Home with You

by Shirlee McCoy

  Oya smiled and grabbed a fistful of Rumer’s curls. “Momma,” she said. “Momma momma momma.”

  “Exactly. Now you”—she tickled Oya’s belly—“have nothing to worry about. You’ve got a great momma. I’ve heard all kinds of good stories about her, and I’ve got no doubt you’re going to grow up to be as stellar a person as she is. Me? I’ve got issues, and most of them stem from my incredible ability to go after the wrong guy.”

  “Momma momma momma,” Oya responded, standing in Rumer’s lap and bouncing happily.

  “Ah, to be your age again and completely clueless about the world.” Rumer kissed her chubby cheek and stood, the swing creaking as it swung backward. Sullivan would be home soon. He’d decided to cut his day at the hospital in half so he could help her get ready for his brothers.

  He’d mentioned that as he’d grabbed his cup of coffee and run out the door.

  He hadn’t mentioned the kiss.

  Of course he hadn’t!

  It had probably meant about as much to him as a grain of sand meant to the desert.

  “Which is perfectly fine with me,” she lied as she walked into the mudroom.

  The truth was a lot harder to acknowledge, because the truth was, she was falling for him. Hard. And not just because of the kiss. She’d been falling since the day she’d seen him walking across the yard wearing that frilly apron.

  And, of course, if she was falling for him, that could only mean one thing: He was the wrong guy, because when you were a Truehart woman, every guy was.

  Which sucked, because she wasn’t just falling for Sullivan. She liked him. She liked the way he smiled, the way he laughed, the way he studied the kids and Sunday and her. She liked how he listened to Moisey prattle on endlessly about things like moonbeams and magic flowers. She liked that he talked to the twins like they were young men with brains in their heads, that he brought Twila books from the library and Heavenly old vinyl albums that she could play on the record player that sat in the corner of her room.

  She liked him, and that was the problem, because she’d dated a lot of guys, but she’d never been friends with them. Sure, there’d been admiration and respect and all the things that went into having a relationship, but she’d never wanted to spill her heart out to them. She’d never even been all that heartbroken at the thought of saying good-bye.

  She frowned, setting Oya in the ExerSaucer that sat in the middle of the room and uncovering the bread dough she’d left rising on the counter. It looked light and fluffy and perfect, and it seemed sad that she could create perfect bread dough from scratch, but she couldn’t figure out how to have a relationship that lasted.

  She slammed her fist into the dough, letting the air escape as the sound of a car engine broke the silence. She knew it was Sullivan. She didn’t have to look out the window to check for his SUV. He’d said he was coming home early, and he had. Which was another thing she liked about him. He kept his word and did what he said he would.

  She did, too, but she was starting to wonder if accepting this job was a mistake.

  Who was she kidding?

  She’d known it was a mistake the day she’d arrived at Pleasant Valley Farm. She’d known even before she’d gotten to know Sullivan and the kids that she was asking for trouble. She’d accepted the job anyway.

  “Because, apparently, I like to tempt fate,” she muttered, rolling the dough out into a smooth oval.

  The front door opened, and she heard Sullivan’s boots on the wood floor, heard him open the coat closet and close it.

  “Anyone home?” he called, and a million tiny wings fluttered in her stomach. That’s what he did to her. Every damn time.

  “We’re in the kitchen,” she responded, pleased that she didn’t sound as breathless as she felt.

  He walked into the room, and she forced herself not to look at him, to keep focusing on shaping the loaf, setting it on the greased pan, covering it with a damp towel. She listened to him talk to Oya, heard her giggling, found herself turning around. Just to see what game they were playing.

  He was crouched in front of the ExerSaucer, the pack he carried to the hospital on his back, a cloth doll in his hands. He wiggled it gently against Oya’s cheek and she giggled again.

  There was a pencil behind his ear, the sketch pad he always carried next to his feet, and when he met Rumer’s eyes . . .

  When he met her eyes, the world stopped just like her heart always seemed to. She could feel time stretching out in front of her, and she could imagine this same scene playing out dozens of times in a dozen different ways over dozens of years.

  And, God!

  She wanted to believe in that so badly it hurt.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, leaving the doll on the ExerSaucer and stepping closer.

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t lie, Rumer. It’s not a good look on anyone.” He said it gently, as if he could hear the thoughts racing around in her head and knew how much she didn’t want to be standing there thinking them.

  “You. Me. That kiss last night,” she admitted.

  “How are any of those things wrong?” He’d moved closer, and she could see flecks of gold in his bright green eyes, smell sunlight and winter air on his skin.

  “I work for you.”

  “You work for Pleasant Valley Organic Farm,” he replied.

  “Semantics.”

  “Truth,” he corrected. “So, tell me: What’s really wrong?”

  “I already did. You kissed me.” That last part slipped out, and he nodded.

  “Okay.”

  “That’s it? I tell you I’m upset that you kissed me, and you say ‘okay’?”

  “I was told not to apologize for it.”

  “You were telling people we kissed? News will be all over town by sunset.”

  “Would you care if it was?”

  “No.” She answered truthfully, because she wouldn’t have cared. She’d never been the kind of person who took much stock in what other people thought of her. “But, that’s not the point. The point is, you were talking about us and there is no us.”

  “I wasn’t talking about anything. I got the advice from a witness to the event.” He shrugged out of the backpack and set it on the counter.

  “Kane?” She couldn’t imagine him saying anything about it, but she figured he was the only one who might have.

  “Heavenly,” he replied, unzipping the pack and reaching into it. He pulled out a small white box decorated with a gold heart sticker and set it beside the pack. “She also told me not to pretend it didn’t happen, so I won’t. It happened, and for about twenty seconds, my entire world was right.”

  “That,” she said, her heart pounding heavily in her chest, “is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me.”

  “Then, you haven’t been hanging around the right people,” he replied, echoing the words he’d spoken after he’d said she was beautiful.

  They were such pretty little words, and they were no different than all the other words she’d heard from all the other guys she’d been with.

  Except that he meant them.

  She knew that the same way she knew the sun would set and rise again, that winter would turn to spring and spring to summer, that Lu would sit at her kitchen table with her false teeth in an old jelly jar cup.

  Yeah. She knew he meant it, and she felt every coldly cynical piece of her heart melt. She would have placed her hand on a stack of Bibles, stood in front of a judge, a jury, and the good Lord Himself and sworn that it did.

  She needed to walk away. She needed to find something to do that didn’t involve standing a foot from Sullivan. But, she couldn’t stop looking into his eyes, she couldn’t keep her hands from sliding up his arms and across his shoulders, drifting into his hair. It was silky and thick, the strands sliding through her fingers. She knew she needed to back away.

  She knew it, but she didn’t.

  He stared into her eyes as he lowered his head, his warm breath fan
ning her forehead, her cheeks, her lips. She wasn’t sure if she moved or if he did, but there was no more space between them. She could feel the warmth of his chest, his abdomen, his thighs, and she wanted to burrow in closer, let her hands slip beneath his coat, feel the firm muscles of his back, explore the narrow width of his waist.

  “Tell me to stop,” he murmured, but of course, she didn’t.

  His lips brushed hers, the contact so light it might have been a dream. His hands drifted along the narrow line of exposed flesh between her jeans and her sweater, and he was pulling her closer, deepening the kiss, his fingers trailing fire, his lips doing the same.

  And she forgot she was in Sunday’s kitchen.

  She forgot Oya was in her ExerSaucer a few feet away.

  She forgot that Truehart women always chose the wrong man. She forgot everything but the taste of his lips, the heat of his hands, and the strange feeling that she had finally finally found her way home.

  Somewhere, in the tiny part of her brain that was still functioning, she heard a door open, footsteps on the foyer floor.

  “Sullivan?!” a man called. “You here?”

  She jumped back. Or tried.

  Sullivan’s hands were still on her back, his fingers tracing lazy circles on her lower spine, and he was studying her face the way he always did—as if she were the most fascinating person he’d ever met.

  “I don’t plan on apologizing for that, either,” he murmured, his voice gruff.

  “Or pretending it didn’t happen?” she added, her pulse racing, her stomach churning.

  “That either,” he agreed with a tender smile.

  She wanted to smile back. She tried to smile back, but what she managed was probably more like a grimace. There were no fluttering wings in her stomach now, just the sick sense that she’d made a horrible mistake. She shouldn’t have taken the job. She shouldn’t have gotten attached to the kids. And, God help her, she shouldn’t have fallen for Sullivan.

  She was going to get hurt this time.

  She had no doubt about that.

  It wouldn’t be like it had been with Jake—a relieved good-bye and a lot of anger.

  No. Her heart would be torn out and split open and there wouldn’t be a thing she could do about it.

  “It’s going to be okay,” Sullivan said quietly, cupping her face and looking in her eyes.

  “It’s never okay,” she responded. “Every damn time, it’s wrong. It’s the Truehart curse, and no woman in my family has ever broken it.”

  “Then the odds are high you’re finally going to manage it. Someone’s got to, right?”

  “It’s not funny, Sullivan,” she said, her voice breaking a little.

  “I’m not laughing.” He kissed her forehead the way she’d kissed his, only he let his lips linger, his fingers slide into her hair.

  “Oops! I guess I’m a little early,” the man said, and she realized he’d walked into the kitchen and was standing near the doorway. Black hair, green eyes, tall and muscular, he had to be one of Sullivan’s brothers. He was a rougher version of the Bradshaw good looks—his hair a little longer, his skin a shade darker, his eyes gray-green rather than emerald.

  “You must be Rumer,” he said, moving toward her and offering a hand. “I’m Flynn Bradshaw.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” she responded, resisting the urge to smooth her hair or straighten her shirt. She knew what she must look like—lips red and swollen, cheeks pink, hair all kinds of wild.

  She also knew that he’d noticed.

  His gaze shifted to his brother.

  “We’ve got a lot to catch up on, Sullivan,” he said.

  “That’s why you flew out this weekend,” Sullivan replied. If he felt defensive, he didn’t show it.

  “Want to take a walk while we discuss things? It was a long flight and a long drive. I need to stretch my legs.” He smiled at Rumer. “Do you mind watching Oya for a while?”

  “That’s what you’re paying me for,” she responded, and instantly regretted it. She sounded flippant and terse—an older, more obnoxious version of Heavenly. “What I mean is that I’m always happy to spend time with Oya. She’s a very sweet-natured baby.”

  “Is she? Things were so chaotic when I was here before, I didn’t have time to notice. I’m hoping to have more time to get to know the kids this time around.”

  “Don’t count on things being any less chaotic this time,” Sullivan joked. The two were walking into the mudroom, and Rumer knew she’d been forgotten, that they were already deep in whatever conversation they planned to have.

  Forgotten. Like always, and she should have felt relieved by that. Instead, she just felt tired.

  She lifted Oya from the saucer, smiling as the baby patted her cheek.

  “Well, it’s just the two of us again, sweetie. How about a little nap? I don’t know about you, but I could use one.” She turned around, ready to go upstairs and put the kitchen and the kiss behind her.

  Sullivan stepped back into the room, and her heart did a crazy little jig that made her breath catch and her cheeks heat.

  God!

  She was such a fool.

  “Forget something?” she asked, lifting his sketch pad and holding it out for him, her hand shaking just enough for him to notice.

  He frowned, taking the pad and setting it on the counter.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Nothing a nap won’t fix,” she lied.

  He eyed her for a moment, then shook his head. “You’re lying, but Porter is two minutes out, and I don’t want him interrupting whatever it is you need to say.”

  “I don’t need to say anything. I need a na—”

  “We can argue the point later.” He took a small box from his backpack. “This is what I forgot.”

  He held it out to her.

  “What is it?”

  “Just something to let you know I’ve been thinking about you.”

  Outside, a car horn blasted and a man shouted a greeting.

  “That’s Porter. I’m heading out. See you later.” He kissed Oya’s cheek and then Rumer’s, grabbed his sketch pad and walked outside.

  Rumer stood right where she was, holding Oya and the little box, wondering how she’d gotten where she was. To this place where one smile, one word, one little gift from Sullivan could make her entire world seem brighter.

  She frowned, the sound of masculine voices drifting through the closed window. She waited until they faded away, waited as Oya settled against her shoulder, eyes closed, body lax.

  Finally, she folded back the lid of the box and looked inside.

  Chocolate.

  Two gorgeous glossy hearts. Milk chocolate drizzled with dark chocolate, cushioned by pretty foil wrappers.

  “Wow,” she breathed, her throat tight, her eyes burning with something that felt suspiciously like tears.

  “Wow,” Oya repeated. “Wow, wow, wow.”

  “Funny girl. Come on. Time for your nap.”

  Rumer closed the box, because she couldn’t eat the chocolates. Not yet. They were too perfect. Not just the candy but the gift, given quietly and without fanfare.

  Just because.

  Had Jake ever done anything as sweet? Of course, he hadn’t. He’d been all about the show.

  Sullivan was all about Rumer.

  The thought was there. Unbidden.

  She frowned, carrying the box upstairs and into Oya’s room. She set it on the dresser as she settled the baby down for a nap.

  She sang lullabies and stroked Oya’s downy hair and pretended that she wasn’t thinking about that box and those beautiful hearts.

  She knew the truth, though.

  The hearts were a symbol of everything that had been wrong in her relationship with Jake. They were a reminder of all the things she’d wanted from him that he’d never given—time, affection, loyalty, companionship.

  And, they were a symbol of everything that was right with Sullivan, everything that she could h
ave with him if she weren’t too damn afraid to take a chance.

  * * *

  When Sullivan had been really young, Sunday morning had meant church. His mother had always gotten up at the crack of dawn, moving through the house like a silent wraith, trying hard not to wake Robert. She’d stirred batter for pancakes and poured it onto a hot griddle, slathering the fluffy cakes with butter and setting them in the oven to keep them warm until she woke the boys.

  He’d always been awake before she’d walked in his room, lying in bed, listening to the quiet rhythm of her morning routine and praying his father wouldn’t wake up to ruin it. When she’d died, the Bradshaw family had stopped attending services. Instead of pancakes and maple syrup, the boys had eaten cold cereal and sat silently while their father snored. If they were lucky, he’d sleep until noon.

  Usually, they weren’t lucky.

  He scowled, irritated that the memories were there, frustrated with himself for dwelling on them. He had things to do. Like finish Moisey’s hair—her gorgeous curly thick hair that did not want to be bound by hair ties or bands.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to just wear it like you usually do?” he asked as another hairband snapped.

  “Puffs is how I usually wear it for Sundays, Uncle Sully,” she said, using the nickname that she’d coined for him.

  Porter snickered.

  “What?” Sullivan said, meeting his eyes. Like every other Bradshaw man, he had green irises and dark hair. Unlike Sullivan and Flynn, he also seemed to have some mad skills when it came to taming little-girl hair. He’d already managed to scrape Oya’s into tiny little pigtails. He’d gotten her dressed and fed, too.

  “Nothing, Sully,” Porter responded as he grabbed a wet cloth and attacked a stain on the front of Maddox’s blue dress shirt.

  It looked like milk, but Sullivan couldn’t be sure.

  He wasn’t going to take the time to find out, either. Maddox was Porter’s Sunday-morning responsibility.

  Division of labor was what they’d all been calling it. Divide and conquer was more like it. Yesterday had been easy because five of the six kids had been at the homestead with Rumer.

  This morning?

  Not so much.

  Probably things would have been easier if they’d let the kids sleep in, watch cartoons, and do whatever kid things they wanted to.