Читать книгу Dylan's Daddy Dilemma - Tracy Madison - Страница 8
ОглавлениеThe weight of her gaze struck him a millisecond before the sound of her voice, causing Dylan to overfill the pilsner. Frustrated with himself, he poured off some of the foam and wiped the side of the glass with the rag tucked into the waistband of his apron.
Would this night ever come to an end? He’d been off balance for the past hour, ever since handing the menus to the brunette and her kid. Not only did the out-of-character behavior hold zero logic, but it was annoying as hell. He didn’t appreciate having his head filled with curiosity and concern for absolute strangers. No matter how cute they were.
“Excuse me?” the brunette said again, louder this time, as he turned in her direction. “I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions? About—”
“Kind of busy at the moment,” he said, a tad more bluntly than he’d anticipated. Chagrined, he forced a smile. “But sure. Just give me a minute.”
“Of course,” she said. “No problem.”
A solid ten minutes later, after he’d delivered the beer and two others, paused to chat with the blonde—who was now on her fourth shooter, but at least she’d taken to sipping instead of gulping—and cleaned up a couple of spills, he returned to where the brunette waited.
She stood in such a way that she could watch both her boy and Dylan, and therefore, she saw him coming. “I can see you’re busy,” she said when he stopped in front of her. “And I’m sorry to bother you, but I need...well, some advice. I’m guessing you’re from around here?”
“No bother, and that I am,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
A rosy blush colored her cheeks, easily visible even in the dim lighting. “We just got here today, and it was supposed to be for a job. It...um... The job fell through. So, I’m wondering if you can direct me to a motel that isn’t too pricey? We’re not picky.”
Prickly dots of tension appeared between Dylan’s shoulder blades. He found no pleasure in hearing his assumptions were right on the money, but he choked down the questions her statement raised. Namely, why come for a job—whether it fell through or not—without having a place to stay? Seemed foolish and shortsighted, especially with a child to consider.
“That might be tough. This is the last weekend the mountain is open, so the city’s packed with tourists. It’s doubtful you’ll have any luck in finding a hotel with vacancies, cheap or not.” He should’ve left it at that, but he didn’t. Couldn’t, really. “I can grab the phone book and circle a few possibilities, if you like. Doesn’t hurt to check.”
She nodded her thanks and swung her gaze toward her son. In the instant before she did, Dylan recognized distress in her eyes. Beautiful eyes, deep blue in color and framed in long, dark lashes. Eyes that shouldn’t, under any circumstances, be coated with fear.
Another idiotic, out-of-character thought. Shaking it off, Dylan retrieved the phone book and hurriedly circled the three cheapest motels he knew of that weren’t dumps. With that and the bar phone in hand, he set them down in front of her. “There you go,” he said, his voice capturing her attention. “If you need anything else, let me know.”
“Actually, I was also wondering if you knew of any places that might be hiring? We’re here now, so I thought we might as well stay.” Again, her cheeks darkened in embarrassment. “It’s a long drive back to where we came from. It seems pointless to turn around.”
He opened his mouth, set to tell her the truth: this was a bad weekend to be looking for work in Steamboat Springs. Most of the local businesses would be doing the same as Foster’s, which was skimming down their seasonal employee load until the summer rush began.
Except he couldn’t. The fear he’d witnessed seconds ago stopped him in his tracks.
“Let me give that one some thought,” he said instead, unwilling to dash her hopes so quickly. Ridiculous, though. The truth remained the truth. “Why don’t you make the calls, figure out where you’re sleeping for the night, and I’ll see what I can come up with?”
Relief mixed with gratitude—maybe even some surprise—softened her smile, relaxing the angled features of her face. “Thank you,” she said, her words quiet and hesitant. “My name is Chelsea, by the way. And my son is Henry.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Dylan Foster.”
With that, he moved to the other end of the bar, making the sweep to see who needed what drink and who wanted to close out their tab. As he did, he considered her request, trying to come up with at least one job possibility to offer. Foster’s Pub wasn’t hiring. Neither was the other Foster family–owned business, the sporting-goods store his brother Cole managed.
So lost was he in these thoughts, his appraisal of the bar’s customers and their needs, he failed to pay adequate attention to the blonde. It was the sound of her laughter—a series of too loud, too playful, completely manufactured giggles—that yanked him clean out of his head and smack into the trouble he’d anticipated the whole damn evening.
It didn’t take an abundance of brainpower to size up the current situation. She had scooted herself closer to Mr. Miller Lite—so close she might as well have plopped herself on his lap—and was in the process of trailing her long red-painted fingernails down the front of his shirt. The poor sucker had his arm wrapped around her waist and was, by all appearances, clueless as to what was about to go down. Because coming toward the couple in long, heavy strides was another man—Mr. Heartbreaker, Dylan guessed—and he did not look pleased.
The blonde seemed quite content with herself and the blowout that was likely to occur. Dylan rushed forward, intent on stopping the altercation before it started and mentally cursing himself for allowing the brunette—Chelsea? Yeah, that was her name—to take over his thoughts. If not for her sad, fearful blue eyes, he would’ve been on top of this a hell of a lot sooner.
He stepped in front of the blonde at the same instant Mr. Heartbreaker arrived behind the couple. Bad luck, that, but Dylan smiled at the man and said, “What can I get for you?”
The man ignored Dylan. He grabbed Mr. Miller Lite’s arm and pulled it off the blonde’s waist, saying, “It’s time to go, Amber. You’ve made your point.”
“Oh, I don’t know that I have.” Excitement glimmered over her expression, there and gone in a blink. Facing the new arrival, she said, “Ask me tomorrow. And I’m not going anywhere with you. Now or ever. So you’re wasting your time.”
“Hold on here,” Mr. Miller Lite said. “Who is this guy? What’s this about, Amber?”
“His name is Brett, but there’s nothing to worry about,” Amber said, pressing her body another inch tighter against Mr. Miller Lite, her words a catlike purr. “He doesn’t have to ruin our fun or our night. He was just leaving.”
“We’re leaving together,” Brett the heartbreaker corrected. “And tomorrow, we’ll straighten all of this out, when you’re more willing to listen to reason.”
“Reason? I highly doubt there is anything—” She broke off, bit her bottom lip in a sultry type of pout. “Just leave.”
“You heard her,” Mr. Miller Lite said, disentangling himself from Amber so he could stand. “She doesn’t want to go with you—” he curled his fists at his sides “—so why don’t you stop embarrassing yourself and take off before someone gets hurt?”
Amber’s eyes widened and Brett’s mouth pursed into a glower. Uh-oh.
“Let’s all calm down. This seems like a private discussion,” Dylan interjected, considering how fast he’d be able to climb over the bar and physically get in between the two men and wishing that one of his brothers were also in attendance. Or, hell, both. “And this isn’t the place for a private discussion, so I think everyone should—”
That was all he managed to say before the first punch was thrown.
As far as fights went, Dylan had seen worse. Brett got two solid hits in, a clean one across Mr. Miller Lite’s jaw and the other straight into the gut. Mr. Miller Lite retaliated with an elbow punch, also to the gut, followed by several sharp jabs to the ribs. Brett was raring up for another go when Dylan and a couple of the pub’s employees managed to separate the two. From what he could see, no real damage was done, though both men would surely have a few bruises the next day. And, he was certain, very different stories to tell.
Fortunately, when Amber sidled next to Brett, obviously ready to mend fences, Mr. Miller Lite was smart enough not to argue. Dylan shooed him out first, and a few minutes later he sent Brett and Amber on their way. He didn’t know what had started their squabble, but he figured this wasn’t their first—nor would it be their last—go-around. They just had that look.
“The show is over, folks,” he said to the gawkers who hadn’t yet returned to their seats. None of whom had jumped in to help during the fight, thank goodness. That would have resulted in one hell of a mess. Everyone scattered to their various chairs, and within minutes the fight was forgotten and normalcy was restored.
It wasn’t until the hum of chatter had fully resumed that Dylan recalled Chelsea and her plight. Dammit. Nothing had changed. The facts were still the facts. There might be plenty of job openings in the city, but he didn’t know where, and really, that was fine. She was an adult and, despite the effect she’d had on him, a complete stranger. He had no business being concerned.
She wasn’t—in any way, shape or form—his responsibility.
Except when he searched the bar for her and her son and didn’t see them anywhere, knots formed in his stomach. Had she found a hotel? She’d mentioned they’d driven a long way, so he guessed she wouldn’t turn around for the return trip tonight, even if she had made the decision to leave. And honestly, if she didn’t have a job and had nowhere to go, why choose to stay?
Shaking off his absurd worries—why the devil did he care, anyway?—Dylan returned to working the bar and socializing with the customers. He refused to waste another second thinking about some woman he’d likely never see or hear from again.
The next several hours passed swiftly, and finally—thank God—it was closing time. Another hour spent putting the bar to rights and he was heading out through the kitchen, ready to go home and crash for a solid eight. Nine, if he could get away with it.
Haley was still in the kitchen, eating a late-night snack at the small round table the family and employees used. He grabbed a chair and sat down across from her, because as much as he wanted to hightail it home, he wouldn’t let his sister walk to her car alone.
“Long night,” she said in between bites of a turkey sandwich. “Long season.”
“Agreed. We’re almost done, though.” One more night of craziness and everything would calm down for a few months. Of course, as soon as he caught up on sleep and fun, boredom would settle in. It always did. “Any plans I should know about on your end?”
“Huh? Me? Nope.” She shrugged, twirled a lock of hair around her finger. “Nothing exciting, anyway. I mean, nothing that you would find exciting.”
“Is that so?”
“Yep, that’s so.” She twirled her hair tighter. “Just the normal in-between-season stuff.”
Dylan tried to find the energy to question his sister further, because she was—without a doubt—hiding something. The twirling of her hair, one of Haley’s tells, was a dead giveaway, but she could keep her secret. She was in a good place in her life. For well over a year now—closing in on two, actually—she’d been happy and in love with a man the entire Foster family considered one of their own. Whatever her secret, he highly doubted there was reason for alarm.
“Okay, then,” he said. “Please tell me you’re almost done with that sandwich.”
Narrowing her more-green-than-brown-tonight eyes, she gave him a protracted once-over. “Are you okay? You didn’t get your head beat on while breaking up that fight, did you?”
“Can’t win with you, Haley,” he joked. “Either I ask too many questions or not enough. I’m fine. Just tired and cranky and ready to head home.”
“Then go! What are you waiting for?”
He gave her a pointed look. “You. Finish eating so I can walk you out.”
“Oh. You don’t have to. Gavin dropped me off earlier, and he’ll be here to get me soon.” After swallowing another bite, she said, “I just called him. So no worries, big brother.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. He enjoys—” she smiled widely, happily “—picking me up.”
Dylan laughed at the innuendo, mostly to hide his reflexive wince of discomfort. Didn’t matter how much he liked Gavin, Haley would always be his baby sister. Some days he still saw her in pigtails. “I’m sure he does.”
After saying their good-nights, he walked outside and strode toward his parked car, which he’d left in the very back part of the lot. Cold wind smacked against his face in waves, so he tugged his coat collar up and over his jaw for protection. The air held the icy-crisp sharpness of winter, making it difficult to believe they were easing into spring.
He was about halfway across the parking lot when he heard the coughing, choking, sputtering sounds of an engine desperately trying to turn over. A stranded customer? Probably. A local, he’d guess, since tourists tended to rent vehicles, and typically those cars were newer and didn’t emit cries of impending death when started.
Stopping, he waited and hoped the engine would fire to life and he’d be free to go on his merry way. But nope, no such luck. The sputtering continued in growls and grunts, the gap in between each cough growing systematically longer by several seconds. In a matter of minutes, Dylan guessed, the car would become completely unresponsive.
Ah, hell. This he did not need.
But because his folks had raised him to lend a hand when one was needed, he switched his direction. Maybe the car just required a jump, which he could do without too much effort. If not, he’d lead the stranded person inside and wait with them until a tow truck arrived.
He approached the car—a decade-plus-old Chevy Malibu, he now saw—and grimaced at the now grinding, winding-down sound of an engine giving up the ghost. The driver needed to stop his attempts, because no amount of key turning and gas-pedal pumping was going to do the trick. And while he hated to admit it, he had serious doubts that the issue was the relatively simple matter of a battery requiring a jump.
This night seriously did not want to end.
Hungry, tired and...okay, irritated, Dylan paused mere inches from the car as recognition hit. His heart dropped clear to his stomach, because naturally, the person sitting behind the wheel frantically twisting the key in the ignition was none other than the too-skinny tall brunette who had consumed his thoughts for the majority of the evening. Chelsea.
And behind her, stretched out on the backseat, curled up in a blanket—and from his vantage point, apparently asleep—was her son, Henry. Dylan swore under his breath, knowing instinctively that she hadn’t found a hotel and that her convoluted plan was to spend the night in this behemoth of a car that now refused to start.
No heat. No safety. No nothing. Just an unprotected woman with her young child, sleeping in their car in a strange city on a cold, windy night with nowhere else to go. And his irritation climbed to a whole new level.
Striding forward, he raised his fist and knocked on the driver-side window. She froze before looking at him through the glass, her expression stricken at his sudden presence. Which meant, despite the glow from the parking-lot lights, she hadn’t seen or even sensed his approach. Pushing out a breath, reining in his annoyance, he gestured for her to roll down her window.
After a moment’s hesitation, she did.
“That car is dead in the water,” he said before she could utter a solitary syllable. “And even if it wasn’t, you can’t sleep there. It isn’t safe.”
“Who said I was sleeping here?” she responded, her tone strong and defensive. Well, he couldn’t blame her for either. As far as she knew, he was a bad guy. “And I always have trouble with the car when it’s cold outside, but I’m sure it will start. So we’re fine.”
She thought she was fine? Dylan bit back the curse he almost muttered and shook his head in resignation. He downgraded his hopeful nine hours of sleep to an adequate seven and jammed his hands into his coat pockets to fend off frozen fingers.
In a measured, calm meter, he said, “The last thing you are is fine.”
“The car will start.” Her chin firmed in stubbornness. “It’s just...temperamental in cold climates.”
“Uh-huh.” Weighing his next move, he thought of and discarded several reasonable arguments. He did not want to cause her undue alarm, but he also wasn’t about to walk off and leave her and her kid alone. “If you think you can get that car to run, I’ll wait right here while you do,” he said. “Then, since you said you’re not sleeping here, I assume that means you have somewhere else to go, so I’ll drive behind you to ascertain your car doesn’t become...temperamental again and leave you stranded.”
“You can go. I’m good,” she said hurriedly. “None of that is necessary.”
“In my book, all of it is necessary. Or,” he said, hoping he was wrong about the sleeping-in-the-car business, “I can call you a cab. You’ll be on your way in no time. Your choice.”
“No. I... The car will start.”
“I don’t think it will.”
She didn’t respond, just turned the key again...and then again...to no avail. “Come on,” she murmured before trying a third time. This attempt yielded a sharp, whining gasp.
“Don’t try again,” he warned. “Just—”
Chelsea swore and twisted the key once more. Nothing. Not a cough or a whine or a hack. Her shoulders trembled and she inhaled a deep breath. Several seconds elapsed before she looked at him, and when she did, her eyes were shiny with the promise of tears. Oh, hell.
“I didn’t find a hotel I can afford,” she admitted in a quiet, defeated voice that matched every inch of her body language. “And maybe the car won’t start until it warms up some tomorrow, but we’ll be fine. I have a ton of blankets and...and...”
“Get your son and get out of the car,” Dylan said before the promise of tears became a reality. That, he knew, would be his complete undoing. “I’ll carry whatever else you need. But you’re sure as hell not sleeping out here tonight.”
Doubt and fear clouded her gaze, her voice. “That isn’t a good idea.”
“Do you have a better one?” No response. Dylan counted to three, and then to five. He understood, even admired, her reluctance. But something had to give to change the status quo. “Look,” he said, “I get it. This is an awkward situation and you don’t know me from Adam, but you’ll have to trust that my only goal here is to get some shut-eye. That won’t happen if I leave you and your son on a friggin’ cold night that will only get colder. Let me help. Please.”
“I appreciate your kindness, but...” She squinted her eyes in assessment. Of him and, probably, the veracity of his words. She gave a quick, decisive shake to her head. “It’s a generous offer, but I have to decline. It’s better, I think, if we stay here and wait for morning.”
“That’s—” He clamped his jaw shut before uttering the word idiotic. She was, after all, only trying to remain safe. She wasn’t going to budge and he wouldn’t—couldn’t—leave her and her kid out here alone, vulnerable to the weather and other unpredictable, possibly dangerous, factors. “All righty, then. You win,” he said, settling on the one remaining, uncomfortable-as-all-get-out alternative and pointing toward his parked car on the other side of the lot. “If you won’t come with me, then I guess I’m bunking in my car, as well. I’ll just bring it over here.”
“You can’t do that,” Chelsea said. “That’s...extreme and—”
“It’s the only thing I can do,” he said, his irritation climbing even higher. “You get to decide what you’re doing, and I get to decide what I’m doing. No use arguing.”
She stared at him and he stared right back, neither speaking. Finally, she nodded and started to roll up her window. He’d taken three full steps when she said, “Wait. Just...wait.”
Dylan paused, pivoted and leveraged his hands on his hips. “Waiting.”
“Can you promise... You’re not an ax murderer or something, are you?”
“No,” he said, choosing not to point out the obvious—most ax murderers didn’t go around warning their would-be victims of their intent. “I find axes rather—” he smiled, more in an effort to put her at ease than from any sense of amusement “—unwieldy as a rule.”
Her eyes widened in shock and she made a half squeal sort of a noise. No more than a second later, she blinked and her lips twitched in an almost grin. Good sign, that. “I see,” she said. “So I don’t have to worry that you’re an ax murderer?”
“Nope,” he said, straight-faced. “I’d rather put my victims in a car with no running heat on a cold, blustery night and wait for them to freeze to death. Far less bloody that way.”
“Less bloody, sure, but not exactly the most expedient plan.” She laughed, but it sounded forced to Dylan’s ears. Nervous, too. “I believe you’re not an ax murderer, but if I were to accept your offer of help...” Sighing, she glanced over her shoulder at her sleeping son. “Are you expecting anything in return? That is, anything from me in return?”
Oh, Lord. He should’ve seen that question coming. Every ounce of irritation fled. He no longer speculated on why Chelsea hadn’t planned ahead well enough to have a place to sleep or what had happened to cause her job to fall through. All he saw was a desperate woman who was petrified she’d have to pay too high a price to keep her son warm.
It was, Dylan realized, far too easy to imagine Haley in such a position, even though she didn’t yet have any children. And it was far too terrifying to consider if a different sort of man had offered his assistance. “All I’m expecting,” he said, meeting Chelsea’s gaze with his own and hoping she’d see his sincerity, “is to feel relief I didn’t leave you and Henry out here on your own. That’s it. That’s all there is to this. I swear.”
He could damn near see the debate raging inside her head, but in the end, she closed her eyes and released another sigh. “Whatever it takes,” she muttered to herself. Then, with eyes wide-open and focused on him, she nodded. “I’ll take you up on your offer, and I’m grateful and appreciative, but—” now she narrowed those gorgeous eyes of hers and the tempo of her speech hardened “—I will warn you that if you try anything at all, I do not find axes too unwieldy. I am, in fact, comfortable with a wide array of weapons. Quite comfortable.”
Meaning she’d kick his butt from here to Denver if he crossed a line. Well, no worries there. He wasn’t that type of man. Never had been, never would be.
But he couldn’t continue to deny his attraction toward her, either. He’d recognized her vulnerability early on, so it wasn’t that alone. Nor was it solely the tough attitude she’d just displayed. Nope, it was the mix of the two that yanked at his heart.
Nah. More appropriate to call that specific recipe in a woman his Achilles’ heel. A combination of traits in the opposite sex that tended to shove his common sense out the window in lieu of more basic, emotional responses. The need to protect, defend, take care of.
Once, so long ago now that it was almost difficult to remember his younger self, he’d married a woman with that same deadly blend of helplessness coated by an edge of steel. For a while, he’d been mesmerized by Elise’s wants and needs and his own desire to protect. He’d fallen for every sob, every shaky breath, every whispered devotion without ever second-guessing her intent. She’d been good. So damn good he hadn’t seen her betrayal coming.
But she’d set her sights on a different type of life than the one she was born into, so she’d used him as a...well, a stepping stone. When something better came along, she’d trounced his heart into smithereens and run off with another man. Pregnant, to boot. Not with his child, as he’d made damn sure of that before signing the divorce decree. But yeah, for Elise, he’d been nothing more than a stopgap. It still hurt, realizing that was all he’d meant to her.
He’d loved and trusted Elise. Her deceptions had left him scarred and vigilant. Smarter, though, too. Truth was, he couldn’t blame Elise for his own stupidity. There had been signs, he was sure, of her manipulations. If he’d paid more attention, he would’ve recognized those signs, and in doing so, saved himself from a world of pain and humiliation.
So, no. Dylan would never again allow himself to be taken for a ride by a tough-as-nails damsel in distress. No matter how attractive or appealing that woman might be.
He gave himself a mental shake and focused on Chelsea, who was still watching him with cautious eyes and a firm, unyielding mouth. Vulnerable and tough and...scared.
Yep, his Achilles’ heel.
“Got it,” he said, his tone abrupt and cool. “You’re an ace with weaponry of all kinds. Now, if you’re done with the warnings, let’s get the two of you inside where it’s warm. We’ll get your car towed tomorrow and see about getting it fixed.”
He thought for a second she was going to present a whole new slew of arguments. But then she unlocked her door and stepped out. While Chelsea gathered her son, he grabbed the overnight bags she pointed to, along with a patched-up stuffed bear that had seen better days.
And when Henry opened his eyes and asked his mother if they’d found their new fresh start, Dylan’s heart about broke in two. But that feeling would lead him straight into disaster, so he shored up his defenses and promised to keep both mother and son at a distance.
A modest enough promise to stick to for one night.
Helping Chelsea and her son was the right thing to do. No more, no less. Tomorrow, he expected she’d be on her way back to wherever she’d come from. This pull he felt toward her wouldn’t have the opportunity to grow or become problematic.
It would simply disappear.
