“Of course.” She inched into the room, which was barely big enough to accommodate all three of them. Max scampered to her and wrapped his arm around her leg. “I used the potty,” he boasted, but he still sounded subdued, as if the entire experience was skewed because Brett had been involved.
“Brett, you didn’t have to—”
“He was done. He needed a diaper.” He shook the excess water from his hands and dried them on a towel, then turned to face her. His face was a handsome blank, as if he couldn’t quite decide how he felt about the whole thing.
Sharon knew how she felt about it—but she couldn’t tell him without embarrassing him. To be sure, she didn’t want to tell him. She wanted to show him, starting with a kiss and moving on to other things. And afterward, lying in his arms, she wanted to thank him for trying so hard to overcome his past, for silencing his demons. For changing a diaper, and changing all his plans and all his dreams, just for her little boy.
Just for her.
* * *
Several hours later, their bodies cooling side by side atop the wrinkled sheets, she decided she’d done a pretty good job of communicating how she felt. He had his arm around her and her head rested on his shoulder, which was really too bony to be comfortable. She didn’t mind, though. She liked the cragginess of it, the way he trailed his fingers through her hair and along the edge of her cheek, the way his rock-hard hip pressed into hers. The way his body took up so much of her bed.
“Can you stay the night?” she asked.
“I didn’t bring any fresh clothes with me.” He traced the curve of her ear. “Not that that matters. Max’ll wake us up so early, I’ll have plenty of time to go home, shower and suit up for work.”
“Is it hard, what you do?” she asked. He never talked about his work.
He chuckled. “So far, the hardest part of the job has been posing for photos for the annual report.” His thumb made a foray behind her ear, definitely an erogenous zone. Her legs twitched and she stifled a tiny moan. “It doesn’t seem hard to me, but that’s because I’ve got a talent for it. To me, taking photographs would be hard.”
“But you’re investing all that money. People trust you with their life’s savings.”
“They trust me because they know I’ll take good care of their funds. And I do. I can’t control the market, but my funds almost always come out ahead of the game.”
“Why don’t you work in New York? That’s where Wall Street is.”
“I don’t have to be on Wall Street. I’ve got computers, I’ve got phone lines, and I’ve got an office down in Manhattan, with a small staff that takes care of the hands-on stuff and picks up any gossip I might need to know. Investment fund managers are located all over the place, Sharon. You don’t have to have a seat on the exchange to do what I do.”
“Well, it’s nice that you can live here in Arlington, where you want to be.” She shifted onto her side, adjusting her head to rest on a less bumpy part of his shoulder, and let her hand come to rest on his chest. She could feel his heart beat, steady and soothing. Ten minutes ago, it had probably been racing as hers had been. But she liked the part of lovemaking that came afterward—the unwinding, the tranquil lassitude—almost as much as the sex part. “Where exactly do you live?”
“Would you like to see my house?”
“Not this minute.”
“Of course not this minute. How about this weekend?”
Oh, God. This weekend was going to be jammed. When Deborah had phoned earlier that evening, Sharon had been so startled by her news that she’d forgotten to ask if she could take Max for the day. What if she couldn’t? What if she and Raymond were planning another little reconciliation? What if she was expecting Sharon to take Olivia?
“Sharon?” Brett prodded her.
“I’m sorry. I’m just so snowed under. I’ve got three yearbook shoots scheduled for Saturday morning. And in the afternoon, I was hoping I could finish getting my portfolio ready so I can submit it to the town birthday committee. I’ve still got to make some prints and get everything organized. The deadline is September first.”
“How about Friday night?” he asked.
“You mean, to come to your house?” She frowned. Friday night she’d be dealing with Max. If Brett wanted her to bring Max with her to his house, he’d better first childproof the place.
“Why don’t you get a baby-sitter for Friday night, and I’ll fix us a nice dinner at my house?”
What a lovely invitation! A man fixing dinner for her. She couldn’t recall any man ever making dinner for her before. Not even Steve, not even after they were married. “I wouldn’t be able to stay over, though,” she pointed out. “Tracy’s only sixteen. I couldn’t have her spend the night here with Max. Assuming she even wanted to—”
“Get Tracy for the evening. We’ll have a nice, peaceful dinner and then come back here for the night.”
“Yes.” She kissed the warm skin of his upper chest. “I’d love that. I wish...” She faltered. She’d learned long ago not to play that game, to wish things were different.
“You wish what?” he asked.
“That I didn’t have such a wretched schedule lined up for Saturday.”
“I’ll take Max.”
“What?” She jerked out of his arm and sat up so she could see his face. “You’ll take him where?”
“You can go to your studio and get your work done. And the portfolio, too. I can take Max with me to Daddy School—all the guys in the class did that last Saturday. The kids went upstairs and played while the dads had their class downstairs.”
“Yes, but that would be just for the morning. Maybe Deborah could take him in the afternoon,” she added, planning out loud.
“No.” He sat up, too, and gazed squarely at her. “I’m saying I’ll take Max for the day, so you can prepare your photos for the Arlington book.”
“Why? Why would you do that?”
His grin was crooked, not quite heartfelt. “Because I’m a masochist?” he guessed, then shook his head. He gathered her hand in his, held it up, ran a finger along the lines that creased the curve of her palm. “Because,” he said solemnly, “if this thing between us—whatever it is—if it’s ever going to have a chance to work, I’ve got to get used to dealing with Max. There’s no way around it.”
Then he wanted “this thing” between them to go forward. He wanted to look ahead, to consider a future for him and Sharon. Her heart pounded harder than it had when they’d been locked together, cresting together. He was talking about love.
“It doesn’t seem fair,” she murmured, unable to look away from him. “You’re making all the sacrifices, all the adjustments. You’re going to the Daddy School, you’re willing to take care of Max for the day, you’re—I don’t know, hinting that you’re rethinking your entire view of children. And what am I doing for you? What am I giving up?”
“Do you have to give something up? Do you think I’m giving something up?” He sighed. “I guess I’m prepared to find out if the rewards are greater than the sacrifices. Or maybe... maybe I just think it’s time to get over it. I’m not eight years old anymore. And you’re not my mother. You’re not dumping your responsibilities on me.” He lifted her hand and kissed the tips of her fingers. “I don’t know if this is going to work out, Sharon. I’m pretty good at predicting stock trends, but I don’t have a crystal ball when it comes to this kind of thing. All I know is, you’re the first woman I’ve ever met who made me believe it was worth trying. So—I’m going to try.”
Her eyes welled up with tears. A few spilled over and trickled down her cheeks. Brett’s words were more romantic than his dinner invitation, more romantic even than a declaration of love.
“What’s with the crying?” he asked, his smile genuine this time.
She sniffled and brushed a stray tear away with her free hand. “I’m crying because I’m happy,” she told him. “I’m so glad you came into my life, Brett.”
“As I recall, you
came into mine. With that belly-dancer doll. That’s what really turned me on, Sharon—that doll of yours.”
She laughed. And cried. And climbed into his lap, wrapped her arms around him and held onto him as if he were a miraculous gift. For nearly three long years, she had struggled, gotten by, loved her son and made the best of her fate. But now she didn’t have to use gels and angles to make her life look better than it was. The lighting was ideal, the focus perfect. Brett had made it so.
* * *
Once again, he couldn’t sleep. She was practically comatose beside him. No doubt raising a toddler and running a business by herself sucked all the energy out of her.
Well, not all. She had enough energy to make him crazy with lust. If he chose to analyze it, he’d probably come up with a valid explanation for why sex was so damned good between them. Maybe because she’d gone so long without, and he was the lucky beneficiary of her voraciousness. Except she wasn’t exactly voracious. She was eager, welcoming—but completely tuned in to him. It wasn’t just sex she responded to. It was Brett.
He’d never been the sort of guy for whom any woman would do. He was responding to her just as specifically as she responded to him. The way her body felt around him, the way her eyes glazed and her breath caught and her hands slid across his skin... She was strong. He liked that. Strong and wholehearted. During those moments when they were loving each other, nothing else existed in her consciousness or his. It was all about Sharon and Brett, two people who needed and wanted and trusted each other.
He didn’t want to overanalyze it. Some things were better left unexamined, simply accepted with gratitude.
He eased out of bed, then turned to check on her. She hadn’t moved. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted, her hand dangling over the edge of the mattress. He grabbed his jeans, pulled them on and glanced at her again. The only sign of life was the rise and fall of her bosom as she breathed.
She had beautiful breasts, full and round. He lifted the top sheet over them so he wouldn’t spend the next half hour staring at them and reliving the intensity of sex with her.
Barefoot, he made no sound as he tiptoed across the carpet to the door. He eased it open and stepped out. Max’s bedroom door stood open, and the glow of his night-light laid a slash of amber across the floor of the hallway. He nudged the door wider and peered inside.
Max was a lump at the center of his bed. His butt was hunched upward, his knees tucked under him, his head half-hidden by a stuffed animal. He snored faintly.
Once Brett’s eyes had adjusted to the dim light, he surveyed the room. A mobile hung from the ceiling above the bed, airplanes floating on arched wires. A bookshelf by the bed held a collection of picture books, plastic blocks, a sturdy-looking boom box and a stack of cassette tapes. A chest of drawers stood against one wall, a toy chest against another, with a child-size chair and desk beside it. A convoy of yellow toy trucks was parked under the desk, along with a tiny sock and striped ball.
Brett recalled the miniature desk he’d sat on at the Daddy School class last Saturday. At least the class he’d attended at the YMCA that evening had featured adult-size furniture.
The class itself hadn’t offered him much. The teacher was intelligent and knowledgeable, but the subject—injuries and illnesses in children—wasn’t relevant to him. He needed to learn how to feel comfortable around children, not how to remove splinters or deal with chronic ear infections or how to know when to race to the emergency room.
But he’d gained something from the class, anyway: an awareness that he wasn’t all that different from other men. They loved their children but felt overwhelmed by them, many of them harboring a secret fear that they’d lost an essential part of themselves to their offspring. “When I’m with him, I feel as if I’m not really human,” one new father had confessed. “I’m just this machine that supplies things. Strained carrots, clean diapers, a shoulder to burp on. I’m like a slave.”
Brett could sure as hell relate to that sentiment. So, apparently, could most of the other fathers. Allison Winslow, the neonatal nurse who taught the class, let them talk about that for a while, kind of like a support group. The discussion didn’t solve anything, but it made Brett realize that he wasn’t a freak, missing the vital gene for nurturing. These were fathers, men who had voluntarily decided to bring a new life into the world, and yet they resented their children, the precious babies they loved. They suffered from doubt and rage, just like him.
But they were managing. They were serving as the supply machines to their children, and doing it willingly, doing it without letting themselves get knocked out of alignment. Why? Maybe because they loved the children. Maybe because they loved the children’s mothers.
Brett was no slouch. He was smart, he was successful, he was wealthy, and he was one of the top ten tennis players at his club. If these other men could cope, he could, too.
He couldn’t imagine ever loving Max. But Sharon?
He could do this for her.
Chapter Thirteen
“Did I mention that I’m not much of a cook?” Brett asked, his smile tinged with guilt. Across the polished-granite counter in his kitchen stood the evidence: a disposable foil pan filled with lasagna, a plastic-wrapped loaf of garlic bread, plastic bags filled with ready-to-serve salad fixings and several empty shopping bags featuring the logo of a major supermarket.
“After working all day,” Sharon said, “I didn’t expect you to come home and cook a complete meal.”
“I can cook a few things,” he admitted as he set the oven temperature and turned it on. “Fried eggs. Hamburgers. Steak, as long as you don’t mind if it’s a little underdone or overdone. Oh, and I can pour a mean bowl of cereal.”
Sharon laughed. “Cereal, huh? And fried eggs. Breakfast must be your specialty.”
“Someday you’ll have to let me show you.” His smile faded just a bit.
Sharon felt hers wane, too. To have Brett demonstrate his breakfast talents for her would require an overnight stay at his house. And she would love to spend the night with him here.
Thanks to Max, that was hardly likely to happen. If only...
No, she wouldn’t let her mind wander down the if-only path. Brett was doing his damnedest to overcome his resentment of Max. Sharon couldn’t let herself move in the opposite direction, chafing at the obstacles Max imposed on her love life.
In fact, having Brett fix her steak-and-eggs and cereal after spending the night in his bed might not be a complete impossibility. Deborah had offered more than once to let Max sleep over at her place; one of these days, Sharon ought to accept the offer. Then she and Brett could dream together, limbs entwined, breathing synchronized. They could wake up slowly, drifting together in that netherworld between sleep and consciousness. They could make love in the morning, without having to cringe at the clock or strain for the sound of Max prowling around the house. And then they could sip coffee and indulge in a leisurely breakfast feast, one that included no spills, no drumming on the table with tiny fists, no discussion of potties and diapers—and not a single mention of the word “no.”
It could happen. Maybe someday it would.
She wasn’t sure what she’d expected Brett’s house to be like, but she was surprised by the reality. He lived not on the ritzy west side of town but on the east side, in a cozy neighborhood of well-maintained houses and ancient trees. From the outside, his house looked like a modest ranch, sided in weathered gray shingles and trimmed with simple white shutters. But interior walls must have been removed to open the space, creating airy, light-filled rooms. The wall paint was clean and devoid of smudgy little fingerprints. The floors were hardwood, warmed by beige rugs. Such pale rugs were utterly impractical, she thought—a mother’s reflexive appraisal.
She’d arrived at his house at seven, after having fed and bathed Max, showered, donned a summer-weight slacks outfit and gotten Max and Tracy organized with one of his favorite videos. Brett had obviously showered and changed from his work
clothes, too; he wore jeans and a polo shirt the same blue as his eyes. His hair was still damp and scored with tracks left by his comb.
She was also surprised by how comfortable she felt in his house. Probably because he was so comfortable, himself. Without Max underfoot, he was obviously relaxed. His mouth settled easily into a smile.
He filled a goblet with red wine and handed it to her. “I’ve got some stuff still to do here,” he said, waving grandly at the bags of pre-washed vegetables conveniently cut into chunks. “You’re welcome to keep me company, or you can go explore.”
Much as she’d love keeping him company, she couldn’t resist his generous invitation. “I think I’ll explore,” she said. “It would break my heart to have to watch you slaving over a hot stove.”
He shot her a sharp look, then laughed and got busy searching his cabinets, probably for some utensil he never used because he rarely cooked.
She carried her wine out of the kitchen, through a dining area and into what appeared to be a den extending off the back of the house. It overlooked a slightly overgrown yard, one she could envision a bit neater, with a vegetable garden cut out of one corner and Max’s tricycle parked on the patio.
No, she mustn’t think that way.
Turning from the sliding glass doors that opened onto the yard, she surveyed the room. It looked like a typical male lair: huge flat-screen TV, oversized leather couch and chairs, state-of-the-art stereo equipment, VCR and DVD. Just like Max, Brett filled his playroom with his toys.
She scanned the teak bookcases lining one wall. Judging by the books on his shelves, she concluded that he had a taste for popular history and biography and novels about financial skullduggery. Some classics were mixed in among the thrillers—holdovers from his college days, perhaps. At the bottom of one shelf, half hidden by the bulky swivel recliner, a thick leather-bound book lay on its side.
A photo album.
She glanced behind her, as if afraid to get caught snooping. But he’d invited her to explore. If certain parts of his house were off-limits, he should have warned her.
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