by Shirley Jump
THE scents of oregano and basil filled the house, coupled with the sharp notes of Parmesan cheese. Ellie stood in Dalton’s gourmet kitchen—a room that didn’t get much use, if the pristine condition of his granite countertops and gas cooktop was any indication—and tended to a pan of frying meatballs while the tomato sauce simmered in a separate pot.
At the table, Sabrina sat in a portable high chair Ellie had brought over, and banged on the table. What had been happy slaps a moment ago was soon accompanied by a series of high-pitched demanding shrieks. “I think she wants some meatballs,” Dalton said.
“She’s a little young for those. I’ve got strained peas and mashed bananas on Bri’s menu tonight. Can you feed her so I can finish this?”
He stared at Ellie. “Me?”
“It’s easy. Well, easy-ish.” Ellie gave him a grin. She figured she’d leave off the warnings about spitting peas and regurgitated bananas or Dalton would never feed Bri. “Just put on her bib and use the tiny spoon to feed her. I’d alternate peas and bananas.”
He fitted the bib around Sabrina’s neck. “Why alternate?”
“She hates peas. The bananas are a bribe.”
He chuckled. “So that’s how my mother got me to eat my vegetables.”
“That’s how all mothers do it, I suspect. It’s a tip I learned from Mrs. Winterberry.” Ellie took a step back from the stove and then flipped a few meatballs to brown their other sides. “I was having a heck of a time getting Sabrina to eat anything other than cereal. Thank goodness Mrs. Winterberry was there to help me through those rough spots. Some days, I feel…” She blew a lock of hair off her face. “Well, it’s just hard to be alone.”
A soft pop sounded in the room—the top on the baby jar releasing. Dalton held Ellie’s gaze for a long moment. “Where is he?”
“Who?”
“Bri’s father.”
She pushed at a meatball, watching the browned meat turn and spin on the pan. “He died when I was pregnant.”
Died.
The word hit Dalton hard. He’d expected Ellie to say a hundred different things. That the man had run off, left her alone. Or that he was out of the picture for some other selfish reason. But to hear that final tone in Ellie’s voice, the grief that lingered in the heavy syllable, made him want to leap out of the chair and—
Well, hold her. Comfort her.
But he wasn’t the holding or comforting type. So he stayed where he was, even as that urge grew in his chest.
He opened his mouth to say something when Sabrina slapped the table, letting out an emphatic demand for the food in Dalton’s hands. He dipped the rubber-tipped spoon into the jar and held the green soupy mess toward the baby. She opened her mouth eagerly, then made a face when she tasted the peas.
Ellie laughed. “Better get the bananas ready or she’ll be spitting back the second bite.”
He did as Ellie suggested, sending a spoonful of bananas in next. Bri bounced happily in response. Before she could see the green, he snuck in some peas, then followed her swallow with some bananas. In between bites, he said, “I’m…I’m sorry, Ellie.”
“You’re doing fine with her.”
“I meant about Sabrina’s father.”
“Oh. Thank you. I never thought my story, or Bri’s, would end this way.” She turned back to the stove, stirring the meatballs for a long time. Again, sympathy rocked him. She’d probably hardly had a second since she’d had this kid—a kid who took tons of time in Dalton’s opinion—to deal with losing the kid’s father.
“Who says it ended?”
She pivoted toward him. “What do you mean?”
“Just because he died doesn’t mean your story is over.” He grinned. “Take it from the fiction writer. You can always create a new chapter.” He gave the baby some more peas, using the spoon to wipe off what didn’t make it into her mouth.
“Dalton, you don’t understand. When Cameron died, it was…devastating. My whole life turned upside down. Every plan I had for my life, for my baby’s life, it all changed. Now I’m juggling everything, all alone, and most days I feel like I’m doing a terrible job of it. He left me with no life insurance, no rudder, left me to just—” she threw up her hands “—be everything by myself. Both parents, breadwinner, decision maker. I don’t have time to write a new chapter, never mind find someone to star in it with me.”
“You’re not doing so bad. Your kid’s all right.” He gave the baby another spoonful of peas.
Ellie shrugged, then smiled a little. “Are you saying she’s growing on you?”
Just then Sabrina realized he’d broken his promise and fed her two spoonfuls of peas in a row. She spat the second spoonful back, straight into Dalton’s face. He scowled and swiped them off, spitting out the bland green vegetable. “Something like that.”
Ellie laughed. And laughed. And laughed. Dalton found himself joining in, even though the experience hadn’t been funny at the time. The feeling of laughter was oddly light, and, well, nice. He shook his head, and marveled at these two females who had come into his house and turned it upside down in ways he hadn’t wanted or expected. But was finding he didn’t mind as much as he’d thought.
A few minutes later, the baby was fed, dinner was done, and Dalton was pea-free. The mood had shifted away from their conversation about the past, and into one far more jovial, as if Sabrina’s pea spitting had changed everything. Ellie filled a plate with steaming spaghetti noodles, topping them with a generous dollop of sauce and several meatballs, then turned to Dalton. “Fresh Parmesan cheese?”
“You’re speaking my language, honey.” He gave his stomach a pat.
She laughed. “I guess I don’t even need to ask about garlic bread.”
“Don’t you know you’re supposed to feed writers? It’s part of supporting the arts.”
She grinned, and added an extra slice of bread to his plate, then handed him his dinner. Beside the table, Sabrina played happily in the portable playpen Ellie had also brought over from her house. That gave Ellie time to grab a plate and sit down across from Dalton at the round glass table.
As soon as she did, the strangeness of the situation slammed into her. She hadn’t had a meal with a man in over a year. Not since Cameron. Speaking about him earlier made the loss slam into her, as if a tidal wave had been sitting behind a wall of rocks, waiting for a moment like this.
Ellie had told herself all these months that there would be time. Time to deal with the hole in her heart, the hole in her life. But ever since Cameron had died, there’d been too many things in the way to find that time. Her pregnancy, work, the bills, and now Sabrina. Being here with Dalton and talking about Cameron forced her to deal with the loss. With her grief. With the fact that she hadn’t thought she’d be doing this—sitting at a table, like a family, ever again.
But they weren’t a family, were they? This was a working relationship. Albeit, a highly unconventional one. Still, she couldn’t help but notice how easy it all felt, especially when they’d laughed together. How she could forget for a moment why she was really here.
And slip into the fantasy that she had come home after a long day at work, and so had Dalton, to form this perfect little family of three. Just like she had always dreamed of having for Sabrina. Just like she had set out to have.
“You’re not eating,” Dalton said.
“Sorry. I, ah, got distracted.” She toyed with her fork. “Maybe this is a good time for us to lay down some ground rules.”
“Ground rules?” He quirked a brow. “Isn’t this my house? Therefore, my rules?”
“If we’re going to be working together, even for a few hours, I have a few of my own.”
He sat back against his chair. “Let me guess. You’re one of those ‘use a coaster every time you have a drink,’ and ‘no shoes in the house’ kind of women. You have a heart attack if I leave crumbs on the countertop. Am I right?”
She laughed. “No. You’re wrong.”
He leaned clo
ser. “Then what kind are you?”
She told herself she didn’t mind him narrowing the gap between them. Her heartbeat didn’t accelerate one bit. It was hormones. Nothing more.
Because she hadn’t had a man in her life in over a year. And even if Dalton had said she could write a new chapter, she wasn’t about to start now. Regardless of how blue his eyes were, or how the storms brewing in them had her questioning for the first time if there was, indeed, something missing in her life.
“I’m the kind who doesn’t need any more complications than I already have,” Ellie said.
“That,” Dalton said, closing the gap, then widening it again, bringing a draft into the space between them, “is exactly the kind of woman I’m looking for.”
“Good,” she said, her mind still on Dalton, despite all she’d said, still thinking about how much this felt, not quite like a date, but like…
Normal. Like they were together, and they had done this a hundred times before. And how much a part of her was really enjoying that feeling. “I’m glad we have that settled.”
Neither of them said anything for a little while, the silence punctuated by Sabrina’s happy squeals and occasional squeak of a toy.
“I’ve never had a woman cook for me before. Except for my mother.” Dalton twirled some spaghetti onto his fork. “Either I pick the wrong women to date or I’ve never won any of them over with my stellar personality.”
“Could be the women,” Ellie said. She grinned. “Or not.”
“I’m simply not one of those touchy-feely types. And not one to get close to others.”
“Why?”
“I’m a guy. Isn’t that reason enough?”
“Even men open their hearts.” She picked up a piece of garlic bread and dipped it into her sauce before taking a small bite. Even if they were treading on personal ground, Ellie figured it was worth the trade for having an actual adult to converse with. “If they want to have a relationship, or at least one that progresses beyond dinner.”
He ate the spaghetti, chewed and swallowed. “Maybe I don’t want one.”
“You’re happy being alone? Forever?”
“Maybe. For the foreseeable future, at least.”
“Why?” Talk about two peas in a pod. Hadn’t she just thought the exact same thing today?
Then why did a flicker of disappointment run through her? Why had she hoped Dalton would say the opposite?
Geez. She needed to get her hormones under control or something.
He gave her his trademark scowl. “You’re like a three-year-old with that perpetual why thing.”
“It’s a valid question.”
He wagged a piece of garlic bread in her direction. “One I could ask you just as easily. How long ago did your husband pass away?”
“A little over fifteen months.” Gosh, had it really been that long? In some ways, it felt even longer. Especially when she was alone in the house, Sabrina gone to bed, and she realized how empty her life felt.
The small respite she’d had today—that half hour in the park—had done two things.
It had made her ache even more for what she couldn’t have.
And made her wonder, in a small way, if it was possible to balance a life with the craziness that already comprised her world.
“Then what are you waiting for?” he asked. “Your kid to start college before you start dating?”
“I told you, I barely have time to do my laundry, never mind date.” Ellie rose and walked away from the table, crossing to the sink, and covered for her emotions by starting the dishes.
She half expected Dalton to follow. To press her for more answers. But he didn’t, and the silence seemed to question her even more. Why was she waiting? Why was she putting her life—and for that matter, Sabrina’s—on hold even longer?
All she’d ever wanted for her little girl was the storybook ideal. A little house with a white picket fence. Maybe a dog. And most of all, a traditional family, a husband to come home to, a partner to help in raising their child.
But the husband had died before their child could be born, and the home had become a burden Ellie could barely hold on to. And as for her child?
Sabrina was getting less and less of her mother’s attention every day, and with each sunrise, that storybook picture seemed more and more distant. Being with Dalton, she’d had a glimpse, a whisper of all she’d lost, but even more, a peek into the future, as if God had peeled back the curtain and said, “Here, Ellie, here is what you can have, if you only make the room.”
The problem?
She had no idea how to make that space in her life, or most importantly, in her heart again.
Ellie gripped the edge of the sink, trying to will the tears away, to force them back. But they refused to go this time, like a watershed that had cracked.
Fat droplets plopped into the water, splashing onto the bubbles, popping them. Ellie swiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand. She was happy with her life, just the way it was. The rest would come in good time.
It would.
“You all right?”
Dalton behind her. His voice gruff.
“Sure. Just, ah, getting to these dishes before they…” There was no good reason to wash dishes right now. Not that she could think of.
“Dishes can wait. That’s my theory. Especially when there’s garlic bread to be eaten.”
“You have it. I can have some later.”
He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her away from the sink. She tried not to think about how steady, how dependable his grip on her felt but it was impossible. Tried not to look up into his blue eyes, but she couldn’t resist. Tried not to feel cared for, cocooned, at that moment, as if she finally wasn’t alone and could share all these fears and burdens, if only—
If only she dared.
“Eat your dinner,” Dalton said. Then paused when he looked at her. “Why are you crying?”
“Nothing.”
“I may not be Mr. Sensitive, but even I know people don’t cry over nothing.”
She slipped out of his grasp and went to Sabrina, lifting her out of the playpen. Better to focus on her daughter than on adding more to an already overloaded personal plate. “If you don’t mind cleaning up the mess, I think I’ll take Bri home now. I have a million things to do tonight.”
“You’re not avoiding the question, are you?”
She paused in the doorway, turning back toward him. “No more than you’re avoiding mine.” Then Ellie left.
Better not to answer than to confront what she couldn’t—and didn’t want to—answer. Especially not for herself.
“Dalton, I have good news and bad news.”
Dalton leaned back in his black leather office chair, his feet up on his mahogany desk, and let out a sigh. “Let me guess, Reuben. The action’s great. The emotion sucks.”
At a paper-crowded desk in New York that Dalton had visited more than once over the course of his career, Reuben Banks chuckled. Dalton could picture him now—Reuben in a loud print Hawaiian shirt, his goatee perfectly groomed, short dark hair spiked and gelled into place. Reuben was unique, but intelligent—and damned good at his job. “You read my mind.”
“You’ve said it often enough. I could write your cue cards for you.” Dalton could also write the reviews that would undoubtedly be coming after this book’s release. They’d be exactly like the last few. Acerbic, critical, and filled with single stars.
And they would not make his publisher happy. Or make his sales go up. Dalton let out a sigh.
“I probably don’t need to tell you how important this book is. And how late it is, too. Production is breathing down my neck, Dalton. If you miss this deadline…”
Dalton could fill in those blanks, too. He’d be forcing his editor’s hand—pretty much killing his own career. “Give me—” He wanted to say a week, but even he knew that was too ambitious, given how much work was left to do on the manuscript. “Two weeks.”
S
ilence. “Two weeks it is. But this thing better be Michelangelo on paper when it arrives on my desk.” Reuben hung up, leaving the pressure sizzling on the phone line.
Dalton pulled up the pages he’d sent Reuben by e-mail the other day and started reading them over. With the distance of a few days, he could see what his editor saw. The pages featuring the hero and heroine—and their love story—fell completely flat.
Dalton deleted it all. Tomorrow, he’d start fresh.
But the problem was, with what? Where would he find something to model his story on? And secondly, how would he capture those feelings on paper?
Then his doorbell rang, and when he crossed to the front door and opened it to let in Ellie Miller, he realized he’d been overlooking the perfect way to solve his problem.
“You want me to do what?”
“Help me write.”
“But I’m no writer.” She juggled the baby to the opposite hip, her lips going to the kid’s head in an automatic gesture of nuzzling. A softening came over Ellie’s features, her eyes half-closing for one second. Dalton watched her inhale, catching the kid’s scent, before she drew back. He swore his heart skipped a beat.
If he’d been the kind of guy whose heart did that when he got around kids and women. Which he wasn’t. Because he’d worked hard at steeling himself against that kind of thing. Call it self-preservation. Call it sealing off the artery before it could ever bleed again. He already knew that pain and had no desire to experience it again.
“Why would you want my help?” Ellie asked.
“You, ah, know about the one thing I’m not so good at.”
“The only thing I know much about is TV shows.” She glanced down at Sabrina. “And babies. And in that arena, I’m still pretty new.” She smiled at her baby, and brushed a kiss across her cheek. The kid, content and fed, dozed against Ellie’s shoulder.
“What you are good at is, well…” He paused, toed at the carpet, then forced the word out. “Love.”
Ellie coughed. “Did you just say love?”
“It’s something I…well, I kind of failed. And I can’t seem to get those emotions—or heck, any emotions—on the page to save my life.”