Catch a Rising Star (23 page)

His face cracks into the first pleasant expression I’ve seen in the past ten minutes. “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
I ask. “A little smile here and there takes a good ten years off your face.”

I swear he blushes and instead of frowning (and really, it could have gone either way after a comment like that one), he chuckles
and the smile reaches his brown eyes.

“Thanks for the Snickers,” he says. “I haven’t had chocolate in six months.”

“Oh my gosh,” I say in mock horror. “Don’t you know that chocolate is one of the essential food groups? Promise me you’ll
have some at least once per week from now on.”

“Well, it appears my health depends upon it. You have my word, miss.” He nods toward the elevator. “Mr. Gray will be calling
down asking why I’m holding up his pretty guest.”

Now it’s my turn to blush. Warmth floods my cheeks. “Okay, I can take a hint. So nice to meet you, Mr. Shultz.”

He winks and suddenly looks very grandfatherly. “Call me Randy.”

David is waiting at the doorway when I turn right off the elevator. He smiles broadly. “It really is you. I thought Randy
might have been teasing, it took you so long to get up here.”

“Sorry. Just having a little chat with your doorman about the importance of all the food groups.”

He gives an odd little frown as he moves aside so I can step into his apartment. I am immediately struck by the cozy warmth
of the place. To the right is a good-sized living room with a lovely gas fireplace and Ethan Allen furniture. “Nice place
you have here. Real wood floors or laminate?” Okay, I did
not
just ask that. My nerves are getting the better of me. Calm down, Tabby.

A smile tugs at his lips. “Real oak. Want to tap it?”

“Not necessary.” I’m trying to be cool, but my heart is about to thump out of my chest. “I believe you.”

“Would you like to sit down?” he asks, motioning toward the beige sofa.

“Sure, thanks.” I set the basket on the coffee table in front of the couch and sink into the cushions like an anchor in the
ocean. I clear my throat, unsure what to do next.

Awkward silence.

“I, um, well, maybe I should go…”

“You just got here,” David says, and I swear his voice is low and sort of husky, and I am having trouble concentrating on
just why I came in the first place.

David nods to the basket. “So, what’s this?”

“Oh, just a few things I thought might help get the twins through the next few days of itchy spots and fever.” I grin. “It’s
tough being a kid.”

He looks down at me with… oh, my… those eyes are incredible. David drops to the couch beside me. “Thanks,” he says.
“That’s nice of you. I’m sure the kids’ll appreciate it.”

“Oh, well.” I clear my throat. I never quite know how to react in these situations, and I can feel heat rise to my cheeks.
“I-I just remember being sick when I was little.”

So what do I do now? I’ve dropped off the basket, and he hasn’t offered me anything to drink, nor has he called the kids in
to look at the goodies I brought, so I guess he’s waiting for me to take a hike.

I brace my hands on my knees and stand. “Well, I suppose I’d better be going,” I say again.

He stands right along with me and is so close, I’m thinking about mentioning personal space, only—no. I like that he’s so
close I can smell his aftershave, can feel the heat of him. “Like I said, you just got here,” he says softly. Man, his voice
is so sexy and well… sexy. He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. I shudder.

“Cold?” he asks.

Um, actually, just the opposite. I swallow hard. “Yeah, a little I guess.”

“Then stay. I’ll crank up the fire. I was just about to pop into the kitchen and look for something to fix the kids for lunch.”
He unravels my wool scarf and slides it from around my neck. “Stay and eat with us.”

“I’d love to.” His obvious pleasure at my acceptance spurs me on and gives me the energy I need. “As a matter of fact, if
you’re game, I brought the perfect lunch for a winter day.” I turn to the table and pick up the basket. “My mom fixed me grilled
cheese and tomato soup when I was sick.” I give a careless shrug. “I thought the twins might enjoy it too.”

The expression on his face turns all mushy, and he reaches for me. His warm hands close around my arms, and he stares down
at me. “Do you have any idea… ?”

My heart thumps in my chest. This is it. The moment I’ve been waiting for. The moment David declares it’s me and not Rachel
that he’s truly interested in pursuing a relationship with.

“Daddy!”

Why? Why? Why?

Reluctantly he steps away. He smiles and points. “Kitchen’s that way. I’ll be right back.”

I stare after him in bewildered silence. Do I have any idea… what? Frustrated, I head in the direction he pointed.

In the kitchen I find gorgeous stainless steel appliances and pots and pans that any cook would be delighted to play with.

I reach into my basket and pull out cheese, bread, butter, and a large can of Campbell’s (is there any other kind?) tomato
soup. I put four sandwiches together and set them all cooking on a flat skillet. The soup is warming in a pot. I pull matching
plates and bowls from the cabinet and set the four-chair kitchen table.

David’s voice startles me. “Who would ever believe that Tabitha Brockman, aka Felicia Fontaine, is actually a closet domestic
goddess?”

For some reason, my stomach flip-flops at the words as well as the fact that he’s standing inches from me, speaking over my
shoulder. I have a couple of choices—slide away or turn around. I mean, come on. What would you do?

I turn, and his arms encircle me. “This might be a little too domestic for the kids,” he whispers, his face close to mine
like he’s about to kiss me.

“I-I don’t know what you mean,” I say.

He presses a quick, warm kiss to my forehead and steps away from me. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for them to experience
what looks like a mom, dad, and kids around the table situation.”

Okay, but isn’t he the one that asked me to stay for lunch? “Oh, sure. I understand. I’ll just turn off the soup and leave.”

He smiles. “I didn’t mean for you to leave.”

“You’re confusing me.” And starting to tick me off.

Walking across the room, he pulls a couple of TV trays from a wooden stand in the corner. “I’m going to take them lunch in
bed. Then we—meaning just the two of us—can have a private lunch.”

Oh.

I help him ladle soup and cut sandwiches corner to corner for the kids, and I have to admit, it does sort of feel like—you
know—what he said. Like we’re sort of a family. Only that’s obviously not okay with him. Which actually sort of offends me.
I mean, every time I turn around Rachel is playing the little missus, but a little soup and grilled cheese with me is too
close for comfort? I’m confused. What’s with the arms around me and the kiss on the forehead?
That’s called mixed signals, bub,
I think to the back of his head as we each carry a tray, and I follow him into the kids’ room. The spotted five-year-olds
look miserable.

“Look who’s here, guys,” David says with what I perceive to be forced cheerfulness, as though he’s trying to drum up enthusiasm.

“Why is she here?” Jenn asks grumpily.

“Be polite, honey. Miss Brockman brought you and Jeffy a basket filled with things to help pass the time while you’re sick.”

Her blue eyes go wide with interest. “You did?” she asks.

“What’d you bring?” Jeffy pipes in.

“Part of what she brought is this lunch.”

“Grilled cheese?” Jenn says.

Jeffy gives me a shy smile. He recently lost one of his bottom front teeth, and the gap glares. “I like grilled cheese.”

My heart melts as I look into his spotted face, which, come to think of it, doesn’t look as much like chicken pox as I remember
from the photographs at Mom’s. Still, I smile at the little boy. “So do I, especially when I’m not feeling well.”

“Can we see what else is in the basket?” Jenn pipes up, absent the attitude she usually displays.

“That’s not up to me, sweetheart,” I say. Sweetheart? Where did that come from? I don’t think I’ve ever called a child sweetheart,
or any other term of endearment, in my entire life. My heart is pounding in my ears. What’s wrong with me?

“Can we, Daddy?”

“Don’t speak with your mouth full, Jenn,” David says, tweaking the little girl’s nose. “I’ll tell you what. You two eat a
good lunch and when you’re finished, I’ll let you see the basket.” He looks from one to the other. “Okay?”

The twins nod. And it looks like they’re not going to have much of a problem with their end of the bargain because they’re
digging in like a couple of troupers.

“Shall we?” David asks me, pointing toward the door.

“Sure.”

As we walk back into the kitchen, David laces his fingers with mine. “You keep surprising me, Tabitha.”

Enjoying the warmth of his hand and the way he said my full name, I’m afraid a sigh escapes me. Why do I have to be so transparent?
“It was just a spur-of-the-moment idea,” I admit, hoping against hope that my nerves don’t get the best of me and make my
palms sweat.

“Sometimes spur-of-the-moment ideas are the best,” he says, stopping once we reach the kitchen, but not turning loose of my
hand.

I can’t help but laugh. “Tell my mom that little bit of news, will you? She thinks I’m the most impulsive girl in the world.”

“Well, I think we need to set her straight about something.” His husky tone lifts the hair on the back of my neck and sends
a shiver of anticipation down my spine as he takes a step in my direction until we’re very, very close.

“I’m not impulsive?”

“You’re not a girl, Tabitha. You’re a woman.” He slips his arms around my waist, pulling me close against him until his face
is mere inches from mine. “And I’m the one who’s being impulsive,” he whispers. His mouth barely brushes mine when the twins
burst into the room.

“We’re done, Daddy.”

David steps back quickly, like a thief caught with the stolen jewels. “Already? Did you eat enough?”

“Yes, sir. I ate all of my sandwich, and Jeffy ate all of his soup.”

Despite the fact that my lips are aching for the rest of that kiss, I can’t help but smile.

“A deal’s a deal,” I murmur and head to the counter where my basket, minus the lunch fare, is still sitting. “Here you go,
kids.”

They pad across the room to the table, carrying the basket with two hands. I
have
sort of loaded it down. Coloring books and crayons, picture books—including
Itchy, Itchy Chicken Pox
. And on a whim, I picked up the Disney movies
Mary Poppins
and
Peter Pan
.

“If they already have those movies, we can exchange them.”

David shakes his head. “They don’t, as a matter of fact. I’ve been meaning to start a Disney collection with the classics
like these, but I never seem to get around to it.”

David quickly confiscates the various candies before the kids can snatch them up. “We’ll ration these,” he informs the twins.

From my purse in the living room, I hear the sound of my phone playing the
Friends
theme.

“Excuse me a sec.” I head into the living room and pick up. “Hello?”

“Hi, Tabby.”

“Brian?”

“Yeah.” He sounds—miserable.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know… just seeing you last night…”

Good Lord.

“Look, there’s nothing between us, Brian. Shelly really loves you, and I think you love her too.”

“Then why can’t I get you out of my mind?”

This is the same question I’ve been asking myself—and God—for months. Why can’t you get me out of your mind?

“It’s just cold feet. Nothing more.”

“Do you, uh, think we could go somewhere for coffee and talk?”

“No way. You just have to wrap your mind around the fact that I’m not interested. Shelly is. So either date her or dump her,
but leave me alone.”

“Please.” Sheesh, this guy doesn’t take a hint. “I promise it won’t take long.”

“I can’t, Brian. I’m at David’s. His kids have the chicken pox.”

“You’re at that guy’s house?”

“Yes. I brought the twins a basket.”

“Trying to find a new boyfriend already?” Ah, so bitter.

“No, the twins are sick, remember? I just told you that. We work closely, and I care about them, that’s all.” Oh, why am I
even trying to explain to him? If he breaks my sister’s heart, I’ll hurt him so bad.

“Well, I won’t keep you then,” he huffs.

“Come on, Brian. Don’t hang up mad.” Dead air. Too late.

When I turn around, David’s standing there. “So that was Brian?”

“Yeah. Seems he’s playing sister switch again.” I roll my eyes, hoping he’ll get the picture that I’m not interested in resuming
anything with flip-flop boy.

“I see.” He doesn’t seem too inclined to pursue the matter. Darn it. I can’t broach the topic of my nonrelationship with Brian
without being way too obvious. “Did I hear you tell him the kids have chicken pox?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have given out information without your permission.”

“No, I don’t mind, only…”

“What?”

“They have the measles.”

“Oh, Jerry told me chicken pox.” I laugh. “Oh well, if you’ve had one, you’ve had them all.”

He frowns. “Not necessarily. Have you ever had the measles?”

I grin. “Nope. That’s the one childhood illness I escaped—or so my mother tells me. And I have no reason to doubt her word.”

He still doesn’t smile, despite my efforts to pull some of that serious expression from his handsome face. He insists on being
stoic. “Well, do you realize you’ve been exposed to them now?”

“Oh.” I’m picturing myself covered in red spots. Then I get a grip. I mean really, I’ve reached almost thirty without getting
them, how likely is it that I’ll actually contract a childhood illness at my age? “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

Then I remember… “Dancy said you called last night. Did you need something?” A date perhaps? No, probably not with a
couple of sick children.