Henry’s words rang in Dylan’s ears. She’d cried. And at some point they hadn’t owned beds, so they’d slept in a fort. Of course, that could mean something as simple as they’d just moved and their furniture had yet to be delivered. Could mean that.
But he didn’t think it did.
Closing his eyes, Dylan mentally replayed everything he’d seen and heard since Chelsea had first walked into Foster’s. Her body language, her words—what she’d admitted to and what she hadn’t, what he could only speculate on—the fear and desperation he’d recognized in her expression and the bits of information that Henry had inadvertently shared.
He’d already pieced together enough, even before finding her stranded in her car, to realize she was in a jam. Until this minute, though, he’d categorized her current predicament as a momentary spell of bad luck. Most people had family and friends to rely on in such moments, to get them through to better days. While he hadn’t given it a whole lot of thought, somewhere in his brain he’d assumed she had the same and that when she returned home—wherever home was—she’d have that support. But dammit, his gut told him that wasn’t the case.
And if so, what was he to do about that?
The sound of a door opening, followed by a quick gasp of surprise, interrupted his thought process. When he looked, he saw the woman herself, plastered against the door frame, wearing a long pink T-shirt and loose, candy-cane-striped pajama bottoms. Tension tightened her mouth, and all he wanted to do was make her smile.
“It occurs to me,” he said with what he hoped was a friendly, not-threatening-at-all tenor, “that I’ve yet to learn your last name. You know mine, but in case you forgot, it’s Foster.”
“Oh. Um...our last name is Bell,” she said, her voice holding that husky, barely awake quality. Also, though, a thread of wariness. “Chelsea and Henry Bell.”
“Nice to officially meet you, Chelsea Bell,” Dylan said, curious if a Mr. Bell existed somewhere or if Chelsea had simply never married and Henry had her name. Dammit. He shouldn’t care. “Something wake you or were you looking for me?”
“I... No, not looking for you. I thought I’d get a bottle of water, but I didn’t expect to see you up here. I guess I thought you’d go downstairs or—” She broke off, bit her bottom lip. “Dumb assumption to have. Why would you leave us alone when I could be a thief or—”
“An ax murderer?” Dylan asked in dry humor. “Sorry, but I don’t believe we have even one ax on the premises. And if you’re a thief, you can’t be that great at your job.”
“Is that so? What makes you say that?”
“Let’s start with the look of that car out there.”
“Perhaps I’m an excellent thief and my car is a...um...cover.” A soft, sleepy smile appeared. And she went from cute to beautiful. Breathtakingly so. “To hide my true, nefarious intent and the fact that I have oodles of diamonds and gold nuggets hidden away in the trunk.”
“Diamonds and gold nuggets? Good to know. We won’t just fix your car tomorrow, we’ll buy you a new one. Something more appropriate for a nefarious diamond-and-gold-nugget thief.”
“I...” Pushing away from the door frame, she approached the kitchenette. “If I can’t afford a hotel room, I certainly can’t afford whatever repairs that car needs. I was thinking of trying to sell it to a junkyard. Maybe I can get a couple hundred bucks.”
“I already guessed you didn’t have the finances for the tow or the repairs, so I thought I’d front you the money. It’s no trouble.” Dylan swallowed another gulp of water, curious as to what type of damsel in distress she actually was. Would she put up all sorts of arguments before giving in and accepting his help? Or would she be like Elise and not even bother with the pretense, smile sweetly and thank him for his kindness? Or would she have an entirely different type of reaction? “You can pay me back after you get home and settled. There isn’t any rush.”
She stopped her forward motion and frowned. Shook her head as if she had water stuck in her ears after a long dip in the pool. “What did you just say?”
Okay, then. A different type of reaction. He repeated his words, verbatim. And waited with interest to see what road she’d take them down next.
“Thank you, but no,” she said. Her eyes, her voice—everything about her—were cool and crisp and matter-of-fact. He’d irritated her? Yup, that he had, and his interest increased. Tenfold. “The truth is, I have more use of a couple hundred bucks in my wallet than I do with that car and owing you who knows how much money. So, again, thank you but no.”
She meant her words. And that told Dylan a hell of a lot about her character. More, probably, than she’d like him to know. Still didn’t mean he trusted her or wanted her to stick around. Only once had a woman affected him in as strong and intense a fashion as this woman. He’d fallen for Elise, hard. And look where that path had taken him?
“That’s fine,” he said, opening the fridge and tossing her a bottle of water. She caught it easily. “I’ll help you with that in the morning and, once you have the cash, drive you over to the bus station. If I run out of time, someone in my family will be happy to help.”
“Why, you’re just full of helpful suggestions, aren’t you?”
“Trying, I guess,” he said, watching her carefully. She wasn’t just irritated, she was...well, fuming would be the right description. “Something wrong with that?”
“No.” She sucked in a large breath, held it and then let it out with a loud whoosh of air. “Yes, actually. Yes, there is something wrong with that.”
“Care to explain?”
“Just that...you don’t know me and I don’t know you. It isn’t your call what I do next,” she said, her words coming at a fast clip, as if she was afraid common sense would reel them back in. “I am very appreciative of your assistance tonight, but when morning comes, I’ll go about my business and leave you to yours. So, no, I won’t be requiring a ride to the bus station from you or your family. I don’t even need to go to the bus station.”
Ah, hell. “You’re planning on staying, then?”
“I’m planning on staying,” she confirmed, losing her steam. She stared at her toes—which were painted a dark shade of purple—and exhaled, brought her gaze back to his. “I told Henry this was our fresh start at a brand-new life, and I am not going to disappoint him again.”
And double hell.
“You don’t have a job,” he said, stating the obvious. “Or a place to live.”
“I’ll find both. And until I do—” she lifted her chin in stubborn hope “—I’ll find one of those cheap motels and pray I get enough from selling the Malibu to see us through.”
Before he could stop himself, before his logic kicked in and squelched that damn desire to protect, defend and take care of, he heard himself saying, “If you’re dead and determined to stay, we’ll figure out something better than a cheap motel. And once I talk to my family, we might be able to scrounge up some work. On a temporary basis, that is.”
Dark blue eyes blinked in surprise and emotion. Sappy emotion. She looked away, off to his left, and a tremble coursed through her body. “I’ve never met a man like you, but as shockingly kind as your offer is, this time I’ll have to say no.”
“You said no about sleeping here and changed your mind.”
“I did. Because of Henry.”
“Who is still in the picture, unless he jumped out the window and ran away?”
She looked at him then, all soft and vulnerable and...beautiful. It took every ounce of willpower not to walk the few inches between them, pull her into his arms and promise her that everything would be fine. Better than fine. That she didn’t have to worry.
Fortunately, he ignored that instinct and waited her out.
“I can take care of my son,” she said. “I have since the day he was born, without anyone swooping in to help or fix my problems.”
And wasn’t that a damn shame? He shook off the thought and shrugged. “Not swooping,” he said. �
�Just extending a hand, but as you said, it’s your call.”
“That’s right. And...and I have a plan.”
He didn’t state the numerous flaws her plan held. Such as, even if she located employment right off the bat, she wouldn’t receive an actual paycheck for two weeks. Maybe longer. And the cheapest not-a-dump motel in town that he knew of—even with the less expensive off-season rates that would start in a few days—hovered around the fifty-dollar-per-night range. Supposing she got five hundred dollars for her car, and he thought that was the most the junkyard paid, she’d only have enough funds for a week.
But he didn’t point out any of these facts. Instead, he gave her a short nod and said, “You should get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day. For both of us.”
Chelsea opened her mouth as if to say more, but closed it just as fast. Another visible tremble swept through her slender body before she disappeared behind the safety of her closed door. Dylan stood there and tried—oh, he tried—not to make her and her son his responsibility.
Because nothing had changed there, either. They weren’t.
She was in a tough predicament, yes, but she had refused his help. That should be enough to allow him to walk away without feeling any residual guilt. He couldn’t, though.
Just couldn’t.
Swearing quietly, he finished off his water and tossed the empty bottle into the trash. He’d see what he could do about giving Chelsea and Henry Bell their new fresh start, but without her knowledge. And once they were adequately settled, he’d put both of them out of his head and wipe his hands of the whole ordeal.
Before his Foster DNA kicked in again and had him doing something even more insane. Like falling in love with both mother and son. Nope. That couldn’t happen.
Wouldn’t. Happen. No way in hell.
Chapter Four
The sound of a door thudding shut followed by short, quick footsteps scampering across the hardwood floor woke Dylan with nearly the same effectiveness as a shotgun blast. Well, to say he’d been fast asleep would be an overstatement. Fitfully dozing, perhaps.
Squinting open one eye, he saw Henry, who was clothed in the brightest fire-engine-red pajamas Dylan had ever seen, approach the minifridge. Assuming the boy would grab a bottle of water and return to the other room, Dylan closed his eyes and feigned sleep.
What had he gotten himself into? How in the hell was he going to create a brand-new fresh start for a vulnerable, stubborn woman and her feisty child?
It was a helluva lot. More than he’d originally realized when he’d arrived at the harebrained scheme a few short hours ago. Chelsea required a job, a place to live, child care for Henry and, unless the prior three were within walking distance of each other, reliable transportation until she could afford to buy another car.
Again, he considered the simplest action: leaving her to her own devices and going on his merry way as if they’d never met. And once again the tension in his gut told him—in no uncertain terms—that he couldn’t. Nope, she was not his logical responsibility. That was fact. Yet fate had seen to it that she’d walked into his family’s restaurant, that her car had broken down in their parking lot and that he’d been the Foster to find her.
Sensible didn’t have a foothold in the equation.
Urgency to get started overtook his body’s desire to sleep, but Henry hadn’t yet returned to his mother. Once he did, Dylan would go downstairs and call the junkyard, see about getting someone over here within the next few hours. Then he’d check in with his family to see if they had any ideas, and if all went well, he’d soon have the beginnings of a plan in place.
The thought had no sooner crossed his mind when Dylan heard a door open and close, and then the telltale sounds of Henry all but running down the stairs to the restaurant’s kitchen. Dammit all. What was that kid up to?
Sitting, Dylan wiped the grit from his eyes and contemplated his next move. The kid couldn’t be more than four or five, tops, and the kitchen wasn’t exactly childproofed.
He stood and followed Henry’s trail, taking the stairs two at a time, thoughts of sharp knives and gas-burning stoves filling his heart with dread. When he entered the kitchen, he stopped and waited for his pulse to return to normal. The kid was standing in front of the commercial refrigerator, his sandy-brown hair spiked and mussed from sleep, with the door wide-open. He was staring at its contents so intently he seemed oblivious to Dylan’s presence.
“Morning, Henry,” he said. “Hungry, I take it?”
The boy startled, sending a tremor through his thin, almost bony body. “You scared me! You shouldn’t do that. Mommy says it’s not nice to scare people.”
“Sorry, kid. But you probably shouldn’t be exploring on your own.” At least, not in a room filled with an abundance of child-safety hazards. If Dylan hadn’t been awake, anything could have happened. He shoved that thought far into the abyss—the boy was fine, after all—and asked, “Does your mom know you’re down here, or is she still sleeping?”
“I told her and she said she’d get up in five minutes, but she didn’t.”
“Ah.” And that, Dylan knew from his own childhood, was equivalent to receiving permission to go ahead and do as you pleased. “Well, I bet your mom is more tired than usual.”
“Right, so I ’cided to let her sleep.” Henry finally turned to look at Dylan. “She was sad last night. I thought if I made her breakfast, she’d smile. I like it when she smiles.”
Unexpected emotion gathered in Dylan’s throat. He swallowed it down, nodded and knelt in front of Henry. “That’s a fine idea. Mind if I help? I’d like to see your mom smile, too.”
“Don’t know,” Henry said, his tone solemn. “Do you cook good or bad?”
“Um. Neither, I guess. More like somewhere in between.”
Narrowing his eyes in contemplation, the tyke tapped his chin with the practiced seriousness of a fifty-year-old business magnate in the middle of a high-stakes negotiation. “I guess it’s okay if you help, but I’m in charge. It was my idea.”
“True. Though, you do realize that being in charge is a big responsibility? Maybe we could agree to be partners?” Dylan ruffled Henry’s hair. “What do you say?”
“I know what foods Mommy likes and what she doesn’t like,” Henry pointed out, expertly avoiding both of Dylan’s questions. “Do you know what foods she likes?”
“Other than bread and coffee, nope.”
“Then I should be in charge.”
Sensing this conversation could continue ad nauseam unless someone gave in, Dylan took the fall. “All righty, then, you call the shots and I’ll cook.” Pleasure at winning gleamed in Henry’s eyes, and Dylan forced back a chuckle. “Does you mom like eggs? Peanut-butter toast? Oatmeal? Or—”
“Nothing with peanut butter! She hates peanut butter because she’s...she’s—” Henry curled his bottom lip into his mouth as he searched for the correct word “—allergic! Gives her itchy bumps and makes her cough. She wouldn’t smile then. So, no peanut butter.”
Amused, Dylan nodded. He distinctly remembered Henry stating that his mother had eaten a peanut-butter sandwich for breakfast the prior day, so he doubted she was allergic. No sense in arguing with the guy in charge, though. “You’re right. Coughing and itchy rashes don’t typically make people smile. How does scrambled eggs and toast sound?”
“Okay, but not good enough.” Henry stubbed his toe into the tile floor. “I want her to smile a lot. And be really happy. So something better.”
“Something better, huh? What about—”
Before Dylan could finish his sentence, the back door to the kitchen opened, sending a blast of cold air into the room. His mother. Had to be. In all likelihood, Haley had already spread the news about his overnight guests. And no way, no how, would Margaret Foster set aside her curiosity or her concern until she’d deemed nothing was amiss.
Thank God, too. His mom could cook up a storm. Better yet, once she learned of Chelsea’s unfortunate set of circ
umstances, she would be more than happy to help.
“Hi, Mom,” Dylan said as he heard her soft-footed approach. “Perfect timing. We’re trying to decide what to make for breakfast, and it’s a tall order. We could use your input.”
Margaret’s concerned expression transformed into a cheerful smile the instant she realized a child was in attendance. She unbuttoned and removed her coat, which she hung on one of the wall hooks, saying, “Then it’s a good thing I decided to come right over. What are we trying to accomplish with breakfast? Other than no more empty tummies, that is.”
“We want to make my mommy smile,” Henry said. “And I’m Henry. I’m four! And I slept upstairs last night because our car wouldn’t turn on no more.”
“It is so nice to meet you, Henry! I’m Margaret, Dylan’s mom, and we’ll come up with the perfect breakfast.” Then, with a nod toward the still-open refrigerator door, she said, “Tell me, though, are you two trying to cool the kitchen or warm up the fridge?”
“Both, actually,” Dylan said, moving out of his mother’s way. “We were in the middle of conducting a science experiment on how fast temperatures can change. Isn’t that right, Henry?”
“Nope, that isn’t right.” He cast those innocent eyes of his on Margaret and, with an impish grin, said, “I was looking for food, but then he asked me a bunch of questions. I forgot about the door and he didn’t tell me to close it. He’s the grown-up, though, so it’s his fault.”
“Hey! You’re going to get me in trouble!” In a completely spontaneous movement, Dylan picked up Henry and swung him around in the air. Little-boy giggles along with Margaret’s surprised laughter poured into the room, and Dylan’s heart...well, it friggin’ soared.
Really wasn’t a better way to phrase the sensation.
When he set Henry safely on the floor, he said, “I’m not so grown-up that my mom can’t ground me...or worse. She might look and act all nice and sweet, but she’s tough.”
Margaret sniffed, reached behind them to shut the refrigerator door. “Had to be tough, raising boys like you and your brothers. Trouble, all three of you.”
Dylan's Daddy Dilemma (The Colorado Fosters Book 04) Page 5