“Yeah,” Meg said, her forehead crunching, the soft laughter in her eyes gone. “This is Abbie. Say hi to Russ, sweet pea,” she encouraged the baby, who buried her face in her mother’s neck, their copper-colored curls tangling. Even from six feet away, Russ knew how they smelled, like flowers and baby powder. Regret fisted in his belly.
“You don’t like kids?” she asked, mildly enough, and his gut cramped harder.
“I’d better go,” he muttered, closing the dishwasher. Knowing he was taking the coward’s way out. Knowing, too, that sometimes evading the truth was the best option. The only option. “Please thank your mother for me.”
“Do it yourself, she’s right out in the living room.”
Confusion, more than irritation, colored her words. Whatever it was, Russ hated himself for having put it there. Except it was crazy, anyway, his reaction to her. Because she was…bubbly. And he didn’t do bubbly.
At least not anymore.
“You’re not leaving already!” Disappointment swam in Frances Carter’s amber eyes. “We haven’t even had dessert yet!”
“I’m sorry, but I have a contractor coming at seven tomorrow morning,” he lied. “And I’ve got nearly an hour’s drive ahead of me….”
“Of course, of course, I understand,” Meg’s mother said, shepherding him to the front door. “But please—any Thursday night you’re free, you’re welcome to join us!”
Russ mumbled something about her being very kind, then got the hell out of there while he still could. Before the memory of a mischievous smile underneath a riot of red curls, the innocence in a baby’s calm, gray gaze, could suck him back in. Make him forget.
Or worse, make him remember.
***
“Ow!” Howie said, rubbing his shoulder after Meg smacked him. “What was that for?”
“You know perfectly well what that was for! Honestly, when are you guys—” this was directed at all the brothers “—gonna quit with the fix-up attempts? Or at least vet them a little better. Sheesh!”
She turned and stormed back into the kitchen, taking some small satisfaction in Howie’s yelp when the swinging door smacked him in the face. Abbie was outside again, chasing fireflies, too young to know she’d just been snubbed. Although why this was bothering Meg, she had no idea. So the dude wasn’t wild about kids. Like this was news. How many men were?
“Meg, I’m sorry,” her brother said, trying to get her attention as she flew around the kitchen, shoving aside assorted sisters-in-law. “I just thought, here’s this nice, single guy, not bad-looking, got his own business and—”
“And a) you ambushed both of us, which is not cool. And b) did you happen to feel him out as to how he felt about kids?” At Howie’s frown, Meg sighed. “No. I thought not.”
“Who doesn’t like kids?”
A genuine question, from him. As it would have been from any of her brothers, actually, all of whom got double—if not triple—doses of the Perfect Daddy gene. But for all Meg’s protestations about not being ready for a serious relationship, the truth was it wasn’t that easy finding somebody gung ho about taking on another man’s kid. Not that Abbie would ever want for good male role models, but the kid needed a father. One who’d love her as much as Meg loved her.
Somebody who’d love Meg as much as she deserved to be loved. God knows Abbie’s father hadn’t fit the bill on either count. And damned if Meg was going to put herself, or her daughter, through that particular hell a second time.
“I can’t believe you’d even ask that question,” she lobbed at her brother. Howie pushed out a breath, raking his hand over his thinning hair. But he gave her the frustrated Big Brother look that routinely drove her nuts.
“Not every man’s like The Skunk, you know.”
“Obviously not, since I’m related to four of them. But you didn’t see the look on Russ’s face when he saw Abbie.” To her shock, tears stung her eyes. What the heck? She blinked them back. “Not that anything would have come of it, anyway.”
“And how many times,” her mother said, “do I have to tell you boys to behave when we have company? What’s the point of inviting a young man over for Meg if you’re just going to scare him off?”
Meg almost laughed. “No, it’s not that. Well, not completely.” She sighed. “Open the dishwasher.” After a puzzled glance, her mother did; as a group, her sisters-in-law peered inside. And collectively gasped.
“I take it Russ did this?” Briana said, rubbing her belly.
“Yep.”
Four sets of eyes turned to her. Knowing eyes. Because the family penchant for messiness was legendary. Too many kids, too little incentive to fight a losing battle. Not that any of them let the sink pile with dirty dishes or anything like that, but pristine was not a top priority in any of their houses. Let alone sorting the silverware.
For a brief moment, she envisioned Russ’s sock drawer and shuddered. As he would undoubtedly do to hers.
If she had a sock drawer, that is.
So between that and his quick exit after seeing Abbie…
When no one said anything, she rotated her shoulders, held up her head and marched out of the room, secure in the knowledge she’d never see Russ Michaels again.
A thought she found strangely unsettling.
***
Toddlers, Meg groggily mused as Abbie’s “Get me up!” wail pierced the darkness, did not know from Saturday mornings. Unfortunately. Yawning, she shuffled through a toy-store’s worth of stuffed animals strewn on the floor of her itty-bitty apartment to get to the glorified pantry she’d turned into the cutest baby’s room ever. Standing in her crib, Abbie greeted her with outstretched arms and a huge smile, melting Meg’s heart. Even though it was still dark and the baby didn’t exactly smell like roses.
“Phew-wee, little girl,” she said, making a face. “Stin-kee!”
Abbie, naturally, thought this was hilarious. “’Tink-ee!” she said, holding her nose and waving the air while Meg quickly changed her diaper and dressed her in a clean Onesie. By this time the sky had pinked up enough to consider it morning, and the day stretched out in front of them.
Like an enormous void.
Not that Meg couldn’t think of a dozen activities to do with her daughter—the park, the zoo, hanging out with the cousins, but…
But look at this kid, she thought, smiling as she watched Abbie shovel scrambled eggs—more or less—into her mouth. Wasn’t there someone, somewhere, who’d go nuts for the chance to share this amazing kid with her?
And no, that didn’t mean she was still thinking about Russ. Because she wasn’t. Okay, maybe he’d crossed her mind once or twice. Because the more she thought about it, the more his reaction to Abbie bugged her. As though there was something more behind his reaction than a simple aversion to kids.
She sighed. Because some paths are simply not worth going down.
Meg cleaned up the eggified baby and sprang her out of her high chair; Abbie immediately toddled to the front door and pointed. “Bye-bye?” she said, just as Meg’s cell phone rang.
“Did I tell you we’re installing over at Blake House today?” her father said without preamble.
Meg smiled. Blake House had been a run-down, abandoned Queen Anne, not far from the Victorian neighborhood where she now lived. She used to dream about one day owning the old house, until a couple from New York beat her to it. Gradually they’d been restoring the old girl—and the ten acres of grounds she sat on—to its former glory to run as a small inn. Her father had been tickled to death to get the landscaping contract.
“On Saturday?”
“It’s a rush job. They got a wedding coming up, and we wouldn’t get it done in time if we waited. Anyway, you should bring the baby over. They got ducks. And peacocks. The boys are all bringing their kids, it’ll be fun.”
Another Saturday with the family, Meg thought on a sigh, then decided—it could be worse. A lot worse. So after a shared bath and a half-hour trying to find Abbie’s sandals, she tossed on a pair of shorts and a baby-doll blouse, strapped Abbie in her stroller and off they went, arriving at the old house twenty minutes later.
And what should be the first thing she saw, but Russ hauling a tray of full-grown chrysanthemums across the massive front lawn…about the same time he spotted her.
She froze, having no clue what to do next.
Although running like hell was sounding better by the second.
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