Her mother moved past her to slap a placemat, a dinner plate, cutlery, and a glass of water down on the table beside where Cole sat. “Jillian, you sit beside your son. Michael, you’re across from them.”
“I want him to sit beside me,” Cole said, getting up to bring the spare chair that sat in a corner of the kitchen. He shoved the chair up to the table and smiled at Michael. “You sit here.”
Jillian’s mom huffed. “For heaven’s sakes, everyone, sit. Dinner will be ruined.”
Freckles promptly plunked his butt on the floor near Dad’s chair. After a questioning glance at Jillian, Michael took the seat beside Cole, and then the rest of them sat down.
“Michael, this is my son, Cole,” she said, forcing herself not to glance from one face to the other and catalogue the similarities and differences. “Cole, as I told Gramps, Michael and I went to university together.”
“That was a long time ago,” the boy said. “Before I was born.”
“That’s true,” she said. “Now hush, Granny wants to say grace.” When she and her son ate by themselves in their in-law suite adjoining her parents’ house, they didn’t follow this ritual. But this was her mom’s kitchen and her mom’s rules. Jillian extended a hand on either side to clasp her mom’s and her dad’s. A mix of poignancy and anxiety stabbed her heart when, across the table, Cole blithely extended his small hand and Michael hesitantly met it with his.
As her mom spoke, Jillian tuned out the familiar words. She wasn’t feeling the least bit thankful. Her stomach churned so badly she wasn’t sure she’d be able to eat a bite of even those yummy scalloped potatoes.
What the hell was Michael doing here? She and Cole were happy. Was he going to mess things up?
Chapter Three
What if Michael had come to ask for access rights, or even shared custody? Jillian’s breath caught and she almost dropped the platter of sliced ham her dad handed her. Recovering, she served herself a slice and passed the platter to her mom. No, surely not. He’d never before shown the slightest interest in Cole.
Maybe he intended to stop the support payments. He’d been the one to offer in the first place, and he’d been generous. Of course he could afford to be, spoiled rich kid that he was. She was grateful, though. Those monthly payments had enabled her to pursue her dream of being a pilot, and then to fly part time with Blue Moon Air. The small local seaplane business wasn’t busy enough all year round to keep both her and the owner, Aaron Gabriel, working full time.
She squared her shoulders and dished out a dollop of potatoes. Across the table, Michael’s head was down as he accepted platters from her mom, served himself, and then held the platters so Cole could help himself.
Not only was it a shock to see Michael again, more mature looking and still so strikingly handsome, but it was odd seeing him in a domestic setting. Their short-lived relationship had been about partying and sex. Neither of them had ever cooked a meal for the other. He’d never even been to the small apartment she shared with two other students.
Maybe this was a bad dream, Michael here with her son and her parents. Surreptitiously, she pinched her arm through her red sweater.
“I don’t like broccoli.” Cole’s protest drew her attention.
Michael, who had extended the bowl of green florets toward him, gazed uncertainly across at Jillian. Feeling no urge to help him out, she said nothing.
He frowned, refocused on Cole, and ventured, “It’s good for you?” It sounded more like a question than an assertion, suggesting that he realized this wasn’t a selling argument. And then, for the first time, Michael’s face softened and she saw the old charm that she’d never even tried to resist. Leaning close to Cole, he whispered something in the boy’s ear.
Cole cocked his dark head, reflected, said, “Okay,” and took a small serving of broccoli.
Points to Michael. Later, she’d ask Cole what he’d whispered.
For the first time, it occurred to Jillian to wonder if Michael had married. Did he have another child or two? She glanced at his left hand. No ring.
Oh, how she wished he hadn’t shown up on the doorstep. He should have given her a chance to talk privately with him. But of course when he rang the doorbell, he likely hadn’t expected to be thrust into a family dinner. Across the table, he was tasting the broccoli. “Hey, this is good.” His oops expression told her the words had escaped him.
“Let me guess,” she said. “You’re not a fan either.”
“He isn’t,” Cole said. “But he said it’s the grown-up thing to do. When someone cooks for you, you should be polite and eat it. He said he’d eat his if I ate mine.”
“True,” Michael admitted with a rueful shrug. “But this broccoli’s actually good. Normally, I only like it in curry.”
“Thanks,” Jillian said. “I baked it around the ham. With orange-flavored olive oil.” A Destiny Island business made several delicious flavored oils.
“You can cook?”
Did he think she and Cole had survived on takeout and microwaved dinners for going on eight years? “Who knew, eh?” But, in the interest of fairness, she said, “I made the ham and broccoli. The fabulous scalloped potatoes are Mom’s.” When the whole family ate together, they shared cooking duties as best fit everyone’s schedules.
“So, Michael,” her father said, “what brings you to Blue Moon Harbor?”
Jillian jumped in. “He and I will talk about that later, Dad.” Of course her parents were concerned. When she’d come home from university pregnant, she’d told her family that she and a boyfriend had messed up with birth control, that he’d proposed, and that she’d turned him down because their relationship was casual. She’d never mentioned that Michael had initially assumed she’d want an abortion, much less that she’d considered it even if only overnight. She’d also never told them his name, or her mom and older brother Samuel—the fierce ones in the family—might have flown out to Toronto and hurt him.
“Can I ask him where he lives and what he does for a living?” her father asked dryly.
She nodded. “Yes, why don’t you fill us in, Michael?” She’d never checked him out on the Internet. Once they broke up, he was out of her life. Except for the annoying way that, every time she met an interesting, good-looking, single guy and didn’t feel attracted, she remembered the crazy chemistry with Michael.
He put down his fork and looked at her. It was the first time their gazes had met and held since that moment of shock at the front door. An unwelcome jolt hit her—of pure lust. Damn him for still being the sexiest man she’d ever seen. She caught herself reaching up to tidy her hair, and redirected her hand to her water glass. It wasn’t a bad thing to be glad she’d worn a pretty, curve-hugging sweater, but she wasn’t going to primp.
“I live in Toronto,” he said. “Still.”
“The same apartment?” When he’d started university, his parents had bought him a one-bedroom apartment despite the fact that they lived in Toronto, too. They could well afford it. His mother was a cardiologist, and his father a lawyer who worked for a huge multinational corporation. Michael’s apartment had turned into party central.
“No. I’m in a larger, more modern one now.”
“Of course you are.” A true golden boy: gorgeous, charming, rich, spoiled; a man used to getting whatever he wanted. Likely he still hosted parties, ritzier ones with fancier alcohol. And classier women.
“I’m an architect,” he said.
“Really?” Jillian said. They’d never talked much about school. He’d seemed more interested in having fun. And when she’d stolen time away from studies and her part-time job to be with him, she’d been all about fun, too. But she did remember him occasionally complaining about the ugly or unimaginative design of a building. Yes, architecture could be a good fit, though his physique suggested he didn’t spend all his time drafting plans on a computer.
“What can I say?” he said. “I loved playing with Legos.”
“I like Legos, too,�
�� Cole said. “An architect builds houses, right? I build houses and mansions and gas stations and stuff like that.”
Michael studied him intently. “An architect doesn’t actually build things. He designs them and then other people do the hard work.”
Cole considered and then pronounced judgment. “That doesn’t sound like as much fun.”
Michael grinned. “Yeah, there’s a lot to be said for Legos.”
Oh God, that smile. It was as devastating as ever. He’d been an utter charmer and she saw that he still could be, when he relaxed.
“We could build things together sometime,” Cole offered.
“I’d like that.” The words came out quickly, sounding genuine, but then he shot Jillian an apologetic look. “If that’s okay with your mom.”
Great. Now it was all on her, and if she said no, Cole wouldn’t understand. “We’ll talk later.” She kept her voice even. “Talk about how long Michael will be visiting the island, for one thing. Now, Cole, why don’t you, um”—she cast about for a safe topic of conversation—“tell Michael about how Freckles came to join the family?”
Her son launched into a story about how they’d chosen the Dalmador at the shelter. Then he started to talk about the holiday spectacular his school would put on in a couple of nights.
Michael asked questions and her parents contributed comments, all of them obviously working at keeping the conversation casual. Jillian could barely participate. Or eat. Anxiety cramped her stomach and she couldn’t wait for the meal to be over, so she could find out why Michael had come.
Chapter Four
“You live in your parents’ house,” Michael said. Jilly had brought him over to the one-story wing of the house, which he realized had been made into an apartment for her and Cole.
“It works for all of us, being close like this. Wait a minute. I’m going to take pajamas over for Cole to change into.”
Waiting for her to return, Michael remained standing where she’d left him, gazing around the L-shaped living room and dining alcove. She’d done a nice, if not terribly creative, job with the space: simple wooden furniture with brightly colored cushions, framed photographs of scenery and of Cole on the bluish white walls, a basket of wood beside the fireplace, and an IKEA shelving unit holding a medium-sized TV as well as a collection of books, Legos, and other toys. Holly wreaths, twinkly lights lining the shelving and the window frames, and a nativity scene left no doubt as to the time of year.
Jilly rejoined him and gestured toward one of the chairs. “Sit.”
Just like her mom, issuing commands. He obeyed while she paced across the room and turned, hands fisted at her hips. The natural look suited her better than the pile of makeup she used to wear. She was still slender, but a few extra pounds made her more womanly and even sexier.
Not that her defiant stance and narrow-eyed expression were all that sexy. “Why are you here? Are you stopping the support payments? Because if so, we can do just fine—”
“No.” He cut off the flow of words, leaning forward, his hands gripping his jean-clad knees. This wasn’t the time for lust—though it was hard to ignore the sheer physical desire he felt for her—but for seriousness and honesty. “I have no intention of stopping them. Ever. Well, at least until Cole’s finished university, or whatever kind of training he wants to do.”
Might the boy, with his fondness for Legos, decide to become an architect? Michael had believed that his parents’ insistence that he study medicine or law was about status and income, but now he wondered. Had they felt the urge to see their child share their interests? “He’s a great kid, isn’t he? And he looks like me.” It had stunned him, that first glimpse of mini-him.
“Yes, he’s great and yeah, he does look like you.” She didn’t sound happy.
“Sorry. I guess that’s not exactly fair. You put in nine months of pregnancy, had to deliver him, and you’ve raised him, where all I did was have a good time with you one night.” Was there a man in her life now, sharing those sexy good times with her? Playing a fatherly role with Michael’s son? For some selfish, primitive reason that didn’t bear analysis, he hoped not.
“I have to admit, those thoughts crossed my mind.” Still glaring from across the small room, she went on. “But, Michael, you still haven’t said. Why are you here?”
“I didn’t think this through as well as I should have,” he admitted. “I wanted to see Cole. Do you realize I didn’t even know if our child was a boy or a girl?”
“You never asked. Never wanted to know.”
“No. But I started wondering. Especially since I turned thirty and realized I’m actually an adult.”
“Married?”
He shook his head. “Not even close. Being a husband doesn’t appeal. But it hit me that I’m a father. Or”—he held up a hand before she could protest—“okay, more like a sperm donor. But I wondered if... maybe I could, I don’t know, be part of his life. Maybe.”
“You maybe want to be part of his life, maybe? What does that mean?”
“It means I don’t know, okay?” He scrubbed a hand across his jaw, realizing he’d been in such a hurry to drive here from the B and B, he hadn’t taken time to shave. “I don’t know what I want. And before you point it out, I know I don’t have any right to want anything, and you don’t have any obligation to go along with me. But I kept thinking that there was this kid I’d helped to create. And maybe I owed that kid more than money. Or perhaps it’s more selfish than that, just my curiosity or ego or something.” It really was cool that Cole resembled him and played with Legos. “That’s what I’m saying. I don’t even know what I want.”
She gave a huffy snort, but relaxed enough to perch on the edge of the chair opposite his. “You used to be more articulate.”
He still was, when it came to his work and to the women he dated. “Now my words aren’t fueled by drink. They’re connected to my brain and my brain honestly doesn’t know what it’s thinking. I’m not trying to be mysterious or obscure or . . . or to totally annoy or frustrate you. I’m being honest here.”
Her face softened, something that had been rare tonight. It made her even more appealing, and again he had to battle against arousal. “Okay,” she said. “I kind of get it. But, Michael, if you don’t know what you want, how can I react? I have to protect my son.”
“I see that. You’re a mom. It’s weird.” At her raised-eyebrow expression, he went on. “I mean, I only knew you as a party girl. Of course I realized, objectively, that you had a baby. But I never formed an image of you being all domestic and maternal. You were just, you know, hot.”
“And now I’m maternal.”
“But still hot.”
She sucked in a breath and that thing, that same chemistry thing, arced between them. He wondered, if she wasn’t in a relationship, was there a chance the two of them—? No. What was he thinking? He’d come here because of the child. “So I wanted to see Cole and see if . . . see how . . .”
“To see if Cole measured up?” She jerked her head in a motion that made her blond curls dance under the light of a floor lamp. “To see if you thought he was worthy of your attention?”
He shook his head. “No. More to see if I could imagine myself being, uh, paternal. Being a part of his life.”
“Do not tell me you want to share custody and have Cole spend half his time in Toronto. That is totally not happening.” Sky-blue eyes couldn’t literally spit fire, but hers came close.
“Of course not.” That thought had never, not once, crossed his mind. “But I thought maybe I could spend time with him. With you present, or however you want to do it. Get to know him. See if... we form a bond.” They’d already started to, over broccoli and Legos. “And if we did, then I could fly out and see him sometimes.” If that happened, would he break the news to his parents and his auntie that he had a son? They’d been after him to settle down, to start a family, and he could imagine their shock at finding out about the youthful indiscretion he’d kept a
secret for years and years. They’d end up being happy, though, and they’d want to meet Cole—and how would Jilly react to that?
“At your convenience? Cole has a stable, happy life. He has a family. He doesn’t need a stranger getting him confused. If you tell him you’re his father, and then see him, like, twice a year, I don’t see how that’d be good for him.”
“I don’t know, Jilly. As I said—”
“Don’t call me that. My name’s Jillian. Jilly was the Toronto me.”
“Okay, fair enough. Anyhow, as I was saying, I don’t have a clear picture of how this might go. Can I spend a little time with him and we can take it from there?”
She sighed, her shoulders rounding, and he realized what a burden he’d laid on her.
“I suppose,” she said. “But we’re not telling him you’re his father. Being a father’s about more than just genetics.”
“I hear you.”
Chapter Five
Jillian longed for nothing more than a hot bubble bath, an entire wineglass full of Baileys Irish Cream, and privacy to release the flood of tears dammed up behind her eyes. Not tears of sadness, but of confusion and frustration.
She could relate to Michael wanting to get to know Cole. Yet how dare he shake up their lives? She and Cole had a special bond and she didn’t want anyone messing with it. And how dare Michael shake her up, making her feel the kind of attraction—of arousal—she hadn’t felt in all those years?
One thing she’d learned as a mom: her own desires didn’t come first. Cole’s needs did.
If Michael proved to be a decent man and decided he genuinely wanted to build a relationship with Cole, not just with fancy architect-type designs but by laying a solid foundation and then putting in the hard labor and emotion, how could she deny her son that? At most, Cole’s and Michael’s would be a part-time, long-distance relationship. She shouldn’t feel threatened.
Yes, if Michael proved to be serious, she’d have to give him and Cole the opportunity to become father and son. But they weren’t there yet. What next, though? “I need to get back to Cole and my parents. We’re trimming the Christmas tree tonight.”
Winter Wishes Page 10
