Читать книгу Dylan's Daddy Dilemma - Tracy Madison - Страница 9
ОглавлениеPanic and nausea roiled in Chelsea’s stomach as she followed Dylan through the parking lot toward the back of the restaurant. She clutched Henry’s hand tighter—he’d woken the second she’d attempted to lift him into her arms and had insisted on walking—and wished she weren’t so afraid. What type of woman trusted a man’s word when she didn’t even know the man?
Well, she supposed, the type of woman who had run out of options. A sad, pitiful, terrifying description that now fit her perfectly.
She’d called each of the hotels Dylan had circled, plus a couple more for good measure. They were all cheap, but not cheap enough, and even then, none of them had any vacancies until tomorrow night. When the fight broke out, she’d decided it was best to leave, so she’d returned to the table and told Henry they were going to try something different that night by camping in their car. And yes, she’d made the prospect sound fun and adventurous.
Her darling, sweet boy didn’t put up a fuss or ask too many questions. Rather, he nodded and smiled and asked—again—if he could have a root beer before they left. Of course, she’d expected he’d react well. That was her kid. He just sort of went with the flow—though the way life had treated them since his birth almost demanded such a disposition. Nothing had gone easy.
Disowned by her parents, which honestly had been more of a blessing than a curse, abandoned by Henry’s father and left to her own devices to figure out all the messy details. Where to live. Where to work. Whom to trust. How to be the mother that Henry deserved.
And every damn time she thought she’d made a little progress, something would go wrong. Her apartment building had caught on fire. The best job she’d ever had, which wasn’t saying much, had been eliminated. Her purse was stolen. Her car broke down.
One thing after another. She’d barely recovered from one disaster when a new one would occur. It was as if fate had decided that nothing—meaning not one thing—would ever go as planned. So, she supposed, not only had Henry learned to go with the flow, but she had, as well.
But this? Accepting help from a strange man and trusting he wasn’t going to turn into a monster the second he had them alone was a new, frightening obstacle. Her gut told her he was safe and trustworthy, but her brain insisted she had just made a gigantic mistake.
So as they trudged along, she considered what she had in her purse that could be, if needed, used as a weapon. Her keys, maybe. If she could get them spread through her fingers just right fast enough. There was the minibottle of hair spray. Might work well enough if she could get the spray to hit his eyes, to blind him momentarily. Give her a few seconds to...what? Run?
She tried to imagine running with Henry at her side or in her arms and knew they wouldn’t get very far. Her keys, then. She’d use the hair spray to gain enough minutes to get to her keys, which she’d then use to protect herself and her son. After that, she didn’t know, but stupid or not, she felt considerably better having any sort of a plan.
“My parents used to keep an apartment upstairs,” Dylan was saying as they approached the back door of the restaurant. “All of us kids lived there at one time or another. Now it’s more of a space for family meetings, but there are sofas and blankets, and it’s warm.”
“Sounds considerably better than the car,” she said, her thoughts still focused on defense. And whether she fell into the cautious-but-smart category or the too-stupid-to-live one. She hoped the former. The too-stupid-to-live women always ended up dead in the movies. “I’m sure it’s fine.”
They stepped inside, and Chelsea dropped Henry’s hand to fish through her purse. The second she found the hair-spray bottle, she pulled her son close to her side and, at the same time, put a little more breathing distance between them and Dylan. Just in case.
“Back so soon? I told you that Gavin is on his way, big brother, so there’s no reason to... Oh!” The waitress who’d served them earlier rounded the corner, stopping short when she saw Chelsea and Henry. “I see we have company,” she said. “Let me guess...car problems?”
“Hey, Haley. And yup, you guessed right,” Dylan said. “This is Chelsea and Henry, and their car doesn’t seem to like the cold weather all that much. They...ah...didn’t have anywhere to stay, so I figured they could sleep upstairs. Just for tonight.”
Relief filtered in, wiping out most of Chelsea’s nerves. Someone else was here, and that made all of this seem much more normal. She loosened her hold on Henry.
“Okay,” Haley said, as if such an occurrence happened on a regular basis. And hey, as far as Chelsea knew, strangers often slept upstairs. Then the woman knelt in front of Henry. “Hello there,” she said. “Remember me? I brought you your hamburger and fries for dinner.”
“’Course I remember. You forgot the dip,” Henry said. “But you got it after I told you.”
Haley laughed. “That’s right.” A series of raps on the door had her straightening into a stand. “That would be Gavin,” she said to Dylan. “Are you all set, or...?”
“We’re good. Go home and get some sleep.”
“I think I will.” Haley waved at Chelsea and Henry before giving Dylan a quick hug. “See you all tomorrow,” she said, unlocking and opening the door. “Sleep tight and don’t—”
“Let the bedbugs bite!” Henry said, finishing Haley’s sentence. “Mommy says that all the time, except she tells me to let the love bugs bite.” He scowled. “I don’t want any bug bites!”
“Aw, that’s cute,” Haley said with another laugh. “Well, then, just sleep tight.”
Dylan locked the door behind his sister and Chelsea’s former apprehension returned. Not as strong, but still potent. Sensible, she knew, even with the normalcy of the exchange between Dylan and Haley. Better to be on guard and prepared than oblivious and taken by surprise.
“Anyone need anything before we head upstairs?” Dylan asked.
“It’s too late for soda,” Chelsea said to Henry, anticipating his response. “If you’re thirsty, you can have water.”
“Can I have a root beer tomorrow with lunch?” Henry asked. “You won’t let me have soda for breakfast, so I won’t ask for that.”
“Yes, Henry,” she said, too tired and nervous to worry about tomorrow.
“He really likes root beer, I take it?” Dylan didn’t wait for a reply, just gestured toward a door on the other side of the kitchen. “Let’s go on up and get you settled.”
“I like this new fresh start, Mommy,” Henry said, following Dylan without a second’s hesitation. “The other house was nice, but this one is better. It has the biggest kitchen I’ve ever seen and they have burgers and fries and real live fights! Pow, pow!”
“We left right after that fight started,” Chelsea explained as they climbed a narrow flight of stairs, pretending with everything she had that she was as comfortable as Dylan seemed. “And he was a little bummed to miss the excitement.”
“You know, Henry,” Dylan said, opening the door at the top of the stairs. He reached in and flipped on the lights. “Fights might seem exciting, but they’re dangerous and not the best way to settle a disagreement. Typically, anyway. So you didn’t miss much.”
“To him, it was noisy and fun.” Wrong, probably, but Chelsea felt the need to defend Henry’s enthusiasm. “He’s just a child and hasn’t yet connected fights with violence, because he has had zero exposure to violence. Which is how it should be.”
“Yup, that is exactly how it should be. I wasn’t condemning his view, just pointing out a different one. That’s all.” Herding them into the brightly lit room, Dylan said, “When I was a kid, me and my brothers were almost always in some sort of a skirmish. It’s natural.”
“Right. I just... I thought you were... Never mind.”
“You thought I was remarking on your parenting skills or something along those lines?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” To change the subject, she asked, “You said your brothers, as in plural? How many? Older or younger?”
“Two. One older, one younger.”
She waited for additional details, but he didn’t offer any. Disappointed, though she couldn’t put into words why, she said, “I have one sister. Younger.”
“That’s good. Family is important.”
“Depends on the family,” she said, thinking of her upbringing. Her father’s near-constant state of displeasure, with just about everything, really, but most often focused on Chelsea. Her mother’s passive disregard or worse, when she chimed in with her own cruel words in an effort to appease her husband rather than standing up for her kids. And Chelsea’s inability to succeed in their eyes, despite her many attempts. “Some families aren’t very family-like.”
Dylan gave her a question-filled look but didn’t comment. That was fine. She didn’t talk about her family with anyone. Not the details, at any rate. Her response had been made out of nervousness and a need to keep the silence at bay.
“We’re sleeping here?” Henry spun in a circle, taking in the space. “There aren’t any beds! Mommy, we could build a fort under the table. Like an inside tent!”
Chuckling, Dylan said, “This used to be the living room. Now it’s a meeting space.” He deposited the overnight bags and Teddy on the large rectangular table before nodding toward the adjoining kitchenette. “There should be water bottles in the fridge, and you’ll probably find some snacks in the cupboard. Nothing fancy, but my family likes to eat.”
“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” Chelsea said. “And really, this is so nice—”
“Can we make a fort?” Henry ran over to the table and pulled out one of the chairs. “Like that time we didn’t have any beds? Remember, Mommy?”
Heat flooded her face. Of course she remembered. It had been after the fire, and most of what they’d had was too smoke damaged to keep. Months had passed before she’d replaced even half of the items they’d lost. She’d never replaced her bed, but Henry’s she had.
And even that awful set of circumstances had been better than this.
“Yes, Henry, I remember. But I don’t know about building a fort. This isn’t—”
“No reason to, not that forts aren’t fun. But that room over there,” Dylan said, “used to be the bedroom. We’ve turned it into a break room of sorts. There’s a couple of sofas that you two can sleep on, and there should be plenty of blankets and a few pillows in the closet. You’ll have privacy. Bathroom is back there, as well. Make yourself at home.”
“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” Chelsea repeated. “This is nice of you. More than nice.”
“Nice is nice. I’m not sure what being more than nice entails.” Dylan shook his head, frustration appearing in the rigid set of his shoulders. “I’m not doing anything that any other decent person wouldn’t.”
“I don’t have that experience,” she said. “Regardless, it’s kind and you could’ve walked away to begin with. You didn’t. You came over to see what the problem was. That alone is more than I’m accustomed to, and I—” Snapping her mouth shut, irritated she’d given even that much of her life away, she finished with “Thank you. Because of you, we’re not sleeping in the car.”
Compassion and concern glittered in Dylan’s eyes, darkening them into a smoky green. But when he spoke, she didn’t hear either. What she heard was sharp annoyance. “Offering help when someone is in need is the decent thing to do, especially when it’s an easy fix. This is an easy fix for your dilemma. Most of the folks I know would do the same. If you don’t know people like that, then I’d say you’re hanging with the wrong crowd.”
Whoa. What had riled him up so much? “That isn’t what I meant,” she said in a rush. “I’m saying thank you for being so decent. Why can’t you accept a simple thank-you?”
“Stop being mad,” Henry said in a wobbly, uncertain voice. “I don’t like it.”
“Oh, honey, we’re not mad. We’re just talking. Promise!” Chelsea wrapped her arm around her son’s shoulders and pulled him close for a hug. When she let go, she said, “Everyone is tired, that’s all. Nothing to worry about, sweetie.”
“That’s right. No one’s mad,” Dylan said quickly in a warmer tone. “As your mom said, we’re tired. It’s late and we’ve all had a long day. Me with work and you two with driving.”
“Exactly.” Chelsea picked up the bags from the table and Henry’s stuffed animal—hers, actually, from her childhood. A gift from Sophia. “Let’s say good-night and get some sleep.”
“Good night,” Henry said, tugging on Dylan’s shirt so he was forced to look down at him. “And thank you for not letting us camp in our car. It wasn’t as fun as I thought. And for making Mommy not cry anymore. I don’t like it when she cries.”
Emotion clogged Chelsea’s throat. She hadn’t realized Henry had heard her crying.
Dylan blinked once, twice. “I don’t like it when my mom cries, either. So you’re welcome, Henry. I’m glad I can help. And don’t give up on camping just yet. It can be fun when the weather is nice and you have a warm sleeping bag and a campfire to roast marshmallows.”
“That would be fun,” Henry said, rubbing his eyes. “Maybe you can take me and Mommy camping sometime? I don’t think she’d know how to make a campfire.”
“Oh, I think I could figure it out,” Chelsea said, feeling the very real need for solitude. To think. To rest. To gather her bearings. She looked at Dylan and moved her lips into some semblance of a smile. “Thank you,” she said, her voice firm. “But I can take it from here.”
She led Henry in the direction of the room Dylan had said they could sleep in, and just as she opened the door, she heard him say, “You’re welcome, Chelsea.”
And strangely, even with the turmoil of the day and her extreme unease at accepting help from anyone, let alone a man she’d only just met, the sound of Dylan’s voice in that second added a level of comfort, of safety, into her swirling emotions. There was something about him that tugged at her sensibilities, made her want to lean into him and...just let him take care of all the messy details. And how screwed up was that?
She was fine on her own. Well, mostly fine.
The last thing she needed in her complicated life was another complication. Even so, as she made up the sofas with the blankets and pillows she found in the closet, she remembered her earlier wish—to have allowed just one trustworthy person into her life—and she couldn’t help but wonder if she let her guard down enough, if maybe Dylan would prove to be that person.
Unlikely—because, as he’d so plainly said, he was only doing what any decent person would do—but it was a nice thought. Nice and...hopeful. And right now she’d take any bit of hope she could find. She’d wanted, had prayed, for a new fresh start to present itself.
Perhaps this night, her car’s demise and trusting in Dylan’s words and accepting his help—for tonight only—was the beginning of a better life. For her and for Henry. Perhaps.
If not, well, she’d gone down that road plenty. It was familiar, if not friendly, ground.
* * *
Yawning, Dylan attempted for what had to be the hundredth time to find a comfortable way to sleep while stretched out between two straight-backed, hard-as-a-rock meeting-table chairs. He carefully maneuvered his arm behind his head to function as a cushion and at the same time flexed his legs to try loosening his tight muscles.
Bad idea. The movement was enough to overturn the chair his feet rested on, and in three seconds flat, he’d toppled to the floor. He pulled himself to a sitting position and pressed his forehead against his knees. Nope. Using those chairs as a bed couldn’t be done.
Not by him, at any rate.
If he’d had his wits about him, he’d have grabbed a blanket and a pillow before Chelsea and Henry had turned in for the night. Now their door was closed and he guessed—based on Chelsea’s earlier concerns—locked tight. At this point, he’d be fortunate to grab a meager four hours of shut-eye, let alone the nine he’d originally hoped for.
Hell. Luck had nothing to do with it. Even if he somehow managed to contort his body in such a way to relax enough to fall asleep, thoughts of the woman and her child in the next room would keep him awake. Standing, he shoved the chairs back into their normal positions and went to the fridge for a bottle of water. He’d gone without sleep before—he’d get by.
Unscrewing the cap, he took a long swig and considered his options. Morning would come fast. He was supposed to clock in at the sporting-goods store by twelve, where he’d work until four. Then he’d stop by Reid and Daisy’s place to check in on his sister-in-law and his four-month-old niece and nephew, Charlotte and Alexander.
Twins. Who would’ve guessed?
Not Reid. Apparently, the sight of two babies on the ultrasound monitor had thrown Dylan’s typically stoic older brother into a state of near collapse. Or, as Daisy had explained, “His face turned white and he almost fainted in shock.”
Hard to imagine, that. But Reid’s job as a ski patroller, along with the help he provided the family’s businesses, meant extralong, exhausting hours during the winter season. Since September, Dylan—well, all of the Fosters, really—had taken to dropping in on a daily basis. First to keep Daisy company—and appease Reid’s concerns, which had grown at the same rate as the size of Daisy’s stomach—in the last months of her pregnancy, and now to lend a hand. And Dylan enjoyed hanging with Daisy and helping with the babies.
Well, okay, he wasn’t all that fond of spit-up. Or changing diapers. But the rest of it was good. Family, in Dylan’s estimation, was all that really mattered.
After his stint there, he’d return to the pub by seven to tend the bar. Another long day awaited him, and this one he’d have to tackle with limited energy. Easier knowing it was the last crazy day of the season and that he’d then have more than enough hours to refuel.
Without thought, he tipped his head toward the room Chelsea and Henry slept in and mentally added them to his to-do list for the day. That car would have to be towed, and hopefully repaired, early enough so they could be on their way. They had to be on their way, quick-like, before he gave in to the impulse to fix not only her car, but her life.
Henry’s words rang in Dylan’s ears. She’d cried. And at some point they hadn’t owned beds, so they’d slept in a fort. Of course, that could mean something as simple as they’d just moved and their furniture had yet to be delivered. Could mean that.
But he didn’t think it did.
Closing his eyes, Dylan mentally replayed everything he’d seen and heard since Chelsea had first walked into Foster’s. Her body language, her words—what she’d admitted to and what she hadn’t, what he could only speculate on—the fear and desperation he’d recognized in her expression and the bits of information that Henry had inadvertently shared.
He’d already pieced together enough, even before finding her stranded in her car, to realize she was in a jam. Until this minute, though, he’d categorized her current predicament as a momentary spell of bad luck. Most people had family and friends to rely on in such moments, to get them through to better days. While he hadn’t given it a whole lot of thought, somewhere in his brain he’d assumed she had the same and that when she returned home—wherever home was—she’d have that support. But dammit, his gut told him that wasn’t the case.
And if so, what was he to do about that?
The sound of a door opening, followed by a quick gasp of surprise, interrupted his thought process. When he looked, he saw the woman herself, plastered against the door frame, wearing a long pink T-shirt and loose, candy-cane-striped pajama bottoms. Tension tightened her mouth, and all he wanted to do was make her smile.
“It occurs to me,” he said with what he hoped was a friendly, not-threatening-at-all tenor, “that I’ve yet to learn your last name. You know mine, but in case you forgot, it’s Foster.”
“Oh. Um...our last name is Bell,” she said, her voice holding that husky, barely awake quality. Also, though, a thread of wariness. “Chelsea and Henry Bell.”
“Nice to officially meet you, Chelsea Bell,” Dylan said, curious if a Mr. Bell existed somewhere or if Chelsea had simply never married and Henry had her name. Dammit. He shouldn’t care. “Something wake you or were you looking for me?”
“I... No, not looking for you. I thought I’d get a bottle of water, but I didn’t expect to see you up here. I guess I thought you’d go downstairs or—” She broke off, bit her bottom lip. “Dumb assumption to have. Why would you leave us alone when I could be a thief or—”
“An ax murderer?” Dylan asked in dry humor. “Sorry, but I don’t believe we have even one ax on the premises. And if you’re a thief, you can’t be that great at your job.”
“Is that so? What makes you say that?”
“Let’s start with the look of that car out there.”
“Perhaps I’m an excellent thief and my car is a...um...cover.” A soft, sleepy smile appeared. And she went from cute to beautiful. Breathtakingly so. “To hide my true, nefarious intent and the fact that I have oodles of diamonds and gold nuggets hidden away in the trunk.”
“Diamonds and gold nuggets? Good to know. We won’t just fix your car tomorrow, we’ll buy you a new one. Something more appropriate for a nefarious diamond-and-gold-nugget thief.”
“I...” Pushing away from the door frame, she approached the kitchenette. “If I can’t afford a hotel room, I certainly can’t afford whatever repairs that car needs. I was thinking of trying to sell it to a junkyard. Maybe I can get a couple hundred bucks.”
“I already guessed you didn’t have the finances for the tow or the repairs, so I thought I’d front you the money. It’s no trouble.” Dylan swallowed another gulp of water, curious as to what type of damsel in distress she actually was. Would she put up all sorts of arguments before giving in and accepting his help? Or would she be like Elise and not even bother with the pretense, smile sweetly and thank him for his kindness? Or would she have an entirely different type of reaction? “You can pay me back after you get home and settled. There isn’t any rush.”
She stopped her forward motion and frowned. Shook her head as if she had water stuck in her ears after a long dip in the pool. “What did you just say?”
Okay, then. A different type of reaction. He repeated his words, verbatim. And waited with interest to see what road she’d take them down next.
“Thank you, but no,” she said. Her eyes, her voice—everything about her—were cool and crisp and matter-of-fact. He’d irritated her? Yup, that he had, and his interest increased. Tenfold. “The truth is, I have more use of a couple hundred bucks in my wallet than I do with that car and owing you who knows how much money. So, again, thank you but no.”
She meant her words. And that told Dylan a hell of a lot about her character. More, probably, than she’d like him to know. Still didn’t mean he trusted her or wanted her to stick around. Only once had a woman affected him in as strong and intense a fashion as this woman. He’d fallen for Elise, hard. And look where that path had taken him?
“That’s fine,” he said, opening the fridge and tossing her a bottle of water. She caught it easily. “I’ll help you with that in the morning and, once you have the cash, drive you over to the bus station. If I run out of time, someone in my family will be happy to help.”
“Why, you’re just full of helpful suggestions, aren’t you?”
“Trying, I guess,” he said, watching her carefully. She wasn’t just irritated, she was...well, fuming would be the right description. “Something wrong with that?”
“No.” She sucked in a large breath, held it and then let it out with a loud whoosh of air. “Yes, actually. Yes, there is something wrong with that.”
“Care to explain?”
“Just that...you don’t know me and I don’t know you. It isn’t your call what I do next,” she said, her words coming at a fast clip, as if she was afraid common sense would reel them back in. “I am very appreciative of your assistance tonight, but when morning comes, I’ll go about my business and leave you to yours. So, no, I won’t be requiring a ride to the bus station from you or your family. I don’t even need to go to the bus station.”
Ah, hell. “You’re planning on staying, then?”
“I’m planning on staying,” she confirmed, losing her steam. She stared at her toes—which were painted a dark shade of purple—and exhaled, brought her gaze back to his. “I told Henry this was our fresh start at a brand-new life, and I am not going to disappoint him again.”
And double hell.
“You don’t have a job,” he said, stating the obvious. “Or a place to live.”
“I’ll find both. And until I do—” she lifted her chin in stubborn hope “—I’ll find one of those cheap motels and pray I get enough from selling the Malibu to see us through.”
Before he could stop himself, before his logic kicked in and squelched that damn desire to protect, defend and take care of, he heard himself saying, “If you’re dead and determined to stay, we’ll figure out something better than a cheap motel. And once I talk to my family, we might be able to scrounge up some work. On a temporary basis, that is.”
Dark blue eyes blinked in surprise and emotion. Sappy emotion. She looked away, off to his left, and a tremble coursed through her body. “I’ve never met a man like you, but as shockingly kind as your offer is, this time I’ll have to say no.”
“You said no about sleeping here and changed your mind.”
“I did. Because of Henry.”
“Who is still in the picture, unless he jumped out the window and ran away?”
She looked at him then, all soft and vulnerable and...beautiful. It took every ounce of willpower not to walk the few inches between them, pull her into his arms and promise her that everything would be fine. Better than fine. That she didn’t have to worry.
Fortunately, he ignored that instinct and waited her out.
“I can take care of my son,” she said. “I have since the day he was born, without anyone swooping in to help or fix my problems.”
And wasn’t that a damn shame? He shook off the thought and shrugged. “Not swooping,” he said. “Just extending a hand, but as you said, it’s your call.”
“That’s right. And...and I have a plan.”
He didn’t state the numerous flaws her plan held. Such as, even if she located employment right off the bat, she wouldn’t receive an actual paycheck for two weeks. Maybe longer. And the cheapest not-a-dump motel in town that he knew of—even with the less expensive off-season rates that would start in a few days—hovered around the fifty-dollar-per-night range. Supposing she got five hundred dollars for her car, and he thought that was the most the junkyard paid, she’d only have enough funds for a week.
But he didn’t point out any of these facts. Instead, he gave her a short nod and said, “You should get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day. For both of us.”
Chelsea opened her mouth as if to say more, but closed it just as fast. Another visible tremble swept through her slender body before she disappeared behind the safety of her closed door. Dylan stood there and tried—oh, he tried—not to make her and her son his responsibility.
Because nothing had changed there, either. They weren’t.
She was in a tough predicament, yes, but she had refused his help. That should be enough to allow him to walk away without feeling any residual guilt. He couldn’t, though.
Just couldn’t.
Swearing quietly, he finished off his water and tossed the empty bottle into the trash. He’d see what he could do about giving Chelsea and Henry Bell their new fresh start, but without her knowledge. And once they were adequately settled, he’d put both of them out of his head and wipe his hands of the whole ordeal.
Before his Foster DNA kicked in again and had him doing something even more insane. Like falling in love with both mother and son. Nope. That couldn’t happen.
Wouldn’t. Happen. No way in hell.
