Dylan's Daddy Dilemma (The Colorado Fosters Book 04)

by Tracy Madison

  They’d go to his house. Once they were inside, he’d tell her the truth about the dress and try to convince her to stay for a few hours. Beyond that, his ideas were all over the place. And until they were in that moment, he didn’t know if he’d listen to what his heart wanted him to do—which pretty much boiled down to another kiss, and then another, and then whatever else might follow—or if he’d hush that side of him in favor of gaining information.

  The problem was that he wanted both. In equal measures. And he was beyond sick and tired of holding back, of pretending that he wasn’t already three-quarters of the way gone for this woman and her child. Wouldn’t take much to push him that last 25 percent, either. Not much at all. If Chelsea saw, felt, even a glimmer of what he did, they could stop wasting time and start being together now. As in, right now.

  Today and tomorrow, and—if his instincts were true and right—many more tomorrows after that. A lifetime of... Whoa. He was getting carried away. By a helluva lot.

  Dylan’s heart pumped a fraction harder, a percentage faster. Forget the big unknowns for the moment—what about the small ones? He didn’t know her favorite...anything. He didn’t know if she was a night owl or an early bird. He didn’t know if she preferred beer over wine. He didn’t know if she soaked in a tub or took quick, brisk showers.

  Or...yuck...did she eat anchovies on her pizza?

  Nope, he didn’t know any of the answers to those questions, but he thought he might just know her well enough to be able to guess. Risking a glance toward Chelsea, he caught her smiling at him and his pulse sped up another fraction.

  “Got a few questions for you,” he said. “And I’d appreciate some honest answers.”

  “Now you sound a lot like Henry did at the park,” Chelsea said, her voice weighted with the memory. “But sure, I’ll either answer honestly or tell you I’m not answering at all.”

  “Good enough. First up...before you had Henry, were you a night owl or an early bird?” His guess: night owl all the way.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her lips quirk. “Night owl. Next?”

  “You walk in a bar and order...what?” He figured beer. Probably a microbrew.

  “Depends on what I’m thirsty for, but—again, before Henry—my drink of choice was usually plain old beer. From the tap, whatever was cheap enough for my budget.”

  He winced at the cheap comment, knowing a lot of what she drank in those days he likely wouldn’t consider drinkable. Still, he added a point in the win column. “Okay, this question assumes you’re not in any sort of a hurry.” He turned into the driveway of his house, a small two-bedroom ranch on the edge of the city. “Do you prefer showers or long soaks in the tub?” Showers, he thought, though he couldn’t say why.

  “Um...showers. Why all these questions? And whose house is this?”

  “Wait a minute, I’m not done. There’s one more left to answer, and this one,” he said, shutting off the ignition, “is the most important of them all. You’re ordering pizza—just for yourself, mind you, so no sharing with anyone—what toppings do you get?”

  “Everything under the sun,” she said with a quizzical and too-cute arch of her brows.

  “Everything?” Hell. He supposed they could always get two pies. One for him and Henry, one for her. Because no way, no how, would that little boy want to eat tiny fish mixed in with sauce and cheese. “As in, literally every topping the place offers. No deletions?”

  “Well, okay, not quite every last thing,” she amended. “Almost everything. I would skip the hot peppers and anchovies, but double up on the cheese and mushrooms. Again, why?”

  “No real reason, other than curiosity,” he said, resisting the urge to pound his chest and scream in victory. “Ready to go in?”

  “Um...sure.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and glanced at the house. “The dress is inside, I’m guessing, but who lives here?”

  “Yes, my mother’s dress—soon to be Haley’s—is inside, safe and sound from the elements.” Technically, he hadn’t lied. The dress was inside, safe and sound. It just wasn’t inside here. “And, ah, this is my house. I live here.”

  Blink. Blink. Blink. “Oh.” And one more for good measure. “Sure. I’m confused why...that is... Oh, never mind. Let’s go in.”

  Perhaps he shouldn’t feel so inordinately pleased that he’d nailed every single question he’d asked Chelsea, but he did. Made him think that, perhaps, his instincts weren’t leading him straight into another catastrophic mistake. Made him think he should let his heart call the shots.

  Maybe he’d swallow his pride, his fears, his logic, and tell Chelsea that he thought they could be something together, and that he’d like to walk—not jog or run or, hell, even move at a fast clip—along that path for a while, to see where it led.

  He could do that. Or he thought he could. Wasn’t all that much of a risk, was it?

  * * *

  Warm midafternoon sun beat down on Chelsea’s shoulders while she waited for Dylan to unlock the front door. In the very few steps to get from the car to the framed entry, she’d come to the conclusion that Haley’s dress was not in Dylan’s house. She didn’t know where it was or why Dylan had brought her here, but she was intrigued enough to go along for the ride.

  Well, she also wasn’t about to turn down the opportunity of seeing Dylan’s home.

  From the outside, the chestnut-brown-sided ranch-style house appeared to be small, and the landscaping consisted of a neat row of leafy red bushes on either side of the front door, along with a handful of trees of varying sizes in the yard.

  Nothing that would require too much upkeep on Dylan’s part. Attractive enough, in a clean, no-muss, no-fuss sort of way. Which, honestly, didn’t surprise Chelsea. That was how Dylan was as a man: clean, no-muss, no fuss. She mentally added in sexy, funny and...well, sweet. Because how he’d handled Henry at the park and since couldn’t be described any other way.

  “Now, I hadn’t expected visitors,” Dylan said, pushing open the door. “So, um...excuse the minor mess. It isn’t bad, but if I’d known you were coming, I would’ve cleaned some.”

  He stepped inside and, like a gentleman from a long-ago age, bowed at the waist and gestured for her to enter. Which she did, directly into the living room. Again, she wasn’t surprised at what she saw, as the furnishings suited the man.

  The sofa and chairs were dark brown leather. Several large throw pillows—burnt orange and toffee in shade—were on the couch, along with a thick, soft-looking forest-green blanket left loose on the cushions, as if Dylan had recently napped there. He didn’t have a coffee table, but the end tables were wood, wide and blocky, in a darker shade than the furniture. A matching set of oversize green glass-bottomed lamps perched on each.

  He had a few magazines strewn about, all of the outdoor lifestyle variety, from what she could see, and the walls were painted the basic off-white. His decorations were sparse. A lone wooden sculpture of a giraffe and a bowl of potpourri, likely a gift from his mother, sister or a past girlfriend—shudder the thought—and that was it. Nothing hung on the walls, either.

  “Don’t say it,” Dylan said with a shrug. “The place needs a woman’s touch. I hear it all the time, whenever my mother or any of the other females in my family stop by.”

  “I wasn’t going to say that.” Actually, she despised the idea of another woman putting her mark in Dylan’s territory. Even if that other woman was family. “I think, if you chose, some more decorative accents would be nice. But I like it how it is. Uncluttered, right?”

  “Wow. You might be the first woman to have ever walked in here and not tried to convince me to buy this or that, or hang this or that, or...” Again, he shrugged, but his eyes were warm and soft and—there was that word again—sexy. “There isn’t much, but let me show you the rest, and then we’ll...um...deal with the wedding dress.”

  He was right. There wasn’t a whole lot more to see. Straight across from the front door, on the other side o
f the living room, was the kitchen and dining area. Behind the kitchen, a narrow hallway led to the half bath, laundry room and door to the garage. On the right side of the living room, an angled hallway gave access to the full bathroom, master bedroom and fairly large second bedroom. And that was...it. Perfect for a single person or even a small family.

  Like a couple with one child. A son, perhaps.

  “I don’t know what you were worried about,” she said, dislodging the out-of-left-field thought. Obviously, a couple with a daughter could live here, too. “I wouldn’t call a few items lying about messy.” They returned to the living room. “I’d call this the lived-in look. Your house is nice, Dylan. I like it here.”

  Red streaks crawled up his neck. Had she embarrassed him? “That’s nice of you to say, and I like—” he cleared his throat, tossed the blanket on the sofa to the side, sat down and motioned for her to do the same “—having you here. Should’ve done it before now. I just didn’t think of it until now.”

  Long-ingrained habit of keeping her distance almost had her choosing one of the chairs instead of sitting so near Dylan on the couch, but she stopped herself midstride, pivoted and sat next to him. And she breathed. Why was she so freaking nervous?

  “I’ve already guessed the wedding dress isn’t here,” she said, wanting to get to the bottom of that mystery first. “Where is it, though?”

  “Haley’s house,” he admitted, looking a little sheepish. “She’s had it for days, so I had no clue what she was going on about when you two came outside and...well, that’s why I drove down that street three times in a row. I hadn’t quite decided what to do with you.”

  Do with her? And he’d brought her to his house? Instantly and without provocation, the image she’d had at the ice rink flooded her mind. Him. No shirt. Her. Kissing and touching and... Stop. Just. Stop. Flustered, she tried to pick up the conversation. “Why would Haley... Oh. I know why.” The bet with Gavin. She was probably hoping to stack the odds in her favor. “I think your sister is playing matchmaker, Dylan. Or trying, anyway.”

  Casually, Dylan’s arm went around her shoulders. “Does she need to try? Haven’t we been headed in that direction without any interference from my sister?”

  “Um. I...I don’t know. Have we?”

  “I think we have. In fact, I think it started that first night, when you walked into the restaurant,” he said, his fingers barely touching her collarbone. And she shivered. With need. With hope. With...desire. From a barely there touch. “For me, anyhow.”

  A rush of sensations overtook her. Her heart seemed to do a series of somersaults, her stomach grew warm and whooshy—as if shaken and stirred and then shaken again—and tingles of pleasure sped along her skin. “Really? That very first night?”

  “Yes. Really. And I—” He broke off. “Don’t go all crazy, okay?”

  Her breath hitched in her throat. “Why would I go all crazy?”

  Gently, as if she were made of porcelain instead of sturdy bone, he tipped her head toward him, so she had no choice but to look him in those devastatingly gorgeous eyes of his. Oh, my. They were greener than she’d yet seen. Dark, though. Mysterious, somehow, and riveting. Truly, she could stare into Dylan’s eyes for hours. Days, maybe.

  “There are some words I want to say to you,” he said, speaking slowly. Methodically. “And they’re pretty big words. And I want to get them right, but see, I’m afraid they’ll twist in my mouth and come out all wrong. So, will you bear with me while I stumble through this?”

  She opened her mouth, tried to talk, but her vocal cords seemed out of commission. Rather than squeak, she simply nodded. And smiled.

  “I...that is, I’ve had this battle of sorts going on, and I keep attempting to decide which way to go. And—” He stopped, shook his head. “I’m just going to say it straight out, and you say whatever you want. However you feel about it. Okay?”

  She nodded again, still afraid to try to talk.

  “I like you, Chelsea. More than is logical in such a short time frame, and I’ve fought with that, because I was once—” Again, he stopped. Again, he shook his head. “Well, I don’t want to get into that just yet. Later, perhaps. If we were to...move into another stage.”

  Was he saying what she thought—hoped—he was? Probably not. But she had to know, and darn it, she had to know right now. She reached for, and somewhat miraculously, found her voice. Thankfully, she sounded calm. Not squeaky at all. “Another stage? As in...?”

  Dylan swiped his hand over his jaw, and there went that muscle. Twitch. Twitch. Twitch. And she had to force herself not to become mesmerized.

  “It’s like this, Chelsea,” he said, his words coming right on top of one another. “You and Henry are in my heart. I don’t know why or how this happened so fast—hell, I didn’t know it could happen so fast—or why it feels as if I’ve known both of you my entire life. When the facts are, I haven’t. But I think I’m to the place where I’d like to suggest we move forward, if you feel there’s a possibility here, between us. Or if you think there could be one.”

  She blinked. Tried to breathe. Tried to believe that any of this was happening and not a figment of her imagination. She wanted to say, planned to say, that she felt the same. That she’d wondered, from day one, if he was the person—perhaps, the only person—she’d be able to let in.

  Really let in.

  But then she had the thought—the horrible, no-good thought—that Dylan’s outpouring had more to do with Henry and his need for a father, and the bond the two had already created. What if...oh, God...what if this was just another of Dylan’s attempts to fix a problem? As in “Oh, this kid needs a dad, and I like this kid, so...I’ll step in.”

  A possible scenario, based on what she knew of him. But her heart screamed she was wrong, that she was jumping to the worst-case scenario and that her fears weren’t allowing her to see the truth. Another possible—hell, likely—scenario. And in that case, then yes, she’d like to try. She really, really would.

  Before she could take such a gigantic step, she first needed to know what he had in mind. “And you’re suggesting what, exactly? Move forward how?”

  Dammit. She hadn’t meant to sound so blunt, for her voice to sound so emotionless. But the question was out there now, so she pressed her lips together and waited.

  Dylan’s eyes became hooded, impossible to read, and his body tensed. He took a minute, maybe two, to respond, and when he did, it was in a composed, almost-but-not-quite flat tenor. “Well, now, that’s a question I’ve thought a lot about,” he said. “I think the best way to move forward is to begin the dating process. If that goes well, then after a while, we can discuss the next step. Rationally. Reasonably.”

  Rationally, huh? Reasonably, too? “And if it doesn’t go well?”

  He shrugged. “If it doesn’t, no harm. No foul, either.”

  For him, maybe, but for her? For Henry? She was this close to refusing his oh-so-logical offer when he suddenly leaned over and trailed his finger down her cheek. When he cupped her jaw with his hand and tilted her face upward, toward him.

  “I didn’t say that well,” he said, his gaze no longer hooded. And there, she saw...hope and desire and longing. For her. Those last two, without a doubt, were for her. “Don’t say no.”

  Electricity all but zoomed into being inside of her, between them, and the silly, romantic part of her soul begged her to give in. To try. Just to see what possibilities might exist.

  “Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s date. Logically and reasonably and rationally.”

  “Hmm. Maybe we should allow some room for spontaneity?” Now his gaze was most definitely fixated on her mouth. “Because right now, all I can think of is kissing you.”

  “Then kiss me,” she said. “Please?”

  Without further discussion, he complied. Thank God, he complied. Crushing her to him, he brought his lips to hers in a slow, thoughtful, searching kiss, until every thought in her head disappeared and all that remain
ed was the heat in her belly. It stretched and climbed and eased its way through her, bringing about shivers of longing and stark, hungry need.

  A growly sort of groan escaped from Dylan’s throat as his lips hardened on hers, as he deepened the kiss, as his hands slipped inside her shirt and stroked her feverish skin. She had the thought that she just might die, right here and right now, due to this man and the way her body responded to him. To his kiss. To his touch. Never before had she felt such fierce want.

  She tugged his shirt up and ran her hands over his muscular back, enjoying the heat of his skin. Heat brought there by her. By her kisses, her touches, and it was...a powerful realization. Potent and life affirming and...sexy as hell. And all she wanted was to feel more of his hot skin. She wanted to touch and kiss every inch of his body, and she wanted—no, she ached and hungered—to feel the full weight of him on top of her. Inside of her.

  “I want you,” she said, pulling her mouth from his, succumbing to the demands, the needs, of her body. Of her heart and of her soul. “Might not be logical at this point, but those are the facts. I want you—” she gulped for air, for courage “—to take me to your bedroom. And then I want to take off all of your clothes, while you take off mine, and then I have this idea—”

  That was all she was able to say before his mouth reclaimed hers, before his strong, capable, all-male and sexy arms lifted her and he carried her to the bedroom.

  As it turned out, he had a few delightful ideas of his own.

  Chapter Twelve

  Daylight was just creeping into twilight when Chelsea rolled over and found Dylan watching her, his gaze steady and sure, warm and satisfied. She reached toward him, skimmed her hand down that amazing chest of his and smiled, feeling very much like a cat who’d all but guzzled a gallon of rich, heavy cream. Lazy. Happy. And yes, satisfied beyond measure.

  Regrettably, real life beckoned.

  “I hate to say this,” she said, “but I should probably get home soon.”

  “I know,” he said. “First, though, I want to talk to you about something.”