thick lashes. “Really? I’d bet you do okay with your husband.”

  She grinned at his not-so-gentle probing. “Yeah. No husband.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “Nope.”

  “Good.” Colm chuckled and gave a helpless shrug. “Okay, well, now that we’ve got the ground work laid...If we’re going to keep trying this flirting thing, one of us has to pretend to be good at it.”

  Always quick on the uptake when she saw something she wanted, Monica pounced. “I think, you being the man and all, you should do the heavy flirting. You need the practice, right?” She answered her own rhetorical question with a nod. “So, you go on and flirt, and I’ll do my best to fall for your lame lines.”

  He lifted his head, skepticism hardening the planes of his face. But instead of agreeing right away, he scanned the play area until he spotted the kids, then heaved a resigned sigh. “Okay, well, you’ve been warned.”

  * * * *

  He couldn’t stop staring at her. Which was crazy, really, because she wasn’t at all his type. She was all sharp angles and straight edges. Not like Carmen, who should have had a “Dangerous Curves Ahead” sign hung around her neck. But, the last thing he needed was another woman like his late wife. Monica Rayburn with her pointy chin and ruthlessly straight brown hair were strangely appealing. She was so unlike Carmen. Plus, there were those amazing blue eyes. No way could anything dark or mysterious lurk there. They were as clear as the autumn sky. And drilling holes
right into him. Holes so big all his brains seemed to leak right out. Knowing he had to say something, anything, he clutched at the only info she’d fed him so far.

  “Do you like working in, uh, commodities?”

  She smiled. The tiny tilt of her lips should have told him he’d failed spectacularly, but for some reason it didn’t feel like he had. Dark lashes brushed her cheekbones but did nothing to sweep away the sparkle of amusement in those vivid eyes. “Yes, I enjoy my work very much.”

  “Why?”

  A smooth fall of light brown hair cupped her cheek as she slanted her head to look up at him. A hard fistful of lust and longing landed right in his gut. He wanted to brush the wispy strands away from her face, his fingers all but itching with the need to know if they were as silky as they looked.

  “Why do I like my job?”

  Shocked by the inanity of his own question, but too far gone to backpedal, he pressed on. “Yeah. What makes you want to buy and sell...pork bellies, was it?”

  “I’ve loved bacon since I was a little girl,” she answered with exaggerated sincerity.

  Instantly defensive, he flexed his shoulders and straightened to his full height. “It’s not a stupid question, you know. Why people do what they do says a lot about them.”

  She blinked. “Oh, I agree. Tell me, what made you decide to open a security company? A burning need to see how many five-digit passcodes your clients could come up with?”

  “I was a cop,” he said bluntly. “I quit the force not long after Aiden was born. Couldn’t take the chance of leaving him an orphan.” A surge of masculine pleasure raced through him when her pretty pink lips parted with what he hoped was admiration. “My buddy, Mike”—he nodded toward the tree where his friends congregated—“is a genius with the business side, as well as equipment and those pesky passcodes, but he needed someone with some street smarts and credibility.”

  “And that’s where you came in,” Monica supplied with an understanding nod.

  Colm nodded as he watched his friend and business partner bob and weave behind the abandoned stroller. Mike had one hand cupped under his daughter’s bottom while she nuzzled into his neck, upset over some playground infraction. Colm smiled as he watched his friend do his version of the white-boy-gone-hip-hop dance all parents master within weeks of holding their offspring. They’d seen each other through a lot over the last five years—good, bad, and downright tragic—but their friendship never changed. Their bond was as strong as it had been since junior high. Stronger.

  James made their pack a trio when he came on to handle sales. Unfortunately, he also got mixed up in handling Mike’s younger sister, Megan—the mother of the two redheaded hellions wreaking havoc on the playground, and the flakiest girl on earth. Through a wacky blend of desperation, crowd-sourcing, and plain old trial and error, the three of them had managed to keep their business, themselves, and all five of their offspring alive. A feat. A minor miracle.

  “We’re partners.”

  She flinched. The movement was slight, but the little jerk of her shoulders cut straight through his usual haze of male oblivion.

  “Not partner-partners,” he hastened to add. “Business partners. The three of us.” He turned his head to nod toward James. “We’re business partners.”

  This time, she didn’t bother trying to hide her shock. “And you’re all Saturdaddies?”

  The label shook a sharp laugh right out of him. “Saturdaddies?”

  “You know. Divorced...or widowed,” she said with an incline of her head. “Guys who take their kids to the park on Saturdays.”

  “Or working fathers.” He crossed his arms over his chest, leveling his most challenging look at her. “Like those women over there.” He gestured to the mommies gathered at the picnic tables. “Do you ever see them here Monday through Friday?” When she didn’t answer, he forged ahead. “No. They’re making up for nanny time.”

  “Is that what you’re doing?”

  “Of course.” He shot her a scornful look. “Tell me you don’t have a thousand other things you ought to be doing.” The assertion seemed to give her pause. “But no one wants to be all ‘brush your teeth’ and ‘eat your green beans,’ do they? And so, we’re here.” He spotted the furrow of concern between her brows and sighed, letting some of his defensiveness go with the converted carbon dioxide. “Sorry, I just...” He shrugged and looked away, searching the playground for his son and the words he needed to explain. “Everyone thinks it’s all single moms out there, you know?”

  “So, you’re all single dads? I mean, you’re all raising them on your own?”

  The undisguised surprise in her voice spoke volumes. Turning to meet those brilliant blue eyes head-on, he nodded. “All full-time dads.” He pursed his lips, waiting patiently as she processed the information. “There are more of us than people think.”

  “I suppose there probably are,” she murmured.

  Without saying another word, she turned and started searching out her daughter. Convinced he’d been doing better with the awkward conversation than the soapbox, Colm resuscitated his opening gambit. “You never answered me. Why do you like doing the commodities thing?”

  “Risk-reward,” she answered, scanning area after area of the structure, not even glancing in his direction. “I’m a gambler. I like the payoff when I take big chances.”

  “They’ve moved on to the swings.”

  Monica pivoted, her restless gaze seeking out the chain-linked seats. Her shoulders dropped when she finally caught sight of Aiden and Emma swaying side-by-side. He knew how she felt. He experienced the same profound relief each time he thought too hard about how close he’d come to never knowing his son. He was grateful for the doctors who jumped in to save a helpless infant and the friends who stood by his side while he groped his way through those mind-boggling months of fresh grief, terrifying responsibility, and heart-stopping betrayals.

  He’d been holed up for too long. Both Mike and James had been after him to start dating, but who had the energy for all that crap? But the woman beside him? This stranger with her impossibly direct gaze and self-admitted gambling problem? She tempted him into thinking he might want to try again. At least a dinner. After all, everyone had to eat, right?

  “Listen, my folks have been keeping Aiden for a while on Saturday nights,” he began without taking a minute to think too hard about what he was doing. “It’s new and hasn’t always worked out.” Okay, so he’d only had to pick his boy up once, but he didn’t have to give her an accounting. She also didn’t need to know the lack of success was because he pined for his son more than his kid did for him. “But if you can get free tonight, maybe get a sitter—”

  “Oh!” Her eyes widened as she caught on to where he was heading. “Oh, Emma isn’t—”

  “Yo, Colm!” James approached, a twin tucked under each arm. He was herding the boys with nudges of his bony knees and looking more like a nutty professor than a smooth salesman at the moment. “Dude, pancake time. Gather the sprout and let’s hit it. One of them’s gonna gnaw my arm off.”

  Colm noted his friend spared only the barest of nods for Monica. Typical. If ever there was a man unnaturally attracted to the crazy, that man was Jimbo. And Monica Rayburn, with her sharp blue eyes and smudge-free but delightfully form-fitting blue jeans, was sanity incarnate.

  “Pancake time?” she asked, blinking at the man approaching them.

  “We go to the park and eat pancakes for lunch.” He twisted his lips into a self-deprecating smile. “This is what us Saturdaddies do, you know…screw with routine.” Turning to James, he nodded toward the swings. “If you can pry him loose, we’ll go.”

  Monica laughed as James lumbered away. “Good for you. Routines are for sissies.”

  “So let’s break ours. Have dinner with me tonight,” he insisted. “Do you think you can find someone to watch Emma?”

>   “Oh, not a problem. My sister—”

  “Monnie! Monnie!”

  She yelped and staggered when the little girl rammed into her legs full-force. “Ah! Emma!” Catching her balance, Monica gently disentangled herself from her little girl’s grasp. “I swear, we’re going to get you a job busting kneecaps for the mob when you grow up.”

  “Aiden’s gonna eat pancakes! Can we eat pancakes?”

  Colm saw a spark light Monica’s eyes, but she shook her head. “No, sweets. We have a reservation at Girlie Girls for curls and crumpets, remember?” She pulled her phone from her pocket and dragged her thumb across the screen to wake it. “Almost time for us to go, anyway.”

  The photo on the screen gave him hope. A picture of him filled the background. She’d zoomed in and caught him in a close-up as he leaned against the tree. And the best part was, she must have snapped the picture long before Princess Clarissa waved her matchmaking wand and brought them together. She was every bit as interested in him as he was in her. “Nice shot.”

  A peachy-pink blush colored her cheeks. She kept her head down, hiding behind a curtain of glossy hair as she quickly switched to the home screen. “Must have been an accident. I was taking pictures of Emma.”

  “Wow. You’re good. Perfectly in frame. Most of my pictures come out in a blur.” Emboldened by the photographic evidence, he plucked the phone from her hand. “Maybe you should give up the pork rinds and think about going pro.”

  “Pork bellies,” she muttered. Lifting her head, she shook her hair out and squared her shoulders. “And if you must know, the picture was no accident. I’m sure you’ll be a big hit on my friend’s blog.”

  “Blog?”

  “She posts pictures of hot guys spotted around town.”

  He couldn’t repress the twitch of his lips. “You think I’m a hot guy?”

  Monica huffed and he chuckled, more than happy to let her off the hook once he had an advantage.

  Opening the contacts list, he typed in his name and number. “Listen, see what you can do about the crumpet here, and let me know. Okay?”

  “Colm, I’m not—”