Apparently he wasn’t finished because a gold box from Godiva appeared. “And some chocolate.”
“Oh, man. I love truffles. Thank you.”
“And some, uh, flowers.”
To her amazement, he reached into that bag and pulled out the most beautiful fishbowl of blazing red roses that she’d ever seen. How he’d managed to get it inside without spilling the water all over was a mystery.
“Oh, Thomas. Thank you,” she breathed, trying not to simper like a fool.
He ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck, looking embarrassed. Which made her wonder—could the great and arrogant doctor be as nervous as she was?
“It’s no big deal.”
“You know,” she told him, her heart softening in ways she didn’t want to think about, “you don’t need to spend a hundred dollars on gifts to thank someone for dinner.”
He shrugged. “I’m a classic type-A over-achiever. You should probably know that about me.”
“Is that right?” She laughed. “Is there anything else I should know about you?”
“Yeah,” he said softly, unsmiling. “I’ve been looking forward to this all day.”
His sudden vulnerability disarmed her. Thrilled her. Touched her.
“Well, then.” Handing a glass to him, she raised her own in a toast. “To dinner with new friends.”
“Friends?” he asked sourly.
“Take it or leave it,” she warned.
“I’m taking it. I’m taking it.”
The concession didn’t fool her. The banked heat in his eyes told her he wasn’t planning on settling for friendship from her—not by a long shot. Nor was she lured into any false sense of security because he’d let her escape from his office this afternoon without pursuing the subject of their raging attraction to each other. All they’d done, she knew, was postpone the looming moment of truth.
“Cheers,” he said, raising his glass to hers.
She hesitated because any contact whatsoever between them was pregnant with meaning, and there seemed to be no way around it. Then, their gazes still locked together, she touched her glass to his with a tiny clink.
“Cheers.”
“You doing okay, buddy?” Thomas asked after dinner.
“Yeah,” Jalen said around a head-splitting yawn. Having showered and changed into a pair of green Starfleet Academy pajamas, the boy was now ready for bed and could barely keep his eyes open. Still, he settled next to Thomas on the sofa, curled his legs beneath him and unfolded a piece of notebook paper. “I’m not tired or anything.”
Thomas, who was feeling a little drowsy himself but reluctant for this wonderful night to end and therefore knew where the kid was coming from, stifled a grin. Lia had turned out to be a spectacular cook, which didn’t surprise him at all. Her delicious dinner and the wine and general coziness of this Cape Cod house, with its arched doorways, gleaming hardwood floors and tiny kitchen, relaxed him more than anything had since the day he set foot in medical school. Already, he’d begun to dread the return to his own house, which was four times the size of this one and half as welcoming.
The furniture here, for example, was weathered and comfortable, with pillows and ottomans, unlike the high-end, modern leather torture devices he had back home. The air here was fragrant with pork roast and some flickering floral candle Lia kept on the kitchen counter, but the air at his house was stale, except for Wednesdays, when the housekeeper left behind the smell of cleaning products. Most of all, this house had heart, with love and laughter and a crazy cat-size bunny to keep things interesting.
His house had only emptiness, even when he was home.
Hell, especially when he was home.
Which was probably why he never spent more than a few hours at a time there, if he could help it. The funny thing was, he’d never noticed how sad his beautiful house was.
Until now.
Yeah. He could stay right here for a lot longer than a couple of hours.
Lia, on the other hand, was still strung higher and tighter than a high-rise window washer, and she probably wanted to kick him out on his ass the first chance she got. She was hovering on the periphery, keeping a close eye on the proceedings while she shuttled dirty dishes from the dining room table back to the kitchen. If he had to guess, he’d say it was busywork to keep her from spending time with him.
Interesting.
Every now and then, he’d catch her watching him with unreadable eyes, and that gave him reason to hope. What he was hoping for, exactly, he had no idea. Well, he had some idea. A large part of it involved the two of them naked, twined around each other while rolling around on a horizontal surface. A large part of it didn’t, though, and that was the troubling thing. He and women were all about sex. He didn’t do other stuff, like meeting families, spending holidays together or restructuring his lifestyle to accommodate a partner.
So what was the thing about Lia? Why was she so…fascinating? She had a kid and a mortgage and wasn’t the booty-call type at all. Plus, this temptation to get involved with the mother of his sick son wasn’t the brightest idea he’d ever had. Like she’d said earlier, weren’t things complicated enough? Why stir the pot? Hell, it would be easier to adopt triplets from Afghanistan than to have a disastrous affair with Lia and then try to co-parent with her. That being the case, he really needed to get a handle on his growing interest in her.
Only he didn’t think he could.
“Jalen,” she said now. “It’s almost bedtime. You know that, right?”
“No way,” Jalen complained.
“Way. And Thomas needs to get home soon, anyway. Isn’t that right, Thomas?”
“Ah,” Thomas began, distracted by that hopping menace of a glorified rat, who was now snuffling around the bottom of the sofa, probably planning his next assault.
“So wrap it up, okay?” Lia said.
Jalen groaned. “But—”
“You heard your mother.” Thomas tried a stern parental voice on for size and discovered that he had one and that Jalen seemed to respond to it.
“Okay,” Jalen grumbled darkly, showing every sign of docility. “Can we just look at my list first?”
“Well, ah…” Lia seemed startled by this sudden cooperation. Her gaze, vaguely suspicious, swung between the males and settled on Thomas, even as she spoke to the boy. “Sure.” After a hesitation, she opened and closed her mouth a couple of times, clearly undergoing some sort of painful struggle with herself.
Thomas waited, his heart thumping.
Thank you, she mouthed.
Because it wouldn’t be cool to jump up and do a joyous fist pump, Thomas just winked. Ducking her head and looking flustered, Lia went back to the dishes, clanking several of the plates together as she stacked them.
“I’ll get those,” he told her. “Least I can do.”
“But—”
“Have some more wine.” His tone was inching toward dictatorial, and she raised her brows accordingly. Not good, Bradshaw. The pretty lady won’t unwind enough to have a conversation with you if you bark orders at her. “Please.”
“You’re a bad influence, Doctor,” she said, reaching for the bottle.
“I try.” With difficulty, he peeled his gaze away from Lia and discovered, with a start, that Jalen was studying him with those keen eyes of his. “What’re you staring at, Shorty?”
“You like my mom, don’t you?”
Damn. Was anything about being with a kid easy?
“Well, yeah,” Thomas stammered. “Of course I like her.”
Jalen rolled his eyes. “No. I mean you like her.”
From over in the kitchen came the sound of a utensil clattering to the floor, but Thomas didn’t dare risk a glance at Lia now lest he do something truly goofy, like blush or grin.
Maybe he should try the parental thing again. Maybe frown or something. Body language was important with kids, right? There. He did it.
“That’s a grown-up topic, youngling. And I’m not su
re it’s any of your business.”
Jalen snorted with clear disbelief. “Of course it’s my business. She’s my mom! Just don’t go kissing her in front of me or anything, okay? I can’t deal with that.” Kissing.
Funny the boy should mention it, because he had, in fact, spent a generous portion of the evening wanting to kiss Lia and wondering whether she’d let him. This train of thought was clearly at odds with his whole don’t-stir-the-pot strategy, but the more Lia inched her way under his skin, the less he cared. The one thing he knew for sure was that if—no, when—he kissed Lia, he damn sure didn’t want an audience.
“You got it, buddy.” Thomas glanced back to the kitchen, where Lia was standing, still as marble, and held her gaze. “I won’t kiss her in front of you.”
A frozen beat or two passed, and then Lia turned away, gulping from her goblet.
Oh, yeah, Thomas thought. This one was a special combination of warrior woman and vulnerable rose. He did indeed like her. A lot.
“Okay, so here’s my list.”
Get your head back in the game, Bradshaw.
Thomas gave his head a quick shake and looked down at his son. “List? What list?”
“I made a list of dad things you should do. Things I expect you to do. Because things go smoother when you talk about what you expect. They taught us that in school. So, here goes.”
Jalen cleared his throat and edged closer, into the crook of Thomas’s arm where it rested across the back of the sofa. Thomas marveled again at the kid’s weight. His wiry strength and warmth. The scent of his musky Old Spice–type body wash, which he’d apparently saturated himself with during his shower.
Kids were a miracle. This kid was a miracle.
Was it okay to touch him? To give in to this primal paternal urge and snuggle a little? Wasn’t that what fathers and sons did at bedtime? That paralyzing awkwardness hit him again, and he floundered, desperate not to do the wrong thing and screw things up. He thought of what the Admiral would have done with him and decided that, from now on, that would be his guidepost: decide what the Admiral would do in the same situation and then do the opposite.
So he put his arm around Jalen and scooped him closer, right up against his side. And then, because the kid didn’t kick up a protest, he leaned down to kiss his soft temple.
Man, it felt good. It felt really, really good.
“Number one,” Jalen read. “No spankings.”
Thomas thought back to the Admiral’s discipline, which had consisted of liberal amounts of corporal punishment with hands, belts, wooden spoons and anything else the Admiral could grab in the heat of frustration or anger. He shuddered at the memories.
“You got it. No spankings.”
Jalen grinned with relief. “Number two, you have to call me at bedtime.”
This made Thomas frown. Not because it would be a pain in the ass to call every night, but because it hit him for the first time that Jalen lived here and he lived somewhere else, and even if they worked up a schedule where Jalen spent weekends or some such with him, there’d be plenty of bedtimes that he’d miss.
The idea didn’t sit right with him. It made his chest hurt.
He frowned again, deeper.
Jalen noticed, of course. He seemed to decide that the request was unreasonable and began to backpedal. “You don’t have to call every every night.”
“Yes, I do.” Thomas pressed another kiss to his forehead and hugged his thin shoulders. “I’m happy to call you every night. What else?”
Another delighted grin from Jalen, which felt like a winning lotto number to Thomas.
“Number three, I’m going to call you Thomas for now. Because Daddy feels a little weird since we just met. Don’t you think?”
No, he didn’t think. He didn’t like. But since he was following the boy’s cues and going at his speed rather than his own, he faked it. “You got it.”
“Number four, my birthday’s in a few weeks. Don’t forget.”
“Got it.”
“Excellent.” Jalen refolded the list with clear satisfaction. “That’s it.”
“Wait, that’s it? You don’t want to ask for a pony or a big-screen TV for your room or anything?”
“Nope.”
Amazement made Thomas’s jaw drop open in a gape. “What kind of kid are you?”
“The best,” Jalen said simply. “Can you tuck me in?”
“Yeah.” Thomas blinked and swallowed, trying not to choke on all this scary emotion, while Lia, still watching from the kitchen, gave him a slow smile full of understanding. “I can do that.”
Chapter 7
When Thomas came down the stairs ten minutes later, he looked different, Lia thought. His steps were slower, his face grimmer and more thoughtful. Even those broad shoulders of his had a slight droop.
Lia, who’d been in the middle of bagging up the leftover salad, started to ask him what was wrong, but that seemed pointless. Maybe he’d seen the drugstore-worthy array of medications sitting on Jalen’s dresser or caught a glimpse of the clipboard next to his bed, on which she recorded his miscellaneous symptoms and treatments, or seen the wall full of handmade get-well cards from his classmates at school. Or maybe it was just the enormity of all the recent changes in his life, catching up with him at last.
Whatever it was, Thomas looked shell-shocked. Forever altered.
The nurturer in her—and as a mother, she was mostly nurturer, wasn’t she?—wouldn’t let her pretend she didn’t see what was going on. That felt too unnatural, like trying to sleep while standing up. So instead, she offered him the most basic level of support. Support 101. How much trouble could that get her into?
“Hey,” she said. “You okay?”
He frowned, his brows lowering with irritated embarrassment as he came into the kitchen and reached for the sponge. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Ah. Of course. The coolheaded surgeon would never allow himself to be shaken by his own sick kid. Or the fact that he even had a kid. Uh-uh. Not him. Never show emotion. That was probably the first thing they told you in medical school, right after they gave you your first stethoscope.
She could almost laugh at his calm, cool and collected act, but she’d spent too much time in that same dark place, just struggling to be strong and keep it together for one more day.
So she waited, dying to see if he could pull it off.
He couldn’t. He stared, unfocused, at the sponge in his hand for several long beats and might have stared forever, but Lia had seen enough.
She reached out, rubbing a hand over his shoulder. “It’s okay.”
That did it. Thomas’s face twisted, and he bent double at the waist, dropping the sponge into the sink and hanging on to the counter for support.
“I need a minute,” he said, shoulders heaving. “I just need—”
Breaking off, he straightened and paced away, head pressed between his hands. Lia studied her shoes and gave him time. After a couple of laps around the tiny kitchen, the fearsome Dr. Bradshaw was back and firmly in charge. Snatching up the sponge again, he plunged his arms into the soapy water and attacked the dishes.
“What was he like as a baby?”
Lia had to laugh. “Colicky. He loved rice cereal. Hated peaches. Potty-trained at eighteen months because he didn’t like to lie still long enough for me to change his diapers.”
“What was his first word?”
Lia laughed again, thinking of all those late night feedings, just her and Jalen with the TV. “Spock. Because I used to watch reruns when I was breast-feeding him.”
Thomas grinned, those boyish dimples grooving up his cheeks as he laughed. “Spock. Should have been Mama.”
“I know, right?”
“When did he start reading?”
Lia took a dish from the rack to rinse and dry. “He was four. In his second year of preschool. Where the Wild Things Are. I think he finally just memorized all the pages.”
“Where the Wild Things Are.
Good choice. I would have gone for The Cat in the Hat, but Wild Things is a respectable choice.”
“I’m so glad you think so. I live for your approval.”
The grin was still on her lips when she reached into the soapy water for the lone remaining glass, forgetting that his hand was already in there. By the time her stuttering heart reminded her, it was already too late. His fingers were gliding over the back of her hand, twining their fingers together in a grip that felt as strong and unbreakable as a sequoia. The only thing she could do was hold tight and flick her gaze up to meet his.
They were too close. His unsmiling face was everything in her field of vision, and his stunning brown eyes were overwhelming. They were flecked with gold and green, so expressive with their fears and desires that it seemed unlikely she’d ever get bored with staring into them. His skin was smooth, his jaws sleek, his lips curved and sensual.
And, standing here with him, she was in worse trouble than she’d ever dreamed.
“I didn’t expect my life to change this fast,” he told her, his wet thumb smoothing over the back of her hand in slow circles.
Yeah. She knew the feeling. “Kids can do that to you.”
He blinked, letting her hand go and looking for the towel. “Yeah. Kids.”
Sudden awkwardness reached out to smother her. In the oppressive silence, she didn’t know what to do with her hands or where her feet wanted to walk her, so she stood there, probably looking goofy. She watched Thomas dry his hands and then followed him to the living room, where he paused to look at one of the framed photos sitting on the coffee table—this one of Alan in the driveway, waxing his classic Mustang, the one he’d been killed in.
Thomas picked it up to study it more closely and she watched the darkening frown as it spread over his face, overcome by a feeling of disorientation. She felt, suddenly, as though she was cheating on Alan, and yet with Thomas here, so vibrantly masculine and intense, she had a hard time conjuring up anything about Alan except for that one-dimensional image of his smiling face. His voice? His laugh? His scent? All disconnected and vague memories growing fainter the more time she spent with Thomas.
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