Читать книгу Raising Connor - Loree Lough - Страница 16

CHAPTER EIGHT

BROOKE GLANCED OVER her shoulder. “Look at him back there, fast asleep.”

Hunter nodded. “Don’t know how he does it, all cramped and confined by that contraption.”

“I hope it’s a sign he’s beginning to come to terms with...” She shook her head. “I can’t even say it. Not that it matters. Because he’ll never get a handle on what happened. None of us will.” On the heels of a ragged sigh, she added, “Wasn’t it Deepak Chopra who wrote, ‘It is the nature of babies to be in bliss’?”

He could tell that she’d almost lost it for a minute there, and he admired how fast she’d pulled herself together. Another of Kent’s myths debunked, because Brooke could handle adversity.

“She’s gorgeous and well-read,” he said. “Be still, my heart.”

The instant the words were out, Hunter regretted them, mostly because of the self-conscious flush they put on her face.

“I have to admit,” he quickly added, “I envy the kid’s ability to sleep.” Was his comment enough to blot out memory of his verbal faux pas? Not likely. But with any luck, he’d sidelined it. “And I’m with you—I hope it’s a sign that he’s getting used to not seeing his mom and dad around every corner.”

“Yeah,” she said, staring through the windshield, “me, too.”

They spent the last ten minutes of the drive between Deidre’s and the Sheridans’ in companionable silence. With any other woman, Hunter would have felt obliged to fill it with idle chitchat—commenting on landmarks and weather, complaining about some crazy driver who’d cut them off, pointing out another of the county’s speed cameras—but with Brooke, the quiet seemed...right. He wondered about that, because before the crash, he’d always felt ill at ease and out of place in her presence. The sensation reminded him of his days in Bosnia, a full-out peacekeeping mission that left troops wondering where the next strike might come from.

The sun hung low in the late-March sky. Squinting, he decided a topic change was in order.

“Ever seen the green flash?” he asked, pulling into the Sheridans’ driveway.

“I’ve never been in the right place at the right time.”

He pocketed his keys and got out of the truck. Too late again to open the door for her.

“Yeah, if that isn’t one of those ‘the conditions are right’ things, I don’t know what is.”

While she fiddled with Connor’s seat restraints, he recalled a line from the 1882 novel Le Rayon vert. “Didn’t Jules Verne say that the flash is a color no artist could duplicate on his palette?”

“He also said if there’s green in paradise, surely it’s that green.”

Hunter slammed the back passenger door. “Sorry,” he said when she lurched. “Darned thing needs a new latch.”

“I know.”

Had he told her about the faulty handle? he wondered, extending one hand.

Without a word, Brooke dropped her keys into his upturned palm. Hunter unlocked the front door and got a whiff of lilacs—or was it lavender?—as Brooke stepped past him and into the house. Following her, he watched as she removed Connor’s hat and jacket.

“I’m surprised...”

She tucked the baby’s hat into his jacket sleeve. “About what?”

He raised his voice so she could hear him over Connor’s wailing. “That you’re a sci-fi fan.”

“I’m not. But I had a professor in college who was, and it didn’t take long to figure out that an occasional Verne quote could make the difference between a B and an A.”

“Hmm...”

“Now what?” she asked, hanging the jacket on the hall tree.

Things between them had been fairly harmonious. No way he intended to sour things by sharing his thought: Are women born manipulators, or do they work at it?

“I aced a high school literature class,” she added, “thanks to extra-credit papers I wrote on the elusive green flash. Unfortunately, that didn’t get me to Hawaii. And chances of ever getting there are slim to none.”

“But I’ve seen it in the Alleghenies, on a Florida beach, even from the fishing pier in Ocean City.” Pausing, Hunter then added, “What’s stopping you from going to Hawaii?”

“Time, mostly. Connor is too young for a trip like that.”

Still mapping out his future, was she? But that was an issue for later, after she’d had a chance to recover from the crash.

“What kept you from going before now?”

She gave the question a moment’s thought. “Never met anyone I wanted to spend that much time with, I guess. Don’t like the idea of vacationing on my own.”

The image of her with another guy put every nerve on edge, and he didn’t get that. Didn’t get it at all. She held Connor closer and said over his whining, “I’d much rather stay home with this little guy than jet off to some white-sands island.”

He pictured Brooke walking hand in hand with him on a sunny beach as Connor splashed in the surf beside them. “Maybe someday,” he said distractedly. Kent had told him all about Brooke’s bad luck with relationships....

She headed for the stairs. “I’m going to run a bath for Connor.” Looking into the baby’s face, she added, “And after he’s all clean and shiny, I’ll put on his pj’s.” She nuzzled Connor’s neck. “Early to bed, early to rise, young man.” Any second now she’d say something like Lock up after you let yourself out.

Halfway up the stairs, she stopped. “Would you like to stay, help me tuck him in?”

Good thing he wasn’t a betting man. “I’d love to.”

If he had a lick of sense, he’d follow her up the stairs.

If he’d never seen the disc, he wouldn’t be in this untenable position now, trying to forget the years she’d spent exploiting his guilt. He should feel justified using Kent’s tirade against her. But he didn’t.

If he could find more proof that Kent had been wrong about her, he wouldn’t need to go forward with his plan to adopt the boy. And if Connor’s well-being didn’t hang in the balance, he’d take a hammer to the DVD.

Doing the right thing for Connor shouldn’t be this hard.

So, then, why was it?

Because, you idiot, you’re falling for her.

Which was beyond foolish. The occasional bursts of cordiality he’d witnessed over the past few days were probably nothing more than Brooke feeling obliged to show gratitude for the chauffeuring and Connor-hauling. If he didn’t watch himself, Hunter would be in for a world of hurt, because chances that she’d ever feel anything but hostility toward him were slim to none.

If. The most powerful little word in the English language.

Then he remembered that Beth had loathed him, too, until he put some of his mother’s advice into play, and put everything he had into showing Beth how sorry he was about his part in what had happened to her mother. And in time, she’d forgiven him.