Bachelor Father (12 page)

“No!” Jake let loose with an ear-splitting
wail that carried easily from his bedroom to the bathroom down the
hall.

What now? Brett threw the wet towel in the tub
and ran his hand through his damp hair. Jake had been a regular
little monster to clean up tonight, as the pools of water on the
floor attested. Too much excitement. But who could blame the little
dude. It wasn’t every day a guy got married. Brett admitted to
being a little worked up about the experience himself.

Jake was beet red and still in full wail when
Brett reached the bedroom door. Molly sat on the bed looking rather
haggard. “It’s okay,” she crooned, smoothing the baby’s jet back
hair from his forehead. Jake had run “his Boo” ragged all
afternoon, dragging out all of his favorite toys for her and Helen
Potter.

“More ‘tory,” he sobbed.

Molly wearily pulled another storybook from
the shelf.

“Wait,” Brett commanded.

Molly gasped and the book flew across the
room. “Lord, you scared me.”

“Sorry.” Brett picked up the book and stood on
the opposite side of the bed.

“Boo, ‘tory,” Jake told him, rubbing his
eyes.

“I think Molly’s read you enough stories
tonight, Bud.”

Jake sniffled.

“He got so upset when I said he had to go to
sleep.” Molly fingered the cross that lay nestled between her
breasts.

“I’ll handle Jake. Why don’t you go
downstairs?”

Relief flooded Molly’s face. “If you’re
sure.”

“I’m sure. This tantrum isn’t anything I
haven’t handled before.”

“He does this often?” she asked.

“Nah, only when he’s super tired like tonight.
Go on. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

Molly gave him a skeptical look and
left.

Brett counted the storybooks on top of the
bookcase. She must have read Jake at least four stories. Brett
always stopped at two bedtime stories.

Molly gave into Jake’s demands too easily.
Brett wondered if she had any more experience with kids than he
did. She must or she wouldn’t be certified as a foster parent,
would she? Regardless, he’d better make his rules for Jake clear to
Molly or before they knew it he’d be running their lives. Then,
she’d leave and he’d be stuck with the results. Brett ignored the
twinge of disappointment that he felt at the thought of Molly
leaving.

“Unca, ‘tory.”

“No, Bud,” Brett said firmly. “You’ve had
enough stories. Time to go to sleep.”

Jake started to scrunch his face.

“Oh, no you don’t. Not with me.” Brett bent to
re-tuck Jake’s covers.

Jake sniffled. “Hugs.” His lip quivered as he
reached for Brett. Brett embraced the warm little body. The
realization that he was all that Jake had and Jake was all that he
had once again overwhelmed Brett. He hugged the child
fiercely.

“Boo, hugs?” Jake asked when Brett dragged
himself away.

“Nice try, but no. Molly’s tired.”

Jake seemed to ponder Brett’s statement for a
moment. “Me tired.” He stuck his thumb in his mouth and snuggled
into his pillow.

Brett kissed the top of Jake’s head and
secured his covers.

Hugging Molly sounded good to Brett, too. He
would, except she might not appreciate his efforts. He had an
inkling Molly wasn’t overly free with her affections. Maybe he and
Jake ought to work on that. Yeah, that could be fun. A few friendly
kisses and hugs, no chains attached. Not like a real
marriage.

But first, he’d better set Molly straight
about the house rules concerning Jake. And, while he was at it,
he’d tell her he didn’t like the way she’d left the church without
him. Yep, they needed to set some ground rules and fast if this
relationship was going to last the weekend, let alone until Jake’s
adoption was approved.

Brett headed down the stairs. “Molly, we . .
.” He paused on the landing. Molly stirred in her sleep. Soft light
from the floor lamp illuminated her face, giving her pale skin a
pearlesque sheen and muting the sprinkle of freckles that bridged
her nose. Her hair fanned out on the couch cushion in a red-gold
halo that caught the lamp light and reflected it back.

A compulsion to touch her hair overwhelmed
Brett. He wanted —no needed—to see if it was as angel soft as it
looked. He should wake her. Yes. They needed to talk. He walked to
the couch and reached to shake her shoulder but, instead, gently
lifted one red-gold tress from her cheek. He rubbed it between his
thumb and forefinger. Angel soft. He kissed the top of her head as
he had Jake’s. An herbal scent engulfed his senses. Angel sweet,
too. They could talk tomorrow.

Brett went to the window seat, lifted the
cover, and pulled out a quilt. He covered Molly and, after
switching off the lamp, headed back upstairs.

Chapter Eight

“Some honeymoon.” Brett hoisted a box to his
shoulder. “Are we having fun, yet?”

Molly grimaced. Packing wasn’t exactly the way
she’d envisioned the morning after her wedding, either. Not that
she’d given much previous thought to having a wedding or a morning
after.

“I’m almost done packing,” she said. “Go ahead
and take that box out to the Jeep while I get the things from my
room.”

Molly went to the master bedroom of the condo
and began removing the last items from her dresser. She probably
should have brought her things out to Brett’s house last weekend,
but she hadn’t wanted to miss the two-day conference on Russian
adoptions. She’d signed up for it months ago.

Then, too, since she hadn’t found anyone to
sublease the condo, she’d expected to be able to move her stuff
gradually, stopping after work every day to pick up a few things.
But that was before Brett decided to help. On Wednesday, he’d
called and announced that he had someone to take the condo off her
hands for three months, a couple he’d done some surveying work for.
Their new house wasn’t ready to move into yet, and they had to be
out of their old house. The catch was, they had to move in this
week.

When she’d protested next week was too soon,
he’d thrown her own words back at her. She was the one who had
insisted on splitting the mortgage, food, and utilities while they
were married. She was the one who had insisted on renting out the
condo.

A movement in the mirror caught her eye. Brett
leaned in the doorway. He’d taken off his flannel shirt. She
couldn’t help noticing how his crossed arms and well-fitted T-shirt
emphasized his biceps and broad chest.

Averting her eyes, Molly folded the dresser
scarf and placed in the box, smoothing and tucking it fastidiously
around the packed items. Even without looking, she knew Brett’s was
watching on her. She checked her image in the mirror, baggy
sweatpants, oversized sweater, hair back in a ponytail with
tendrils falling down around her face. Whatever was he seeing to
cause that goofy smile?

His gaze caught hers in the mirror and held it
for a moment. “So, are you all done?” he asked.

“I think so.” She scanned the room. It looked
positively sterile with the empty shelves and bare off-white walls.
“I’ve got this one last box to go out.”

“Then, what?”

“The bed has to be dismantled.”

“I’ll grab my tools from the Jeep.” Brett
said.

“No, I’ve got a wrench here.” She waved it at
him. “I put the bed together. I can take it apart.”

His skeptical look irritated her. “Here.” She
pointed at the box by her feet. “This can go out, and if Charles
has arrived with his brother’s step van, you and he can start
loading the living room furniture.” Molly was putting most of her
furniture in storage. She felt uncomfortable with the idea of other
people using her things.

“Aye, aye, Captain.” He took the box and
left.

Molly went to work on the bolts holding the
headboard. The first one came off easily. She started on the
second.

“Ouch!” The wrench slipped and her knuckles
grazed the sharp wood edge. She dropped the wrench and curled her
fingers, clasping the scraped fist in her left hand. That
smarted.

“You okay?” Brett called from the other room
as he shut the door.

“Yes.” Molly rocked back and forth on her
knees, still clasping her hand.

He held out his hand. “Let me see.”

When Molly lifted her left hand, she saw a
smear of blood on her palm. She hated the sight of blood,
particularly her own.

Brett gingerly took her hurt hand in his and
grasped her elbow with his other hand. Her head started to spin
when he helped her to her feet.

“Come on,” she heard through the haze. “I’ll
fix you up.” Brett guided her to the bathroom.

“You look like you’d better sit down,” Brett
said, directing her to the toilet seat.

She sat head down and placed her hand on the
side of the sink. The room spun as it had the time she passed out
in high school biology lab making a slide smear to determine her
blood type.

Brett gently washed her knuckle with soap and
warm water. “Nice work. You gashed yourself good.”

Molly waited for him to say, “I
told you so.” But she thought defensively, she
had
put the bedstead together and
figured she
could
take it apart.

“Do you have any antiseptic, and bandages?” he
asked, instead.

Good thing she’d left the bathroom for last.
Keeping her head down, she lifted her wounded hand from the sink
edge and gestured toward a wall cabinet. If he needed bandages, she
still must be bleeding.

Brett chuckled. “The bleeding has stopped.” He
dabbed some mercurochrome on the cuts. “Are you always this bad?
What would you do if Jake fell and cut himself?”

Molly lifted her head and glared at Brett.
“I’d do fine. It only bothers me when it’s my blood.”

Brett smiled and wrapped bandaged around her
three fingers.

“Really,” she said, somehow compelled to
convince him she could handle an emergency with Jake.

Brett continued to smile, humoring
her.

“It’s only my blood that affects me this way,”
she insisted, hating the whine that had crept into her
voice.

“Then, you’d better give me your other hand,”
Brett said, “so I can clean it off. I can’t have you passing out on
me. We have work to do.”

“The bleeding’s stopped. I won’t pass
out.”

“Your hand.” He waited.

His superior attitude irritated her. Brett was
treating her as if she were Jake’s age. Refusing to let him bait
her, she extended her hand palm up.

He squeezed a dab of liquid soap on her hand,
wrapped his finger in the washcloth and began making a circular
motion in her palm. Lavender filled the room.

She leaned her head back against the wall and
closed her eyes to counteract the warm wooziness that flowed over
her. Strange, she’d never gone woozy a second time when she’d cut
herself before. Molly sensed Brett hovering over her, leaning
closer.

Bzzzzz.

Her eyes opened. “The . . . door,” she said
slowly.

“Yeah, the door,” Brett repeated, his voice
sounding miles away.

Bzzzzz.

 “
I’ll get it.” Molly stood,
forcing Brett to take a step back. “Why don’t you go ahead and
finish the bed.”

“Um, sure.” Brett let her pass.

Molly crossed the distance to the front door
languidly, trying to get her bearings. The cut wasn’t that bad.
Maybe she ought to have her iron checked or something.

Bzzzzzzz
.

“I’m coming,” she said, reaching the door and
pushing the intercom button.

“Hello.”

“Molly, it’s Tina. Brett said you needed help
moving.”

Molly punched the button again to unlock the
entrance door downstairs. When Brett had said some of his friends
would be by to help, she’d figured on his guy friends, not Tina. A
lot of help she’d be hauling furniture.

Molly opened the door on the first knock and
Tina glided in, looking model perfect in her wide bell jeans and
bomber jacket.

“Hi.” Tina gazed around the room. “Nice
place.”

“Thanks.” Molly hated the feeling of
validation she got from Tina’s approval.

Tina slipped off her jacket. “Where’s
Brett?”

“In the bedroom.” Molly pointed across the
room.

A little smirk crossed Tina’s face as she took
in Molly’s disheveled appearance. Molly could almost hear Tina
ticking off the time it had taken Molly to answer the
door.

“I see,” Tina said, her eyes twinkling in a
knowing way.

Just how knowing, Molly wondered.

“Is it safe for me to go in?” Tina asked,
raising a brow.

“Yeah, it’s safe, unless that bolt on the
bedstead is giving Brett as hard of a time as it gave me,” Molly
answered, not bothering to hide her irritation.