A Father for Her Triplets: Her Pregnancy Surprise Page 14

  “It’s early. You have plenty of light.”

  “We also have lots of work to do.”

  She shook her head. “Suit yourself. But everybody has to wash up before they eat.”

  When she was gone, he directed the kids to the sandbox. “That was close.”

  Lainie said, “What was close?”

  “Nothing.” He pointed at some blocks in the sand. “Aren’t you building a Macy’s?”

  She grinned and picked up the blocks.

  All three kids got back to work as easily as if building block shopping malls was their real job. Wyatt waited fifteen minutes before he checked on the grill, found the briquettes a nice hot white and set the hamburgers on to cook.

  Just as the hamburgers were getting done, Missy came out with buns and potato salad. His mouth watered.

  “Are those buns homemade?”

  She said, “Mmm-hmm.”

  His mouth really watered and he made a mental note to find himself a half-decent restaurant, because everything inside him was really liking this. And he knew he could have it, all of it, the kids, Missy, good food, if he could just pretend that he was the nice guy she thought he was.

  But he wasn’t.

  They sat down to eat and Wyatt forced himself not to gush with praise over how delicious the food was. Then Owen unexpectedly said, “Hey, you know where we went today?”

  It was everything Wyatt could do not to slap his hand over Owen’s mouth to keep him quiet. Instead he said, “We went for a walk,” as he gave Owen a look he hoped would remind him they weren’t supposed to talk about the florist.

  Owen’s eyes widened, then he sheepishly looked away. But Lainie said, “I danced in the street.”

  Missy’s head jerked up. “What?”

  “When we went for our walk, I let her walk ahead of me and she sort of did those circle things ballet dancers do,” Wyatt said.

  “In the street?”

  “There were no cars coming.”

  “No. But you’re teaching them bad habits if you let them get too casual about crossing the street.”

  “Good point,” he said, hoping that his easy acquiescence would smooth things over. “So your bride really liked your cake?”

  Missy took a breath. Wyatt couldn’t tell if it was an annoyed breath or a relieved breath.

  Then she said, “Yes. The bride loved the cake.” She set her fork down and smiled. “I told you I got four referrals.”

  “So how’s your calendar looking these days?”

  “Really good. I’ll have to work with Elaine a lot to see if she can handle setting up a cake alone, but that’s all part of being a start-up business. Everything’s an experiment.”

  “Do you like yellow flowers?”

  Wyatt’s gaze jumped to Claire, who was sliding her fork around her plate as if she was bored, then over to Missy.

  Missy’s gaze had gone to the rows of yellow flowers around her house. She laughed. “Yes. I obviously love yellow flowers.”

  Claire grinned and glanced at Owen. “Told you.”

  Lainie said, “I like pink.”

  Wyatt jumped from his seat. “You know what? I think we should help your mom with these dishes.”

  Missy laughed. “Sit. We have plenty of time. Besides, they’re paper plates. We’ll toss them.”

  “I know, but shouldn’t we get this potato salad into the refrigerator?”

  She frowned. “Because of the mayonnaise?”

  He didn’t have a clue in hell, but he said, “Yes.”

  “Hmm.” She rose. “Maybe.”

  He waved her down. “Sit! The kids and I will do it.”

  “Why are you spoiling me?”

  “We’re not spoiling you. We’re—” Shoot. He almost said something about starting Mother’s Day early. He wasn’t any better at this than the kids.

  “We know you worked hard.”

  Owen tugged on his jeans. “I worked hard.”

  “We all worked hard,” Wyatt agreed. “But your mom’s the only one who got paid for her work, so the rest of us are freeloaders.”

  Owen’s face scrunched in confusion.

  “Which is why we need to earn our supper by cleaning up.”

  Not entirely on board with the idea, Owen nonetheless got up from the table and helped Wyatt and his sisters clear away the paper plates and gather the silverware. In the kitchen, he gave each triplet a dish towel and stood over them as they dried silverware.

  Missy came in carrying the potato salad. “I thought the whole purpose of getting up from the table was to bring this in.”

  He winced. “Sorry.”

  She laughed. “Your memory’s about as good as mine.”

  They finished the silverware and cleared the kitchen table, and then there was nothing to do.

  No reason to keep himself in their company.

  No way he could make sure none of the kids talked about their surprise.

  Owen tugged on his jeans. “You weed me a stowwy?”

  Right! Story! “Only if you take your bath first.”

  Owen’s head swiveled to Missy. “Can we?”

  She frowned. “It’s early.”

  “I never heard of a mother thinking her kids were settling in for the night too early.”

  Her frown deepened. “I suppose not. It’s just not like them.”

  “Well, we did have a busy day.”

  She sighed. “Okay.”

  “Yippee!” Owen raced to the bathroom. Missy tried to fill the tub, but Wyatt shooed her away. “I’ll bathe Owen. You do the girls.”

  When Owen was bathed and in his pj’s, Wyatt stood at the closed bathroom door, listening to the girls’ chatter, hoping they didn’t mention the flowers.

  Apparently the promise of a story was enough to take their minds in another direction. Both Claire and Lainie raced through their baths. He smiled, listening to them talk to their mom, who told them about the bride’s dress and how handsome the groom looked in his tux, making her work that day seem like part of a big fairy tale. A sweet, wonderful fairy tale where moms loved their kids and grooms didn’t get divorced.

  Wouldn’t that be nice?

  “What are you doing?”

  Wyatt glanced down at Owen, who had the big Billy Bunny book again. “Waiting for the girls.”

  “Oh.” He grinned. “I’ll wait, too.”

  Wyatt almost argued, but with the little boy quiet beside him, he decided to take his victories where he could. When the doorknob rattled, he turned Owen toward the bedroom and they scooted down the hall. When the girls arrived in their pink nighties, he and Owen were on Owen’s bed, looking as if they’d been there the whole time.

  Owen handed him the book.

  He frowned. “Billy Bunny again?”

  “We wike it.”

  “Yeah,” Claire said as she climbed into her bed. “We like it.”

  He opened the book. “Okay.”

  He read it twice, dragging out the story as much as he could, hoping to tire the kids. By the end of the second read through, the girls were asleep and Owen was nodding off.

  When Wyatt finished, he slid out of bed, put Owen’s head on the pillow and leaned down to brush a kiss across his forehead. For three kids who loved to talk, keeping their secret had probably been something akin to torture, but they’d come through like three little troupers.

  He straightened away and saw Missy in the doorway, watching him with a smile. He remembered her portrayal for the girls of that day’s wedding, with the handsome groom and the love-struck bride. He could almost see him and Missy standing in a flower-covered gazebo, him in a tux, her in a gown. Lainie pirouetting everywhere.

  He shook his head to clear the picture. T
hat was so wrong.

  As he reached the door, he shooed her into the hall and closed the door behind him. Faking a yawn, he said, “I guess I better get going, too.”

  “Seriously? If I didn’t know better I’d think the four of you really had been working on a shopping mall.”

  “Actually, I think keeping track of three kids for eight hours is harder than building a shopping mall.”

  She laughed, her pretty blue eyes filled with delight. “It’s how I keep my girlish figure.”

  He glanced down, took in every curve of her nearly perfect form and swallowed hard. “You should write a book. It could be the newest diet craze. You could call it ‘how to look eighteen even though you’re thirty-three.’”

  “You think I look eighteen?”

  I think you look fantastic. The words tickled his tongue, pirouetted like Lainie across his teeth. He held them back only because he knew it was for her own good that she didn’t know how beautiful he thought she was.

  “Listen, I really have to go.”

  “Oh.”

  The disappointment in her voice nearly did him in. He hesitated, but gritted his teeth. He wasn’t right for her. She deserved somebody better.

  He headed for the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Oh?”

  Damn it! He really wasn’t any better at this than the kids. Worse, he knew the flowers the next day would make her like him again.

  He really wasn’t very good at this.

  That night he set his alarm for five o’clock, wanting to get up before Missy did. Still tired, he groaned when it rang, but he forced himself out of bed. Missy deserved a Mother’s Day.

  One by one, he carried the flower arrangements to her porch. When he realized he didn’t have a key, he felt along the top of the door, looked under the mat and finally found one under an odd-looking rock in the small flower garden beside the bottom step to her porch.

  He let himself in and began carrying flowers into the kitchen. With all nine pots and vases on the table, he found eggs in her refrigerator and bread for the toaster and started their simple breakfast.

  Before even the first two slices of bread popped, Owen sleepily ambled into the kitchen. Claire followed a few seconds behind him and Lainie a few seconds after that.

  “Everybody has to be quiet,” he whispered as the kids raced to the table filled with their flowers.

  * * *

  Missy awakened to the oddest noise. She could have sworn it was a pop. Or was it a bang?

  Oh, Lord. A woman with three kids did not like to hear a bang. She whipped off her covers and ran to the kitchen, only to find a table full of flowers, Wyatt with his arms up to the elbows in sudsy water and Claire standing on the step stool making toast.

  Missy walked into the kitchen. “What’s this?”

  Everybody froze at the sound of her voice.

  Wyatt said, “What did we practice?”

  All three kids shouted, “Happy Mother’s Day.”

  Owen raced over and caught her around the knees, hugging for all he was worth. Claire bounced off the step stool and ran over, too. Lainie danced to the flowers. “These are yours.”

  Her heart stuttered. Tears pricked her eyelids. She pressed her fingers to her lips. Three azalea bushes towered over the lower “fancy” arrangements, which had plastic decorations stuck among the flowers that proclaimed Happy Mother’s Day! Three long-stemmed red roses sat in tall milk-glass vases.

  She swallowed. Four Mother’s Days had come and gone with no recognition, and truth be told, she’d been too busy to notice. If anything, she mourned her mom on Mother’s Day.

  She walked to the table, ran her fingers along the velvety petal of one of the roses. How could a man who thought to help her kids get her flowers for Mother’s Day—a man who was making her breakfast, which she could smell was now burning—think he wasn’t nice?

  Her eyes filled with tears, half from the surprise and half from sorrow for him. His ex had really done a number on him.

  She peeked over at Wyatt. “Thanks.”

  Flipping scrambled eggs, which smoked when he shifted them, he said, “It was nothing.”

  It was everything. But she couldn’t tell him that.

  This guy, who was probably the kindest, most considerate person she’d ever known, didn’t have any idea how good he was.

  She looked at him—organizing the kids, tossing Claire’s burned toast into the trash, starting over with the scrambled eggs—and something happened inside her chest.

  She’d already realized that she loved him. She’d tried a few halfhearted attempts to let him know, and even an attempt to ask him if she could visit him or if he could visit her again. But somehow she’d never been able to get out the right words. And she’d never actually led him into the will-you-visit-us or can-we-visit-you conversation.

  Still, the sense she had this time, the strong sense that burst inside her and caused her spine to straighten and her brain to shift into gear, told her the days of halfhearted attempts were gone. She wanted this man in her life forever.

  And by God, she would figure out a way to keep him.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  AFTER BREAKFAST, Owen and his sisters directed Missy to the living room recliner. Wyatt handed her the Sunday paper. Lainie found the side controller and flipped up the footrest.

  Missy laughed. “You’re spoiling me.”

  “Oh, I have a feeling one day of spoiling won’t hurt you.” Wyatt turned to the door. “We’ll clean the kitchen, then get the kids out of pj’s into shorts so that we can play outside.”

  Laughing again, she opened the paper and read until Wyatt had all three kids dressed and on their way out the door.

  As soon as they were gone, she leaped out of the chair and found her cell phone.

  “Nancy? It’s me, Missy Brooks. Are you busy tonight?”

  If she was going to seduce Wyatt McKenzie, she couldn’t do it with a baby monitor in her right hand. She needed a sitter.

  * * *

  A little after nine that night, a knock on the door surprised Wyatt. He was in bedroom number three now. After caring for the kids that afternoon, giving Missy a break, his heart had hurt so much he’d come home and begun digging. He needed to find his grandmother’s jewelry and get home before he said or did something he’d regret. Something that would ultimately hurt Missy.

  The knock sounded again. “I’m coming! I’m coming!”

  He raced to the door and whipped it open. There stood Missy, her hair wet from the unexpected spring rain, her eyes shining with laughter.

  She displayed a bottle of wine. “It’s a thank-you.”

  He looked at the bottle. What he’d done for her, the flowers, the breakfast, those were simple things someone should have thought to do four years ago. Yet she didn’t let a kindness go unnoticed. She took the time to do something nice in return.

  That was part of why he liked her so much. Part of why she was so tempting. Part of why she was too good for him.

  He opened the door and took it. “Thanks. But I’m—”

  But as he tried to close the door again, she wedged her way inside. “I brought the wine for us to drink.”

  “Oh.” That couldn’t happen. Wine made him romantic. And after an afternoon with three kids he was coming to adore, and an emotional morning of being proud of himself for helping her kids give her a real Mother’s Day, the two of them alone with a bottle of wine was not such a good idea.

  Thinking fast, he said, “Well, then we’ll have to drink it while we look for jewelry. That’s the agenda for tonight.”

  She rolled up her sleeves. “I don’t mind.”

  Of course she didn’t. She might like him, but she didn’t seem to be experiencing the heart-stopping, fiery
attraction he had for her. Drinking wine like two friends, digging through boxes for Scottish jewelry that may or may not exist, was a fun evening for her.

  Watching her, hearing her laugh, wanting her so much he ached all over, would be an evening of torture for him.

  Still, he got two glasses, pulled the cork from the wine and led her to the bedroom.

  He poured two glasses of wine and handed one to her.

  She peeked up and smiled. “Thanks.”

  His heart zigzagged through his chest. Her eyes sparkled. Her face glowed with happiness. He knew he was responsible for her happiness and part of him just wanted to take the credit for what he’d done, to accept her gratitude by kissing her senseless and—

  Oh, boy. That “and” was exactly where they shouldn’t go.

  He turned away. “You’re welcome.” He put his glass to his lips, but instead of taking a sip, he gulped, then had to refill his glass.

  She laughed. “I know you hate looking for this jewelry, but be careful with the wine.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.” He couldn’t keep his voice from sounding just a tad childish and bitter. And why shouldn’t he be? The woman he’d always loved was at his fingertips, but he was too much of a gentleman to take her.

  Damn his stupid manners! He was going to have a long talk with his mother when he got home.

  “Let’s just get to work.”

  She looked around with a smile, sipped her wine, then turned her smile on him. “Where do we start?”

  “Those boxes there.” He pointed at a tall stack. “Are all things I’ve gone through.” He pointed at another stack. “So start there.”

  She walked over to the pile, sat on the floor and went to work on the shoe boxes, popping lids, pouring out junk, sifting through it for jewelry, and then moving on to the next box, as he’d explained to her the day her kids had helped him.

  They worked in silence for at least twenty minutes. Done with her stack, she moved to the one beside it.

  “I had to go through a lot of junk when my gram died, too.”

  Her voice eased into the silent room. Okay with the neutral comment, he said, “Really?”

  “Yep. She wasn’t quite the packrat your gram seemed to be, but she kept a lot of mason jars in the basement.”