Love At Last

by Claudia Connor

  But he still had the afternoon. And tonight.

  They did the three laps, then as was Clare’s routine, went for coffee at a small cafe.

  “Clare!” A young man behind the counter exclaimed. “Let me see my babies!”

  Uh…not your babies, dude. Deacon stiffened as the guy came around to meet them. He sized him up. Early twenties, he guessed, and built more like a football player than a barista.

  “Deacon, this is Jeff. Jeff, Deacon.”

  As Deacon shook his hand, he held on an extra second, and so did Jeff.

  “Ah,” Jeff said, dropping his hand to his side. “You’re the—”

  “The dad,” Deacon said and couldn’t resist putting a possessive hand on Clare’s upper back. And she’s mine, too.

  “Jeff’s just finishing architect school,” Clare said. “He’s crazy about the boys and has a magical touch with the crème brûlée latte. Seriously the best in town.”

  “Just for you,” Jeff said and had the nerve to wink.

  “Huh. Well, just black for me,” Deacon said.

  “Sure thing.” But Jeff didn’t move from where he stood gazing down into the stroller.

  How often does this happen? Men flirting with Clare? He’d bet a lot, and an unholy amount of jealously pulsed through him.

  “Jeff’s really good with them,” Clare said. “One morning, I walked in here like a zombie, and he held both of them long enough for me to drink my coffee. Oh, and he had the idea to make it half caffeine, half decaf since I’m nursing.”

  “Wow.” He leveled his gaze at Jeff. “How about we get on those coffees?”

  “Oh. Right.” Jeff finally got a clue and went back behind the counter. “How’d they sleep last night?” he asked, and Deacon nearly cracked a tooth.

  Does she actually come in here and talk about the boys with this guy? Talk about how they slept? How she slept? He would bet his left nut Jeff pictured her sleeping. Pervert.

  “Pretty good. Deacon will be there tonight, and we’re going to try some bottles.”

  Deacon noticed Jeff lift his eyes from the frothing machine.

  Damn right, you latte douche. I’ll be there. All night. Then another voice answered, But you’re not there every night.

  Patrick stirred, and Deacon unbuckled him immediately.

  “He’ll probably settle down once we get going,” Clare said.

  He lifted him out anyway, wanting to hold him. He almost dared Jeff to try to take the baby from him.

  “Here you go.” Jeff set their coffees on the counter, looking less sure of himself and decidedly less chipper than he had when they’d walked in.

  Chapter 26

  AFTER COFFEE, THEY WENT back to Clare’s, and while she nursed the boys, he went out to grab some dinner to go and did a little grocery shopping, as he’d noticed she was out of several basics.

  They ate, taking turns walking the floor with Parker. When Clare went to nurse again, he called to tell the girls goodnight, assuring them he’d be home soon.

  He hung up the phone and went to the nursery to see if Clare needed help. She sat in the glider, a baby cradled in each arm as she read a children’s book aloud. From the doorway, he listened as she talked to each of them as if they were awake and old enough to understand, telling them about the moon and the stars. With every soft word, he fell a little more in love.

  When she finished and stood, he cleared his throat, making his presence known before stepping inside. He took Parker from her and laid him in the crib next to his brother. Together, they stood over them, watching them sleep. Nothing had ever felt so right. If his girls had been there, the moment would’ve been perfect.

  They tip-toed out, and he sat on the couch.

  “Do you want a drink?” she asked.

  “No, I’m good.”

  She got herself a cup of water and joined him on the couch, not touching but close enough that he thought he was making progress. That kiss last week had filled his dreams until all he could think about was another. Again. More.

  He wanted her, no less than he had all those months ago. Maybe more. He couldn’t look at her without remembering how it had felt to have her body pressed against his. Every single time their hands touched or their bodies brushed, his blood pressure skyrocketed.

  He picked up the remote from the table in front of him. “Want to watch a movie?”

  “Sure. Whatever you do.”

  He scrolled through the channel guide. “I don’t think your coffee guy likes me.”

  “My coffee guy?”

  “Mmm. I do think he likes you.”

  She turned to look at him. “Does that bother you?”

  “Depends on how much you like him.”

  “I like him. Like a little brother,” she added with a smile. “He’s barely old enough to drink, you know.”

  That made him feel a little better, and he let the arm on the back of the couch slide down to circle her shoulders. He felt a lot better when she leaned into him.

  “Oh, I meant to ask you, do you think the girls communicated? Right from the start?”

  “I’d swear they did,” he said, smiling at the memory. “The babbling and seeming to understand each other. They’d lay in their cribs, and I’d just listen to them on the monitor.”

  “That’s so cute. I wonder if the boys will do that.” She yawned and tucked her feet under her. “Maci’s okay, now, right?”

  “Yes,” he said softly, moved at the concern in her voice for a child that wasn’t her own.

  “Did you talk to the girls?”

  “I did.”

  “Are they okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  She raised a brow at him. “I overheard a little of it. They miss you.”

  “They do. But they’ve spent the night with my parents before. It’s a necessity sometimes.”

  “Doesn’t mean you don’t worry.”

  “No. It doesn’t.”

  “I’m sorry it’s so hard. I don’t know how to make it easier.”

  “Neither do I. But for whatever reason, this is where we are.”

  She lifted her head, met his eyes. “And where are we? Exactly?”

  He brushed her hair back over her shoulder. “Here. Figuring things out.”

  “Let me ask you something.” She sat up, angling her body toward him. “Do you think you would have been interested if we’d met in a different place? If it hadn’t been easy and temporary and no strings? Be honest. We should be honest with each other at this point.”

  “Yes. We should. And the answer is I don’t know. Not because of you,” he said quickly. “Because of me. Aside from work, I haven’t been anything but a father for so long, I’m not sure it would have occurred to me to reach for more. If I’d been out locally and the girls had been waiting for me at home and I was already moving toward Dad mode, I’m not sure I would have let myself stop and reach.

  “I mean I spend my weekends going to princess and fairy parties and my nights searching for lost Bitty Bear rain boots—that’s Bitty Baby’s sidekick, in case you don’t know. She also has rain boots. I don’t know how to date and be a father. I couldn’t even picture trying.” He brushed his thumb over her cheek, noting the shadows under her eyes weren’t quite as dark. “But I couldn’t walk away from you. Then my mom called, and Maci and…” He closed his eyes briefly then opened them, and looking into Clare’s dark eyes, he fell a little more. “I still couldn’t walk away from you. Couldn’t let you go.”

  “Deacon.” She whispered his name, looked at him just like she had the night they’d made love, and he lost the fight, cupped her cheek, and leaned in to press a kiss to her lips. He gave in to this unrelenting need to get closer to her. She opened to him, letting him feel and taste.

  He took her mouth, soft and seductive. Taking what he needed more than his next breath, he gave, as well. The soft and slow turned hot, a mating of lips and tongues.

  Her arms circled his shoulders, her fingers slid through the hair a
t his nape, driving him mad. He fought his impulse to devour her. He moved to her throat, lingering on the sweet taste of her skin. A mild shiver ran through her, and he smiled into her neck. He would take his time, make her remember what was between them, break down her walls.

  “How do you always smell so good?”

  “You like that sour spit-up smell?”

  He smiled into her neck. “Love it.”

  “I’m not the same,” she said softly.

  Was she kidding? He pressed his lips to her cheek then her brow, hating the look of uncertainty in her eyes. “You’re beautiful.” With her hand over his, he managed to rub his thumb back and forth over the smooth skin where his sons had grown. He ached to draw the sweater over her head and replace it with his lips. “I bet you were beautiful pregnant.”

  “If you like whales.”

  “I do,” he said, without missing a beat. “They sing and have amazing swimming abilities.”

  She laughed, and the sound of it was worth as much as her kiss. He nipped down her throat, brushed his lips back and forth over the top swell of her sweater-covered breast. He found her mouth again, kissed her, long and languid. He teased her bottom lip with his teeth then feathered his lips over her jaw, driving them both crazy.

  His fingers flexed on her hip, stroked and moved, under the hem of her sweater. He groaned when he touched bare skin. Felt like he’d waited a lifetime to touch her again. His hand moved higher, over her ribs, cupping the underside of her breast. The need for her he’d kept in check for so long shuddered through him until he was shaking with it.

  “This could get complicated,” she whispered, breathless, and he moved his lips to her throat.

  “It could.” He rained kisses up her neck to her jaw and over her face.

  “Deacon.” She flattened her small hand against his chest, just short of pushing him away.

  He lifted his head, and gazing down into her beautiful face, he was overwhelmed with a sense of tenderness. Her eyes were closed, lips damp and slightly parted. He loved her in ways he never even imagined loving a woman, this beautiful, smart, sweet, amazing woman that he was so desperate for in every way one person could be desperate for another.

  “If we try it, and it doesn’t work out, then the boys and the girls…”

  “And what if we don’t try? Don’t we owe it to them to try?”

  Even with her eyes on his chest, he could feel her scrambling to rebuild her walls. “I don’t want us to be together because you think we should, or out of some sense of honor.”

  “That’s not why.”

  “Okay.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  She pressed her lips together, uncertainty so clear on her face, it could have been written there. “Clare.” With a finger under her chin, he brought her gaze up to his. “I felt something for you before. I thought you did, too.”

  She drew in an unsteady breath. “I did. I thought I did. But that was vacation. It wasn’t real life.”

  “It felt pretty real to me,” he said and sat up, pulling her with him.

  She tugged at the hem of her sweater that unfortunately hadn’t gone anywhere. Her face was still flushed, her lips damp. But there was still that damn fatigue in her eyes. “You should go to bed. Get some sleep while I’m here. I’ll sleep on the couch. Just toss me an extra blanket.”

  She stared at him, her big eyes full of questions that she didn’t ask. “Okay. Or you could take my bed, and I could sleep in the nursery.”

  “Nah. The couch is fine with me.”

  “They’ll be up soon,” she said, gazing at the crib. “Well, actually, every time I think that and make a point not to go to bed, they sleep for hours. If I let myself go to sleep, they’ll be up in ten minutes.”

  “If they are, I’ll get them. I’ll try a bottle, and if that doesn’t work, I’ll wake you.”

  “Okay.” She left the room and came back moments later with sheets, a blanket, and a pillow piled in her arms. She stopped just out of reach. “Deacon, I did feel something, but…maybe we should take it slow.”

  He took the bedding from her, smiled. “I can do slow.”

  He set up on the couch, listening for any sign of stirring from the babies. Clare was right about being honest. She could hurt him. They could hurt each other. That was reason enough to go slow.

  * * *

  CLARE WOKE THE NEXT morning to quiet. A gray, overcast light spilled into her room. As tired as she was, she’d lain in bed awake a long while last night, hot and bothered from those moments on the couch with Deacon. And going over everything he’s said. What she’d said and hadn’t said.

  As her feet hit the floor, the night came back to her. Deacon up with the babies, walking and changing. He’d given them bottles and another time brought them to her to nurse before she even heard them cry, then come back for them with some uncanny sixth sense as soon as they were finished. Every time she started to get up, he had it handled and told her to go back to sleep.

  In the pale light of morning, she walked to the den and stopped in her tracks at the sight of Deacon on her couch, long legs stretched out in front of him. Her babies, their babies, were sleeping soundly in their white Peter Rabbit sleepers. Their little chests rose and fell against their father’s. And he was singing, humming really, an old television theme song.

  She took a quiet step toward them, causing the floor to creak just the slightest bit. Deacon’s eyes opened.

  In the same jeans and dark-blue henley he’d slept in, he looked as good as he had when he’d arrived. Maybe better, with his jaw shadowed with stubble and his sexy finger-combed hair.

  “Hey,” he said, voice scratchy.

  “Hey.”

  “I wanted to let you sleep. They seemed happy enough.”

  “Thank you.” She moved closer, saw the tear tracks on his cheeks, and felt a painful crack in her armor. All the feelings she’d tried so hard to bury shifted deep inside her. “Was that Gilligan’s Island?”

  “Yeah.” He stood. “That song always gets to me.”

  “Deacon.”

  “I’m good. It just hit me, I guess. My boys. It’s still new, you know?”

  “Yes. I know.”

  She went to him, took one sleeping baby and laid him in the crib. Deacon did the same with the other. Then because she couldn’t help herself, she wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her head on his chest. This man, she thought.

  How could she possibly keep herself from falling?

  “Deacon?”

  “Hmm?”

  She peered up into the face she’d been so drawn to since the very first. “I’ll come for Thanksgiving.”

  * * *

  DEACON BEGAN OPERATION PREPARE for Clare on the Sunday before Thanksgiving. He began by putting the girls’ cribs back together and setting them up in the guest room. The bedding was pink, and he toyed with the idea of running out to get something new, then decided Clare might want to pick it out herself. She’d be better at it anyway.

  “No, don’t climb on it yet,” he told Margo. She and Maci had been alternately watching him, holding and loosing tiny parts, and dragging toy after toy from their room for the babies.

  “What about this, Daddy? Will your fwiend’s babies wike this one?”

  My friend’s babies. A pain flared around his heart. She didn’t know they were her brothers. He turned to see Maci holding up a plastic princess wand. “I don’t think they’re old enough for that just yet, but it’s sweet of you to share.”

  The girls had been entirely sweet about sharing, and their excitement about company was palpable. They’d been up an hour later last night because of it.

  The trick was not to straighten certain areas too soon, or they would undoubtedly be a mess again before Clare arrived. The guest room was the one room he could tackle then close the door to keep out his two little monsters. It was important that Clare want to be here, with him and them. Of course there were a lot of factors, but he was addressing w
hat he could. It wouldn’t do to bring her into a home that looked like a preschooler war zone.

  By Tuesday, he figured he’d unearthed more messes than he’d tackled. And on Wednesday, he called every professional service in the area, only to find they were all booked.

  Resigned, he went back to the family room and began pulling every cushion off the couch to vacuum. What he found astounded even him: goldfish, hair ties, plastic toys, fruit chews, and a lot of unidentifiable items. He went in deep to scrape off…something. What in the hell?

  “Margo! Maci! Come in here.”

  The girls came running and stopped short when they saw his pointing finger.

  “What in the world is under this couch cushion?”

  Neither answered right away.

  “Margo?”

  “It’s not gum,” Margo said, emphatically shaking her head. “And I didn’t do it.” Then she took off running upstairs.

  He looked back at the cushion. It did indeed resemble gum. He glanced up at Maci, his angel at the moment. “Maci?”

  She shrugged and ran after her sister.

  He pulled out more crushed snacks, and another thought hit him. Food. Hell. Other than the Thanksgiving meal at his parents’, he would have to feed her, and not peanut butter and jelly.

  He was running through his short list of things he knew how to cook when there was a crash in the kitchen.

  “Sorry, Daddy!” Margo shouted.

  No one cried, so he sighed, took a moment to pray for patience, and went to assess the damage.

  * * *

  JESS SAT ON A kitchen stool, burping Patrick while Clare went down her list, which was two full sheets of notebook paper long.

  “You’ve gone over that list five times,” Jess said.

  “Yeah, well, there’s a lot of stuff to remember.”

  “You’re nervous.”

  “Yes. I’m nervous,” she agreed, raising her head and giving her friend a “duh” look. “He’s taking me home to meet his mother.”