Читать книгу One-Night Love-Child - Anne McAllister - Страница 8

DEAR God, the boy was Will all over again.

And the sight of him would have sent Flynn reeling if kissing Sara hadn’t already done so.

She’d given him a shove, of course, and, with his bad leg, that had been enough to send him off balance literally. But emotionally just the sight of her had already rocked him. And the kiss, well…Flynn had kissed his share of women over the years, but none of them had been like kissing Sara.

He wanted to think about his reaction—and hers—analyze it, understand the effect she had on him. But there was no time. Not now.

Now he stood stunned and staring at this vital bouncing ball of energy, this miniature version of his dead brother.

Intellectually Flynn had known that his son would likely resemble his Murray forebears. But actually seeing it was astonishing.

The boy—Lewis, if she’d named him after her father—was the spitting image of his brother. The same black unruly hair, same fair skin, same spattering of freckles, same thin face and pointed chin. Same build, too. Wiry. Slender. There was a coltish boniness even beneath the boy’s winter jacket and jeans.

The boy didn’t spare him a glance. He came hurtling into the room, with no regard for the stranger in the living room. His eyes—as green as Will’s and Flynn’s own—went straight to his mother.

“Look!” He wriggled off his backpack at the same time he was thrusting a white box covered with hearts into his mother’s hands. “I musta got a skillion Valentines! An’ I got a real fancy one from Katie Setsma. She must like me!” He flung his backpack onto a chair, then scrambled up on it to pull off his boots.

Sara shot Flynn a quick glance, as if she were trying to gauge his reaction to this astonishing little person. The words in a crumpled letter and the living breathing bouncing reality were two entirely different things. He wondered if he looked as dazed as he felt.

“Of course she likes you, Liam,” she said to her son.

And that nearly did Flynn in.

“Liam?” he said hoarsely. The Irish shortened form of William? Flynn’s hand groping blindly for the back of a chair to steady himself.

At his voice, the boy stopped jerking off his boots and, for the first time, looked at Flynn curiously.

Instantly wary, Sara stepped between them. “That’s what we call him,” she said firmly. “I told you I named him after my father, Lewis William. But he’s not my father. He’s his own person.” She said this last fiercely as if defying him to argue.

He didn’t. Couldn’t. Could barely find his voice—or words. “I…yeah. I’m just…surprised.” He sucked in a hard breath and tried again. “It was my brother’s name—William. Will. We called him Will.”

Sara caught the operative tense. “Called? Was?”

“He died.” Flynn ran his tongue over suddenly parched lips. “Almost six years ago.”

Their gazes met, locked. Sara looked shocked then, too. And there were a thousand unasked questions in hers. He couldn’t answer them. Not now at least.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. And there was the sound of real regret in her voice. “I didn’t know.”

It made Flynn’s throat tighten. He gave a jerky nod. “I know that. It’s just—” he gave his head a little shake “—one more surprise.”

And then the room went silent. No one moved. No one spoke. Finally he grew aware of the sound of Liam sliding off the chair and coming around by Sara. He stopped and looked up at his mother, as if trying to figure out what was going on, as if hoping she would tell him. But she didn’t speak, didn’t even seem to see him, and her gaze never left Flynn.

The boy’s gaze followed hers. Will’s eyes—Dear God, they really were—fastened on him, then narrowed a little in the same way Will’s always did when he assessed something or someone new.

There was no doubt the boy had picked up on the current of apprehension that pervaded the room. He was like a fox scenting danger, Flynn thought.

And then, apparently deciding what was necessary, he deliberately moved in front of Sara, his back to his mother’s legs as if he would protect her. His chin jutted out as he contemplated Flynn. There was no sparkle now. Just the hard unwavering green gaze that generations of Murrays wore when protecting their own.

“Who’re you?”

It was the question Flynn had been anticipating since he’d made up his mind to come to Montana. It was the question he’d been longing to answer.

And suddenly he found the words stuck in his throat. After a hundred—hell, after a thousand at least—visualizations of the moment when he would meet his son, he didn’t have the spit to say a word.

He opened his mouth and nothing came out. For the first time in his entire life, Flynn Murray had no words.

Sara, too, was staring at him expectantly, waiting for him to say something. He couldn’t. He shook his head.

Maybe she realized he couldn’t—or maybe she simply decided that taking charge herself was a better idea. Her hands came down to rest on the boy’s shoulders and squeezed lightly. When she spoke, her voice was soft.

“He’s your father, Liam.”

Liam’s eyes flew wide open. So did his mouth. He stared at Flynn, then abruptly his head whipped around so he could look up at his mother. His whole body seemed quiver with the unspoken question: Is that true?

Sara’s smile was faint and a little wary. But she gave the boy’s shoulders another squeeze, then nodded.

“He is. Truly,” she assured him. “He’s come to meet you.”

For a long moment Liam still searched her face. But then, eventually, he seemed satisfied with what he saw there. He turned back to Flynn. His gaze was steady and level and curious as he stared at his father in silence. The silence seemed to go on—and on.

And then, finally, in a slightly croaky but determined voice, Liam asked, “Where’ve you been?”

Absolutely mundane. Absolutely reasonable.

Absolutely devastating.

Flynn swallowed. “I’ve…I’ve been a lot—” he cleared the raggedness out of his throat, glad he at least had a voice now. He started again “—a lot of places. All over the world. I’d have been here sooner. But…I didn’t know about you.”

Liam’s gaze jerked around to challenge his mother’s. “You said you wrote to him.”

“She did,” Flynn answered for her. This wasn’t Sara’s fault. “Your mother wrote me before you were born. She wrote me later when you were born…but I didn’t get the letter. Not for a long time. Years.” He picked the envelope up from the top of the bookcase where Sara had set it and held it out. “Take a look. It’s been everywhere. But I didn’t get it until last week.”

Liam’s gaze shifted from Flynn’s face to the letter in his outstretched hand. But he stayed where he was, so Flynn moved closer.

Still the boy didn’t reach out right away. But finally he plucked the envelope from Flynn’s fingers and turned it over in his hands, then studied the multiplicity of addresses on it.

“I was working a lot of different places all over the world,” Flynn explained awkwardly. “It must have missed me everywhere I went. It finally caught up with me back home. In Ireland.”

Liam didn’t look up. He was rubbing his thumb lightly over the words on the envelope, staring at the writing, which, Flynn realized suddenly, he wouldn’t be able to read yet. He wasn’t old enough. “All those addresses are places I was,” he explained.

Then Liam looked up at him. “You live in a castle?”

Flynn blinked. He could read?

Apparently so, for Liam was pointing at the one address on the envelope that hadn’t been scratched out. “That’s what it says.” He scowled at it, then sounded out, “Dun-more-ee castle.” Liam read it out slowly then looked up again. “That’s your house?”

“No, dear,” Sara began, but Flynn cut in.

“It is. Dunmorey Castle.”

He heard Sara’s sharp intake of breath. Liam’s eyes went so wide that his eyebrows disappeared into the fringe of black hair that fell across his forehead. “You live in a real castle? With a moat?”

“I live there. And it is a real castle in name,” Flynn qualified, looking at Sara for the first time, seeing accusation in her gaze. “Mostly it’s a huge drafty old house,” he went on. “Over five hundred years old. Mouldering. Damp. And it does have a turret and some pretty high walls. But it doesn’t have a moat.”

“Well, that’s something, I guess,” Sara muttered.

“No moat?” Liam’s face fell. His brows drew down. “What makes it a castle then?”

“It was a stronghold. A really old fort,” Flynn explained. “Where people could go if they needed to defend themselves against invaders. And it was where the lord of the lands lived. The boss,” he added in case that made more sense. “That’s what makes it a castle.”

Liam digested that. “Can I see it?”

“Of course you can.”

“A picture, he means,” Sara said hastily. “Can he see a picture? Of your castle.” Her tone twisted the word as if she were blaming him for it.

The damn place was no end of trouble. Flynn shook his head. “Not with me,” he told Liam. “But I can get you some. Even better, I can take you there. You can see it in person.”

Liam gaped. “I can?”

“No!” Sara said sharply.

Liam twisted around to look up at her. “I can’t?”

“It’s in Ireland,” she explained, shooting Flynn a furious glance. “That’s clear across the ocean. Thousands of miles.”

“I could fly on a plane.” Liam was undaunted. “Couldn’t I?” He glanced around at Flynn for confirmation.

“You could,” Flynn agreed. “Best way to get there, in fact. We’ll talk about it.” He smiled at Sara.

Sara’s mouth pressed into a tight line. “I don’t think we’ll be talking about it anytime soon.” She turned to her son and said firmly, “He can tell you all about his castle, Liam. But do not expect to go zipping across the ocean.”

“But I’ve never seen a real castle.”

“You’re five. You have plenty of time,” Sara said unsympathetically. “And in the meantime you can make them out of Legos.”

Liam brightened. “I already did.” He spun towards Flynn. “It’s sort of real. But it doesn’t have a moat either. Wanna see it?” He was all eagerness now, hopping from one foot to the other now, looking up at Flynn.

The expression on his face now didn’t remind Flynn so much of Will as it did of the young Sara—when he had first met her. She’d had that same sparkle, that same eager, avid, intense enthusiasm.

Right now she was glaring at him, her jaw locked.

He had made a living out of reading people, picking up their body language, understanding when to move in, when to back off. He had no trouble reading Sara. She wasn’t thrilled to see him and, he supposed, he didn’t blame her. He hadn’t been here when she needed him.

But he’d come when he found out, hadn’t he? They’d get it sorted. They had to. But they weren’t going to do it now in front of their five-year-old son. So he gave Sara a quick smile that, he hoped, appeased her for the moment, then turned to Liam. “I’d like that.”

“C’mon, then!” And Liam was off, pounding up the stairs.

Flynn looked at Sara. She glared. Then she shrugged. “Oh, hell, go with him. But don’t you dare encourage him to think about jetting off to Ireland!”

“It’s possible, Sar’. Not immediately but we should discuss—”

“No, we shouldn’t! Damn it, Flynn, you can’t just pop up and disrupt our lives. It’s been six years!”

“I didn’t know—”

“And you didn’t want to know,” Sara said, “or you’d have come back.”

“I thought—”

“I don’t care what you thought. You knew where I was. I didn’t leave! If I’d mattered at all, you’d have come back. You never came!”

“You were going to med school.”

She stared at him. “Do I look like I went to med school?”

He blinked, then shook his head, dazed. “What do you mean? How should you look?”

“I got pregnant, Flynn. I had two and half years of university left for my bachelor’s. I had a baby. It was all I could do to get through that. I didn’t go to med school.”

“But—”

“Circumstances change. Plans change.”

“Yes, but—” He couldn’t believe it. She’d been so driven. “Is that why you’re so ticked at me?”

She stared. “What? Because I couldn’t go to med school? Of course not! I don’t care about that. I got my degree. I have my own business. I’m a CPA—certified public accountant. I like my work. I like numbers in boxes. I like adding things up and having them come out right. I like knowing the answers! Speaking of which, what the hell is this about you living in a castle?”

He shrugged, still trying to come to grips with Sara as a CPA, not a doctor as he’d always imagined. Sara as a mother had been tricky enough. But Sara changing her determined plans boggled his mind. She’d been so committed, so determined. She’d said flat-out that nothing was going to stop her.

“Castle?” she prompted, when he didn’t answer immediately.

“I inherited it,” he said dismissively.

“You told me there was nothing for you in Ireland!”

“There wasn’t. I wasn’t supposed to inherit, I didn’t want to. My brother died.” He got angry all over again just thinking about it. Sometimes he wanted to strangle Will—except he wanted his brother alive. That was the whole problem.

“Will,” she said, making the connection.

“Will.” It always felt like a lead ball hitting him in the stomach when he said his brother’s name.

Sara pressed her lips together. “Well, I really am sorry about that. It was…a shock, I gather.”

“An accident. Coming to get me at the airport.”

A mixture of pain and sympathy flickered across her face. “Oh, God.”

“Exactly.”

Their gazes met again. The connection that had been so strong seemed to be flickering back to life—and Flynn couldn’t believe how astonishingly happy that made him feel.

And then, as if she shut the light off, Sara’s expression went blank. “You’d better go see the castle,” she said, pointing through the door to the kitchen. “Just through there and up the stairs.”

Thank goodness he went after Liam.

Sara didn’t know how much longer she could have stood there and talked rationally—well, almost rationally. Her heart was hammering. Her hands were trembling. She had to get a grip. Had to stop flying off the handle at him. Had to stop caring!

For years she’d managed to convince herself that she didn’t—that her three days of aberrant behavior with Flynn Murray had been some sort of alchemical reaction that would never be repeated.

And all it had taken was the sight of him standing on her doorstep and she was in meltdown all over again.

It was the shock, that was all. He was the last person she’d expected to see when she’d opened the door this afternoon. And the sizzling awareness she’d felt when she’d seen him had caught her off guard.

She didn’t even want to think about what had happened when he’d kissed her!

But thinking about him with Liam wasn’t much better.

They were so much alike.

Sara had always known that Liam resembled his father. But without pictures—and try as she had to find any of him among all those taken during that hectic February weekend, she’d discovered none—she’d told herself Liam simply had his father’s coloring. After all, she occasionally saw glimpses of herself, her own father, her mom, even her brother Jack in her son.

But when Liam and his father were in the same room, she didn’t only see glimpses of Flynn in her son. He was almost a clone.

But even more than Liam’s features, it was his body language that was so much like his father’s. He moved like Flynn, with the same intensity of purpose. And when he was stymied, he even prowled around rooms like Flynn.

Both Flynn and Liam were edgy, intense, determined. When Liam wanted something—like building a castle or learning to read—he went after it. Like his father. And while Liam was still occasionally little-boy clumsy, Flynn, even with his limp—dear God, she still couldn’t believe he’d been shot!—was clearly powerful, controlled and in command. Sara was sure that Liam would be exactly like that one day, too.

She wondered if Flynn saw it.

She wondered exactly what Flynn did see—and what he was really doing here. To see his son, yes. She could accept that. But what else did he want? What more?

He wasn’t going to waltz in here and try to take her son away from her, was he?

Just because he lived a in castle now, he didn’t need to think he could take over her son.

Or was it just her son he had in mind?

The memory of that kiss snuck back in to torment her—the memory of his lips on hers, the possessive hunger of that kiss! Surely he didn’t want her again?

Of course he didn’t. If he had, as she’d told him, he’d have come back long before this. God knew he could have had her then.

But this had been a power play, pure and simple. He was just proving he could still make her react, could still—let’s face it, Sara, she said to herself—turn her on.

And yes, damn it, he could. He had! He’d nearly swept away her reason, had made her weak with longing, with wanting him exactly the way she’d wanted him all those years ago.

But at least this time she’d managed—barely—to resist. And she would not let it happen again. It could only happen, she assured herself, if he caught her unawares.

But there would be no more “unawares.” Now she was forewarned. Flynn Murray had burned her once. There was no way she was letting him do it again!

Thank God she was going out with Adam tonight.

All of a sudden her lukewarm attitude towards their Valentine’s Day date had undergone a definite change. Focusing on Adam would be far better than spending the evening at home thinking about Flynn.

She glanced at her watch. It was quarter to four. She didn’t know how long he expected to stay, and she didn’t want to follow them to Liam’s bedroom and ask. Even from the kitchen she could hear Liam’s excited chatter and Flynn’s low baritone responses. She could hear that blasted Irish lilt in his voice. God, it was seductive. Even now—forewarned, forearmed—it had the power to raise goose bumps along her spine and make the back of her neck tingle.

“Adam,” she said aloud. “Think about Adam.” She had to get ready to go out with Adam.

Resolutely she climbed the stairs. At the end of the hall she could see into Liam’s room, could see Liam darting past the doorway, talking a mile a minute, could see Flynn’s long legs stretched out as he sat on Liam’s bed.

She did not want to think about Flynn in the same sentence with the word bed.

She got her clean clothes from her own room, then headed for the bathroom, calling out as she went, “I’ll be in the shower.”

It was only to let them know where she was. She hoped to heaven Flynn didn’t think it was an invitation!

Of course he didn’t. But it didn’t stop her face from flaming. She was mortified to see how red it looked when she glanced in the bathroom mirror. “Stop it,” she commanded herself. “Stop thinking about him.”

Of course, that was easier said than done. She showered quickly—and used mostly cold water, not wanting to think why it seemed suddenly such a good idea. She washed her hair and blew it dry. Then she dressed in the black velvet pants and red cashmere sweater that her sister Lizzie had given her for Christmas.

She had worn a red sweater the night she had gone to Flynn’s motel room. And the memory almost had her pulling the sweater back over her head and looking for something else. But to do so would give him more power over her than he deserved.

He deserved no power at all.

Besides, she thought with all the dispassion she could muster, he probably wouldn’t even have the vaguest notion of what she’d worn. He hadn’t cared about her the way she had about him.

Flicking a brush through her hair, then putting on some lipstick that she dared hope she would not gnaw off, she gave herself one last stern look, then opened the bathroom door.

It was completely quiet. There was no sound of Liam’s eager chatter now, no Irish lilt from Flynn. The light in Liam’s room was off.

Had Flynn had enough already and left?

It was a happy thought—followed immediately by, Then where was Liam?

She hurried downstairs. No one was in the kitchen, either.

“Liam?”

She got no answer. He’d better not be playing hide-and-seek without telling her. When he was four he’d thought it fun to dart into the closet and stay still as a mouse while she went nuts looking for him. But he was five now—nearly five and a half—and she’d told him off in no uncertain terms. He knew better. He’d moved on to other sins—like sneaking in TV cartoons when he thought she wouldn’t notice.

“You’d better not be watching television, young man,” she said, marching across the kitchen and sticking her head around the door to look in the living room, expecting to find him in the semidarkened room with the sound turned down.

But only Sid the cat was there, sleeping on the couch. He raised his head and gave her a baleful look before closing his eyes again.

Sara was not given to panic. She had learned not to. But now her heart began to pound. She spun back into the kitchen.

“Liam!” Her voice rose.

Where was he? He wasn’t supposed to go anywhere without telling her. Another of his sins. He’d been in trouble for going to Celie’s during Christmas vacation without telling her he was leaving. She’d come down on him like a ton of bricks. He wouldn’t do it again.

Would he?

Now she saw that his jacket was gone. His boots were gone.

And so was Flynn.

No!

He wouldn’t! He’d never—

I’ll take you to Ireland, he’d said. And she’d refused to discuss it.

He couldn’t have just walked in and taken off with her child!

She ran to the back door and jerked it open. “Liam!” She was desperate now, frantic as she ran out onto the snow-covered porch. “Liam!”

“What?” The small surprised voice came from around the side of the house. It sounded quite close and completely bewildered.

Oh, God. The surge of relief nearly melted Sara’s bones. Her legs wobbled and she gripped the pillar at the top of the stairs as, a second later, Liam’s head poked around the corner.

“You don’t have to yell. I’m right here,” he said indignantly.

“So I…see.” She was still gasping for air. Her heart was still slamming against the wall of her chest. “Where’s Flynn? Where’s your…father,” she amended, still breathing hard.

“Right here.” Liam jerked his head towards the side yard. “We’re buildin’ a castle.” He gave Sara a thumb’s-up and grinned broadly. “Like Dunmorey.”

Sara was still gulping air, still bashing down the panic, when Flynn came around the corner of the house. It had begun to snow again and his midnight hair was dusted with sparkling white snowflakes. He looked rugged and handsome and gorgeously reminiscent of the first time she had seen him.

She started trembling.

His intent green gaze fixed on her. “Something wrong?”

“No. I just—” she dragged in a breath “—didn’t realize you’d gone outside.” Her fingers still gripped the porch pillar. “I thought…”

But she couldn’t admit what she’d thought, couldn’t acknowledge aloud her terror at the belief—even for a split second—that he’d done the most devastating thing of all: taken her son.

She shook her head. “I didn’t know where he was. I thought…never mind. Just…carry on.” And with those words she turned abruptly and hurried back into the house, shaken, relieved and shattered all at the same time.

She shut the door and sank down into one of the wooden kitchen chairs, trying with trembling fingers to peel of her snow-soaked socks.

The back door opened, and Flynn strode in.

“You thought I’d taken him.” His words were flat. His eyes accused her.

She tried to quiet the shaking and forced herself to concentrate on peeling off the socks before she would answer. Then she stood up, needing to be on a level with him, needing to find her self-control before she could reply. “I didn’t know what you’d done.”

But she couldn’t deny her panic—it was still there in her voice and she was sure he could read it on her face.

Flynn’s jaw tightened. He pushed the door shut behind him.

Sara shot a glance towards the side yard. “Liam—”

“He’s building the turret. I told him I wanted to see it when he was done. And I will see it,” he said firmly, “but not before we get this straightened out.”

Sara swallowed and straightened, not liking his tone. “Get what straightened out?” Her voice was steadier now. She wished her nerves were.

“What you obviously think. I did not come to steal my son away from you.”

She bristled at the words “my son.” But she knew he was just making a point. “I didn’t imagine—”

“You damned well did!”

“All right, fine. I did. But only because he was gone! And you’d said you’d take him to Ireland! What was I supposed to think? I’d finished showering and dressing and you weren’t there!”

“What sort of man do you think I am?” His eyes were stormy now, a turbulent sea green.

He didn’t wait for her to answer that. She wasn’t sure she could have, anyway. She didn’t actually know what sort of man he was, did she? Once she’d thought she had, but that had been all wrong.

“We talked about Dunmorey,” Flynn said patiently, as if explaining things to a small, not-too-bright child. “And we talked about forts and building castles and it was snowing and we decided it would be fun to build a snow castle. Okay? We didn’t go to Ireland. We were in the garden.”

Sara nodded numbly, knowing she should feel foolish, still feeling the residual effects of her momentary panic. “You didn’t say,” she mumbled.

“I didn’t realize you wanted me to stick my head in the bathroom and announce it.” A corner of his mouth quirked, and the way his eyes slid over her made her wish she had a suit of armor on, not a cashmere sweater and velvet pants.

She wrapped her arms across her chest. “Of course not!”

He didn’t reply for a moment, as if considering what to say. Then he shook his head gravely. “I’m sorry you were upset. It never occurred to me to tell you. I thought you’d figure it out.”

“Well, I didn’t. I didn’t know what you’d do. I don’t even know you.”

“You did,” he said quietly, and the serious husky tone of his voice sent those goose bumps skittering down her spine again.

She hugged herself. “No.”

But he nodded. “You did, Sara.” His tone was insistent. “I think you knew me better than anyone else on earth.”

“Then why—” The anguished words burst from her before she could stop them. But fortunately she managed to shut her mouth before she sounded like a pathetic twit. And thankfully, the phone chose that moment to ring.

She spun away from him and grabbed for the phone on the countertop. “Hello?”

“Oh, dear. You already know.” It was Celie, sounding worried and apologetic.

“Know?” Sara echoed. She braced a hand against the counter. Celie wasn’t going to tell her about Flynn, was she? The Elmer grapevine being what it was, that was distinctly possible.

“About Annie.” Annie was Celie’s four-year-old. “I thought you must from the tone of your voice. You sound…weird. Upset. Because I can’t babysit tonight. She’s running a fever. They sent her home from preschool. She’s vomiting now. You don’t want Liam here tonight.”

“No, I—”

“I’m so so sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Sara said. “I’ll work something out.”

“Maybe Jace could come down when he gets back from Billings, but it won’t be until late and—”

“No, really, it’s fine. Don’t worry. I…have to go. Hope Annie’s better soon.” She hung up and stayed facing the cupboard for a moment, getting her equilibrium back before she turned around. It would be all right, she assured herself. She just wouldn’t go.

“Trouble?” Flynn asked when she finally turned around.

Sara shrugged. “Celie was going to babysit Liam tonight. Now she can’t.”

“Where were you going?” There was something so proprietary in Flynn’s tone that it set her back up.

“On a date.”

His brows drew down. “With who?”

“Obviously, you wouldn’t know him. His name is Adam. He’s the foreman at one of the ranches nearby. And he’s a sculptor, too,” she added. It was true and it was definitely impressive. She’d seen some of Adam’s work.

Flynn’s jaw tightened. “Is it serious?”

“His sculpture?”

His eyes narrowed. “No, damn it. You and him. Adam.” He fairly spat the name.

Sara blinked. “What difference does it make?”

“I want to know how things stand.”

He wasn’t the only one, Sara thought. Only, what she wanted to know about had nothing to do with Adam. “We’re dating,” she said ambiguously. “And it is Valentine’s Day,” she added, because why not let him think it was more serious than it actually was?

Besides, Adam was a chivalrous sort of guy. He probably wouldn’t mind her hiding behind her date with him. All of a sudden going seemed far smarter than staying home.

“Excuse me now,” she said, reaching for her little local phone list. “I need to find a babysitter.” She picked up the phone and began to punch in the number.

Flynn took the phone out of her hand. “I’ll watch him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“What’s ridiculous about it? He’s my son.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He doesn’t know you.”

“He wants to. He told me he asked Santa for me.” Flynn grinned.

Sara wanted to spit. “He’s five. And curious.”

“So, fine. Let him get to know me. Let me spend time with him. What better way?”

It sounded like the way to perdition to Sara. She shook her head. “It’s too soon.”

Flynn scowled. “Oh? And when is it not going to be too soon, Sar’? Tomorrow? Next week? Next year?”

“You’ve been here two hours, if that!”

“And I would have been here sooner if I’d known,” he said evenly. “I’ll say it again—as many times as it takes—I didn’t know. And if you’re worried about whether he’ll stay with me, ask him.”

“What?”

“Ask him if he minds. If he doesn’t want me to do it, I won’t.” Flynn raised his brows, met her gaze, threw down the gauntlet again. “Ask him.”

As if on cue, Liam yelled from outside, “Dad! C’mon! What’re you doin’ in there? Aren’tcha comin’?”

Sara winced at the eager tone, winced at the memory of her son striding up to Santa and saying, “I want you to bring my dad home.”

Flynn’s gaze remained fixed on her. His expression said all it needed to. But then he added, “Does Adam make you hot when he kisses you, Sara?”

“Fine,” Sara snapped. “Babysit. I wish you the joy of it!”