“So you’ll get a sitter.” He hated to push her, but he wanted her to admit she couldn’t handle everything by herself. He could help, if she’d stop being so icily independent. “We agreed to cochair this event and I think it’s important we keep our promise.”
“I didn’t promise anyone anything. If you’ll recall, you volunteered me because you didn’t want to go.”
“On the contrary, I volunteered both of us because we’re a team.”
“In this office, maybe. Outside of it, we’re not even on the same playing field.”
“The Cinderella Ball raises a lot of money for a very worthy cause, Lara. I know you support that. I also know you’ve represented Braddock Industries on a number of philanthropic committees in the past, and that you’ve attended dozens of social events with Adam.”
“Business,” she corrected, her color rising. “Pleasurable on occasion, perhaps, but strictly business.”
Bryce couldn’t help but smile. “I wasn’t accusing you of enjoying yourself, Lara, although you could work a little harder on that angle.” He held up a hand to prevent her from arguing the point. “I was merely trying to say that this is no different.”
“Except that you could go. You just don’t want to.”
“I am going,” he said, although until that instant he hadn’t intended to get within twenty miles of another boring committee meeting. Not if it was remotely possible to send someone else in his place. But suddenly, impulsively, he heard himself saying quite firmly, “…and so are you. Even if we have to take your nephew with us.”
Lara blinked. “There is absolutely no reason to do that.”
“On the contrary, there’s a very good reason.” He liked the hint of a thaw in her voice, loved the tinge of new respect she couldn’t quite disguise in her gaze. Something had changed this morning. He wasn’t sure what, but he definitely liked the alteration and wanted to see more of it. “Unless we both go, I’ll have to go alone.”
“Don’t even try to convince me you’ve developed a sudden shy streak.”
“I’ve always been shy. You’ve just never noticed.”
“I’m quite sure there will be some unattached female there who will keep you from being a wallflower.”
“Yes, there will. You.”
“I can’t go, Bryce.”
“Because…?”
“I can’t take Cal. That would be flirting with disaster.”
“My favorite pastime. I’ll pick you and the kid up at seven. We’ll arrive fashionably late.”
“Bryce?” Her voice picked up a hint of pleading, a note of panic. “Cal’s only four.”
“The perfect age to learn something about group dynamics and charity benefits. My grandmother took me with her to practically every function the Providence library ever had. It’s never too early to start developing the habit of philanthropy.”
Lara frowned. “I don’t want to go to this meeting,” she said. “I don’t want to serve on this committee. I don’t want to take my nephew to a restaurant like Dellasandro’s. I might be able to get a sitter, but if you’re going, it isn’t necessary for me to go, too.”
It had been an impulsive suggestion, but now that it was on the table, Bryce wanted it to happen. Mainly because he believed she needed a night out. Lara was sociable. She liked people. She loved organizing stuff and being in on the planning of things. Having a four-year-old at home had to be eating into her social life, which, in turn, had to be part of the reason she acted like she was strung tighter than a guitar string. There was no way she’d accept an invitation from him to take her and her nephew out for dinner, and Bryce didn’t know how else to get her out of this office, into a more social, more relaxed setting. And selfishly, he wanted to bask, just a little, in her newfound respect. He felt he’d earned some little bit of inconvenience on her part.
“Think of it as business,” he said, knowing instinctively it was the only way to convince her. “Holden Locke isn’t on the Cinderella Ball committee, but one of his partners, Sean Pettrie, is. And you know as well as I do, that a chance remark over pasta could send Pettrie and Triad in exactly the direction we’d like to see them go.”
She hesitated a split second too long and just as she opened her mouth to renew her argument, Nell buzzed him on the intercom. “Sam Engersoll,” Nell’s voice declared brusquely.
“I’ll take it,” he answered Nell, then gave Lara a diffident shrug. “He probably wants to ask me about adding stock options to the lease.” Bryce reached for the phone, sparing a busy man’s glance at Lara. “Seven,” he said. “You, me and Cal. Don’t worry. He’ll be fine. How much trouble can a four-year-old be?”
Chapter Five
Calvin slithered under the table, disappearing for a moment, then popping up like a jack-in-the-box between the elbows of Sean Pettrie on one side and the matronly Lana Benedict on the other. The adults pretended not to notice, just continued talking over the blond cowlick that bobbed up and down below their chins, then dipped out of sight under the table again, only to reappear a few seconds later beside Hailey Ramsey, who no longer seemed charmed by Cal’s goofy, gap-toothed grin. Lara sighed, knowing her nephew’s presence at the meeting had long since ceased to be cute, if anyone other than Bryce had thought it was cute to begin with. Around the table, the change in attitude had progressed through dinner from an initial oh-isn’t-he-adorable to the present someone needs to sit on this kid.
For most of the hour they’d been at Dellasandro’s, Lara had been alternately trying to corral her nephew, and debating the potential consequences of kicking Bryce on the shin. It was his fault for coercing her into coming to this committee meeting in the first place, and she’d like to kick him twice for insisting she drag Calvin along with her. The blame was entirely hers, however. She’d known this was a bad idea and should simply have refused to open the door when Bryce arrived—on time—to pick them up. But Cal, who’d easily beaten her to the front door, had been quickly smitten with Bryce’s plan to go out for a fun evening—fun being the only word Lara was certain he understood—and the child assured her over and over again that he would sit still, he would be quiet, he would eat spaghetti and he would not get restless—although he pronounced it restus.
But in the way of children, he’d been unable to sit still, unable to remain quiet and unable to eat because, as it turned out, spaghetti was not another name for peanut butter and banana. And with all he was unable to do, he did become restless. Luckily, Ilsa had called the business portion of the meeting to order right away and that part of the evening had been concluded even before the main courses arrived. Cal had behaved reasonably well for the first thirty minutes, but once the food was on the table, he’d popped up onto his chair and announced to everyone at the restaurant that he was restus.
From there, it had been a battle to keep him in his seat and out from under the table, which for a four-year-old, held all the fascination of a labyrinth. He was up, down, in and out, like a stealth bomber, eluding capture by means of being wiry and quicker than the average aunt. Lara tried ignoring him, figuring that might, at least, get his attention. She did manage to eat some small portion of her own meal before he expanded his horizons to the table across the aisle and nearly caused an international incident.
Bryce grabbed him back just in time, tucking the boy under his arm like a football while he engaged in a few minutes of conversation with the elderly couple at the next table. While Cal giggled and wiggled under his arm, Bryce renewed acquaintances—Lara sometimes wondered if there was anyone in Providence, resident or visitor, who wasn’t personally acquainted with at least one member of the Braddock family—and answered questions as if this particular four-year-old belonged exclusively to him.
“Four,” he said to the elderly couple. “The right age to find adventure everywhere, you know. Old enough to explore the world under a table, young enough to be fascinated by it.”
Whatever the couple replied, Bryce agreed with a completely charming smi
le. “That’s what I think, too. How can kids learn how to behave if they never get the chance to go out in public and misbehave from time to time?”
Lara closed her eyes for a second, hoping no one else was listening to this bit of child-rearing philosophy from a man who wouldn’t recognize responsibility if it crawled up his pant leg. He, of all people, had no earthly idea how to teach a child to behave. But he didn’t seem to know that as he hoisted a bundle of giggling boy across his shoulder and carried him back to the table.
He lowered Calvin, headfirst, into the chair next to Lara’s and had the child cackling with laughter before finally getting him right side up. Then he made an elaborate show of cutting a straggly piece of spaghetti in half and twining it around the tines of a fork. He dangled the pasta over Cal’s mouth, which closed up as tight as a bank vault. “And now, Peter Pan, it’s time for you to eat your worms.”
Cal shook his head and kept his lips zipped, but Lara could see he was intrigued by the play and enjoying the attention.
“You like worms, don’t you, Calvin?” Bryce asked in a falsely rough voice. “They’re yummy and gummy and good in your tummy.”
The strand of spaghetti dangled closer and closer to the child’s mouth, but at the final moment before touchdown, Bryce nabbed the bit of pasta for himself and chewed it with exaggerated enjoyment. “Ooey, gooey worms,” he said.
Cal countered by plucking a wad of spaghetti off his plate, cramming it all into his mouth at once and chewing noisily. “Ooey, gooey worms,” he said with his mouth full.
Lara was seriously considering sliding under the table herself when, on the other side of her, Ilsa leaned close and said, “Isn’t it interesting how a child infuses the ordinary moments of life with imagination and wonder?”
“Interesting isn’t the word I would have used.” Lara didn’t understand how she could love the little guy so much, and yet get so frustrated with him when he acted like a perfectly normal little boy. In truth, though, she was more frustrated with Bryce tonight than with Cal. “Please believe, Mrs. Fairchild, that I, at least, knew this was no place for a four-year-old. I should have stood my ground and refused to come.”
Ilsa lifted her shoulder in an elegant shrug that was as much camaraderie as comment. “It’s been my experience that the Braddock men are hard to refuse, regardless of our better judgment.”
“You’ve noticed that, too.” Lara turned toward Ilsa, feeling suddenly lighter and not so overwhelmingly responsible. “This kind of situation would never have happened with Adam. If he wanted me to be at a meeting, he’d have said so and it would never have occurred to him to include a four-year-old in his request.” Her gaze darted back to Cal, who was busily, happily, cramming spaghetti into his mouth at the instigation of one very handsome, extremely persuasive and quite mischievous Captain Hook. “Of course, Adam understood the importance of getting things done.”
Ilsa’s smile settled on Bryce, as he teased the child into eating more worms. “I’ve often thought Bryce’s greatest talent may lie in his understanding of what is important.”
Calvin slurped down a strand of spaghetti at Bryce’s instigation, then slick as a whistle, the child slid under the table, trailing a length of saucy pasta off the plate after him.
“Excuse me.” Lara pushed back her chair and went after him.
Familiar with this game, Cal giggled with delight and scrambled for freedom amidst the obstacles of feet and table legs. She crawled under the table, grabbed for his foot, and—crack!—butted heads with Bryce.
“Ow!”
“Son of a gun!”
Eyes watering, Lara reached up to rub her forehead.
“Are you hurt?” Bryce asked, his thumb brushing across the top of her hand, his face close—too close—to hers, as he checked her injury.
“No,” she snapped. “I’m very hardheaded.”
His easy smile shifted into humor. “Well, you said it, I didn’t.”
Amazingly, she felt her own smile curving to match his, and was suddenly aware of being alone with him, under the table, secluded from view in a very public place. She could lean forward a bare inch and be kissing him, her lips pressed to his, softly searching for the answer to a question she didn’t know how to ask. The idea wasn’t nearly as appalling as it should have been. “What are you doing under here?” she whispered hoarsely, coming to her senses.
“I was hoping to save Cal from getting into more trouble tonight. You’ve been a little hard on him.”
“I’ve been hard on him? All I’ve done is try to keep him in his seat.”
“He’s four. It’s only natural for him to want to explore.”
She couldn’t believe she was listening to this. “How I ever let you talk me into this, I’ll never understand. It was a setup for disaster from the word go.”
“This isn’t even close to being a disaster, Lara.”
“Not for you. He’s not your responsibility.”
“I think he’s behaved very well, considering.”
“Considering that we’re on our hands and knees under a table while we have this pointless conversation?”
“Personally, I find this conversation much more to the point and far more stimulating than listening to Sean Pettrie expound on his golf game. Or listening to any of the other conversations that have gone on around the table tonight.”
“I wouldn’t know about that. I’ve been too busy trying to keep Cal from annoying anyone.”
“I’m sorry you thought that was necessary. Worrying about what other people think is the real setup for disaster.”
“Spoken like someone who’s never had to worry about anything, least of all, other people.”
His jaw tightened, then relaxed. “I’ll just go top-side and let you handle your nephew since you obviously don’t want any help from me.”
Lara instantly regretted her callous remark, true as it might be, but before she could dredge up a word of apology, she felt Cal’s light slap on her leg and his infectiously playful laughter.
“You’re it, Aunt Lara!” He twisted to scamper away, ready to dash through the narrow space between the legs of Justin Cooke’s and Hailey Ramsey’s chairs to reach the open space beyond. But Lara made a last-second grab for him and just managed to snag his ankle. He squealed with delight at this new game, scrambled up onto his knees and in his ecstatic haste to escape, thumped his head soundly on the underside of the table. Above them, the table shook, glasses tinkled, silverware rattled and the drone of conversation ebbed. Then as Cal let out a startled Ow! and burst into great bellowing sobs, the committee members—with the exception of Ilsa—bent to look under the table, one after another, their expressions frankly curious, openly disapproving. Then, one after another, they retreated, resumed the rhythms of polite conversation and left the crying child to his mother-substitute.
A poor substitute, Lara thought with a sigh. It was past Cal’s bedtime and hers, too, by the feel of it. She let go of her nephew’s foot and reached for him.
But Bryce had already drawn the wailing child into his arms and was gently rocking, patting and soothing the little guy. “Hey, buddy,” he was saying in a voice as soft as an early snowfall. “Next time you decide to use your head for a battering ram, put on a helmet.”
Cal’s crying changed over to snuffling almost immediately and he put a hand up to rub his head, aggravating the cowlick into a staticky, white-blond halo. Lara watched, feeling left out and helplessly inadequate, until Cal reached out to her with one hand, summoning her, drawing her and the comfort she could give toward him.
And suddenly, Lara didn’t care what anyone else thought. She didn’t care that Cal had no business being at this meeting and at this restaurant. She didn’t even care that she was far from dignified as she crawled the short distance under the table on her hands and knees. All that mattered right here and right now was the warm touch of Cal’s arm as he looped it around her neck and drew her into an awkward, unwieldy, and unlikely circle of three.
As her gaze met Bryce’s over Calvin’s fuzzy blond head, she hoped he could read the apology as well as the gratitude in her eyes.
He smiled at her.
She smiled back.
And then Calvin threw up a whole can of worms.
BRYCE LINED UP his putt, concentrating his restless energy on making the shot instead of on whatever it was he’d done to bring about the latest chill in Lara’s attitude. The ice queen was back with a vengeance, and in two long days at the office he hadn’t been able to elicit even a hint of a thaw. On top of that, he’d wasted most of a perfectly good weekend trying to figure out how it was his fault that her nephew threw up his spaghetti and why it should even matter. Giving the ball a light tap, he sent it unerringly into the cup. He might be on Lara’s blacklist, but he was definitely improving his golf game.
The intercom buzzed at the same moment the door opened and his father walked in. “Mr. James Braddock is here to see you,” Nell announced, then sighed through the speakerphone. “But I guess you can see that for yourself.” Then she clicked off as James shut the door.
Bryce grinned at his dad. “At least, she remembers your name. Half the time she calls me Ad…um, Bryce.”
James smiled easily, at home in this office despite having spent so little time in it. Truth be known, Bryce had never known anyone more at home wherever he went. “Looks as if you’ve been practicing,” James said. “Are you ready for eighteen holes with your old man?”
“Any time you say, Dad.” Of course, there wouldn’t be an any time. Only the promise, dangling there like a prize just out of reach. “Isn’t Monica with you?”
James stared down at the putting green and seemed to realize only belatedly that Bryce had asked a question. “Oh,” he said. “No, she’s in Newport, having lunch with someone she knew in college.”
“And you’re here.”
James’s upward glance was quick and irritable. “We’re not attached at the hip, you know. I don’t have to be with her every second.”
“All I said was, you’re here.” As strange as that undeniably was.
The Playboy's Office Romance Page 7