by Jamie Beck
“At eight thirty on a Friday night?” Gentry made a face. “The pediatrician’s office is closed, Sara.”
“What about urgent care?” Sara suggested with a hopeful smile.
“This isn’t urgent. And look at me. I’m in no state to leave the house.” Gentry ate the last shrimp with a bit of despair now that the plate was empty. If Hunter and Sara would look away for three seconds, she could lick the plate. “Besides, the people in that waiting room are really sick. Why expose Colt to those germs when it isn’t necessary?”
“Good point.” Hunter’s surprised expression irked Gentry. As if her common sense was as rare as snow in Florida.
“What if I call Ian?” Sara’s pleading eyes were hard to ignore. “He’s in town . . . at a motel, actually. He can listen to Colt’s lungs and make sure there isn’t a problem.”
Ian, the humanitarian EMT Sara had wanted to fix Gentry up with many moons ago, before Gentry decided to keep her baby. The same EMT who’d arrived on the scene downtown when Gentry’s water had broken unexpectedly and Sara’s flat tire prevented them from heading to the hospital right away. How fitting that her second run-in with him might be as humiliating as the first.
“Why’s he at a motel?” Gentry wondered aloud. She recalled thinking him handsome, which said a lot considering the Freddy Krueger–caliber labor pains stabbing her when they’d met. Not that it mattered. Handsome men weren’t a priority. The last time she’d dived into that pool—her one-night stand in Napa with a gorgeous man she knew only as “Smith”—she ended up with Colt. Now she hadn’t the interest or time for men or, sadly, sex.
“I’m not exactly sure, but Gloria said something about his girlfriend kicking him out when he returned from Haiti.” Sara had met Ian’s mother, Gloria, because that woman ran the Angel House, a homeless shelter for women and children where Sara volunteered. “It’s possible he doesn’t have the security deposit to rent someplace new.”
“What’s he even doing in the country?” Gentry asked.
“Maybe he hoped to save his relationship.” Sara kissed Colt and stroked his fuzzy hair, clearly less interested in Ian’s story than she was. “Let’s see if he’ll come take a listen.”
Gentry shot Hunter a look. He shrugged, which meant he knew that Sara wouldn’t let up, and he wasn’t going to argue.
“You’re totally overreacting.” Gentry placed the back of her hand on Colt’s forehead, which did feel a little warm. Not scary hot or anything. She rummaged through the kitchen drawer stuffed with 1,001 infant gizmos. When she located the baby thermometer, she held it up and almost cried “Eureka!” Instead, she stuck it in Colt’s ear until it beeped. “Ninety-nine point six. Nothing a little baby Tylenol can’t handle.”
“That won’t help his lungs. Wouldn’t you rather be safe than sorry?” Sara shrugged a shoulder to emphasize her point.
A quiet stare-down ensued for four seconds, maybe five. Fiddle-flippin’-sticks.
“Fine. Call Ian.” Hopefully, the guy would laugh, and Sara would back down. Gentry reached for her son. Once she had him in her arms, she said, “Excuse me.”
While Sara called Ian and conferred with Hunter, Gentry took Colt to the bathroom and dabbed a cool washcloth across his forehead. She checked his writhing body for a rash but found none. His nose was runny but not totally full of gunk.
Sara’s concern niggled, even though Gentry seriously doubted the need to call in reinforcements. While she changed his diaper, she was struck by his absolute dependence on her judgment. His utter trust. In her.
Her poor son.
If he could speak, she’d know what he needed. Instead, she remained stymied, trying to decipher one cry from another. Trying to determine if his head, ears, or belly caused the ache that kept him crying. What? What? What?
She lifted him and swayed, humming softly in an attempt to comfort him and herself. In all honesty, at any second she could fall apart or asleep—a real toss-up. In the privacy of the bathroom, she blinked a couple of times to hold back the tears pricking her eyes, clinging to her child. It’s us against the world, baby.
Either God took pity on her or Colt had finally worn himself out, because his crying subsided to a dull kind of whine. Gentry took a deep breath and rolled her shoulders back. By the time she returned to the living room, Ian was knocking on the door.
An inadvertent glance in the mirror set off a new shock wave of horror. No wonder Hunter and Sara had been stunned into silence when they’d first arrived.
She closed her eyes, momentarily imagining herself in her normal clothes: Gaultier, perhaps? Trendy high-heeled shoes that drew attention to her long legs and ankle tattoo. A multitude of bracelets on her arm. Her auburn hair artfully woven in a waterfall braid. The image of her old self enabled her to tip up her chin and pretend her robe wasn’t covered in spit-up.
She opened her eyes just as Sara escorted Ian inside. At least her messy apartment would still look like a palace compared with the disaster zones he’d navigated.
Ian hadn’t known what to make of Sara’s call. They’d spoken only on a few brief occasions, but his mother held her in high regard. He remembered their first encounter, when she’d been hurt by someone’s abusive husband who’d barged into the shelter. Once he’d made sure she wasn’t hurt, she’d shifted to the role of matchmaker, bringing up the very sister-in-law who now stood before him. The one he’d later met when she had unexpectedly gone into labor.
Hopefully, no part of Sara’s agenda tonight involved playing Cupid.
He stepped inside the ostentatious, newly constructed unit, with its picture-perfect views framed by massive plate glass windows. This joint probably cost upwards of a million bucks. Like a reflex, his mind immediately calculated other uses for that kind of money: medicine, water, clothes . . . food. Or a donation to the EMT training facility he wanted to build in Haiti in his father’s name.
“Ian, thank you for coming out of your way tonight.” Sara led him into the living room. She gestured to the imposing man on her left. “This is my husband, Hunter, and his sister, Gentry, whom you might remember. And that little bundle is Colt.”
Ian shook Hunter’s hand, reminding himself not to nitpick these people. Sara volunteered at the shelter, and the Cabot family had started a foundation that supported a number of community-outreach programs. If they also thought monogrammed dress shirts and expensive watches were important, who was he to judge? “Nice to meet you.”
He then turned to Gentry, who didn’t look particularly grateful to see him despite the polite smile on her face. She sure hadn’t primped for his arrival, he thought, holding back a wry smile. Clearly, she was no more interested in Sara’s matchmaking than he was. Good.
Ian had zero interest in being fixed up with any woman. Especially not now, after being booted from his apartment by his ex, Farrah. His disinterest in women went doubly so with respect to an heiress to the Cabot Tea fortune, who’d likely drive him up the wall with her First World complaints and oblivious privilege.
“Sorry. I asked Sara not to bother you.” Gentry’s smoky voice could make another kind of guy a little dizzy.
If he had been in the market for a woman, she might tempt him. Despite the circles under her eyes, the ratty ponytail, and bathrobe in need of a serious washing, Gentry Cabot was a head turner. She was tall and proud, with striking green eyes and curves the robe didn’t hide, and his body reacted like any hot-blooded man’s should have. Luckily, his brain put on the brakes.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2016 Lorah Haskins
National bestselling author Jamie Beck’s realistic and heartwarming stories have sold more than one million copies. In addition to being named a 2017 Booksellers’ Best Award finalist, her books have also hit Heavy.com’s Top 10 Romance Novels of 2015 and been selected as a Woman’s World Book Club pick. Critics at Kirkus, Publishers Weekly (including a starred review), and Booklist have alternatively called her work “smart,” “uplifting,” and “enterta
ining.” In addition to writing novels, she enjoys dancing around the kitchen while cooking, and hitting the slopes in Vermont and Utah. Above all, she is a grateful wife and mother to a very patient, supportive family.
Fans can sign up for her newsletter at www.jamiebeck.com, which includes a fun extras page with photos, videos, and playlists. She also loves interacting with everyone on Facebook (www.facebook.com/JamieBeckBooks).