The Baby Twins Page 6

  "Perfectly." Through the headset, his voice sounded different—infinitely more in control. A good thing. She was in major need of a calming influence! "On a crisp fall day like this, the lower layer of air is bumpier. We're going through the mixing layer. After that, I promise the ride will smooth out."

  "If you say so…."

  Trying to focus on anything other than the fact that she was hurtling through the sky, by the minute getting farther from her babies, she focused on the plane's swanky decor. Cherry trim and built-in side tables along with navy carpet provided a sumptuous foundation for all of the fawn-colored leather upholstery.

  "This is supersweet," she noted, angling on her seat as much as her seat belt allowed. "So remind me again how you came to have it? I mean, not to get personal, but—"

  He was forced to cut her off by talking with someone on the radio. Another man, who spouted lots of Alpha/Bravo/Charlie-type lingo that sounded about as foreign to her as one of her more complex phyllo-dough recipes might've been to him. He finished, and his sideways grin stole her breath. "Before we were so rudely interrupted you were saying?"

  Shaking her head to clear it of a humming awareness that had nothing to do with the engine's drone, she regrouped. "I was just saying that knowing how little Michael made, unless you've taken up running cargo a little more pricey than passengers, this is out of your league."

  "My uncle left it to me. Remember? I thought I told you?"

  "You probably did," she said with a flustered smile. "If so, tell me again, because it obviously didn't sink in."

  He fiddled with some switches and knobs and then checked a couple of gauges. "My uncle was our family's black sheep. Much to Grandma Rose's dismay, he never even married—just cohabitated, as she called it—with an Anchorage burlesque dancer named Frieda."

  "As in Anchorage, Alaska?"

  "That'd be the one," he said, checking the radar screen. "So anyway, he dropped out of high school and headed up there when he was seventeen. Filed for a mining claim and hit it big. The rest is history. He died just last year, and believe me, no one was more surprised than me when I got a certified letter informing me that I was now the proud owner of my very own slice of Heaven. When I picked her up, I even got to meet Frieda."

  "What was she like?"

  "Bawdy. Mountains of red hair and big boobs. And the most wicked-fun personality I'd run across in years. We still keep in touch."

  "Cool."

  "That your official word of the day?"

  "Maybe." She yawned. "Michael would've loved this. He always talked about one day having his own plane. He looked so good in his TransGlobal uniform. Lots of ladies tried catching him, but he always came home to me." Eyelids fluttering with invisible weight, she added, "I could never come close to loving another man as much as him."

  Chapter Seven

  How much did it suck that here Brady sat at a blaring kiddie concert with some blond-haired, blue-eyed Romeo crooning to his daughter and four of her closest friends, and all he could think about was how irked he still was by Stephanie's earlier comment?

  While she danced along with the girls, he glowered, glad for the stadium's dark. Yes, to have even let the innocent statement register on his radar was idiotic. He and Steph were friends. He'd only brought her out here as a favor to his old buddy who wouldn't have wanted his wife forever crippled by a fear of flying.

  His conscience snorted. Yeah, right. How much of his invitation had had to do with chivalry and how much with a certain kiss?

  Arms tightly folded, he feigned interest in the teen his daughter and her friends squealed over.

  "What's wrong?" Steph shouted above an excruciating lead guitar solo.

  "Headache," he only half lied.

  "Want aspirin?" She'd already reached for her purse.

  He shook his head. "Let's get out of here for a minute. Maybe get a hot dog."

  She nodded.

  To his daughter, he explained the plan.

  To which she shouted, "Geesh, Dad, if you want to make out, couldn't you wait until after the show?"

  Vowing to deal with Lola's mouth later, he grabbed Steph's hand and led her up narrow stairs heading out of the arena.

  "Better?" she asked once distance had somewhat subdued the noise.

  He nodded. "I can't believe how much these tickets set me back. It's like I paid to be tortured."

  "Lola and her friends are clearly enthralled. Trust me," she assured, "your money was well spent. She'll always remember this night."

  Smelling food, he asked, "Hungry? We were in such a rush to pick up Lola and crew from the airport that we didn't get dinner."

  "True. I've been wondering if you'd ever get around to feeding me."

  They bantered over mustard-slathered hot dogs, Cokes and popcorn. And when that was done, they went back to the concession booth for soft-serve ice cream cones. At arena prices, the meal no doubt cost more than a night out at some swanky steak place, but damned if he hadn't enjoyed himself more. His earlier funk had been replaced by an inexplicable sense of contented ness. As though at least for the next thirty minutes, or so, all was good in his life.

  "Not to sound patronizing," he said upon finishing his cone, "but you did great today. Your nerves hardly showed at all."

  Dredging the pink tip of her tongue around the base of her treat, she took a long time to answer. "This might sound out there, but the whole time we were in the air, I felt like Michael was with me. Assuring me everything would be all right."

  Like a raging flash flood, Brady's jealousy over his old pal roared back. Irrational. Downright stupid. But there all the same.

  "We had such a great marriage. Michael was crazy about one day becoming a father. I never even got to tell him that we were expecting." Her blue eyes filled with tears. "Sorry. You've shown me the kind of good time I only used to share with him, which is great, but for some reason it's bringing back memories I'd thought were safely locked away."

  "We're, ah, cool." He'd striven for a carefree tone. The kind of casual, hip attitude a guy hanging out with his best friend's girl would naturally adopt. "Thought cool was my word," she teased with the cutest little crease between her eyes.

  "My bad." Hands flattened into a makeshift serving platter, he passed it back to her. "It's all yours."

  "Thank you."

  "You're welcome."

  Extending her small hand toward him, she asked, "Ready to head back in?"

  No. But hand in hand they entered the arena. Lucky for him, he still had an hour in the dark left to brood about the forbidden thrill of sliding his fingers between hers.

  * * *

  "SHE'S REALLY PRETTY." Lola padded into his office a little after 2:00 a.m. Her pink lamb pj's weren't anywhere near as cute as her crazy hair.

  "What're you doing up?" Swiveling his desk chair to better see her, he abandoned his mindless game of spider solitaire.

  "Couldn't sleep. Jenny snores—loud."

  He chuckled. "Sorry."

  She plopped cross-legged onto the thickly carpeted floor. "It's okay."

  Right after the concert, they'd dropped Steph off at her hotel, and then ran the rest of the girls back to his place. He would've lectured Lola on the merits of a good night's sleep, but when his eyes wouldn't shut, either, he could hardly blame the kid. "Want some hot chocolate?"

  She nodded.

  In the kitchen, they worked as a team, assembling milk, sugar and cocoa the way they had since she'd first learned to stand and her favorite kitchen toy had been a big, plastic spoon. Somewhere in her cluttered room at Clarissa's, she still had it—bite marks and all.

  "Did you guys go make out when you left the show?"

  "No," he said, more than a little miffed that she even knew what the phrase meant. "Not that it's any of your business, but we got hot dogs and talked about boring stuff like what we think our girls will be when they grow up."

  "What'd you tell her I want to be?"

  "What else?" He fished in the fr
idge for the spray bottle of whipped cream. "A drama queen."

  "That's so not true." She pretended to be offended, but her barely hidden smile told him that a part of her was proud that he'd noticed her dramatic tendencies. Little did she know he also worried about them! "You know I want to be an Olympic gymnast."

  "Yes," he acknowledged with a ruffle to her hair, "I do know, but it's always more fun to tease."

  She stuck out her tongue. "I think Mom's gonna be super jealous."

  "'Bout what?" He measured milk before dumping it into a saucepan.

  "Duh. Stephanie." Hands on her hips, she gave him the you're-such-a-dork look she usually reserved for when he asked questions about one of her gymnastic routines. "That's the only reason you brought her all the way out here, right? So Mom could see some other girl likes you and then she'd be so jealous she'll want you back?"

  * * *

  "SHE DIDN'T," STEPHANIE SAID the next morning over a bayside breakfast of cream cheese–slathered bagels and steaming, legendary Seattle coffee. Aside from Brady's confession that his daughter considered her the ultimate jealousy bait, the morning was breathtaking. She wasn't sure which body of water they currently strolled around, but the combination of salty air, ringing mast lines and the occasional slap of a wave against the boardwalk and marina docks made for a heady overall experience. Toss in Brady's pleasant company and it had been an all-around great morning.

  "Oh, yes, she did. Just thought I'd warn you as to why she was giving you all of those squinty-eyed glares."

  "Truthfully," she said with a laugh, "I thought she had something in her eye."

  "I wish," he grumbled, before taking another bite of bagel. He had a smidge of cream cheese in the corner of his mouth and instinctively, as she might've with Michael, she reached up to wipe it away. In the process, she caught a hint of his breath. Coffee and cream cheese and that little something extra she already recognized as him. Unfortunately, since Brady wasn't her husband, instead of allowing her to preen him, he flinched.

  "Sorry," she said, immediately retreating to her own personal space.

  "It's okay. I didn't mean to…You know."

  She nodded, making a mental note to keep her hands to herself. Being with Brady should be comfortable, but in the same way she would be with any friend. Bumbling through the awkward next few seconds, she said, "Anyway, I'm trying not to leap to conclusions about Lola, but is that why you brought me here? In the hopes of making Clarissa jealous? If so, because we're just friends, that's all right—I mean, it's not, but—"

  Hand on her forearm, he stopped her cold. "I invited you to my hometown to help get you over your fear of flying, and because I've really missed having a friend from the old days. You know, back before everything in my life went to hell."

  "Not everything," she said, sipping her brew and trying to ignore a delicious tingle where his fingers brushed her skin. Was that how it was? He was allowed to touch her, but not the other way around? Or was she overanalyzing his every move because she hadn't been around a man in nearly two years? "Overall," she licked suddenly dry lips, "don't you think you and Lola are growing stronger by the day?"

  "I thought so," he admitted, "but hearing her say that about you makes me wonder if all this time I've been fooling myself. What if all of my warm-fuzzies about our new and improved relationship are one-sided?"

  "I'm not going to say it isn't possible." Walking again, she tried not focusing so much on her awareness of Brady, but the heady rush of exploring somewhere new. "For what it matters," she said as they passed a guy hosing down his boat, "as a fellow parent, though my girls aren't anywhere near the stage Lola is, I think the fact that you were willing to up and move back to Seattle was a bold step in the right direction. As for her whole make-mom-jealous scheme, relax. It'll blow over." Just like my urge to comfort you with a big hug.

  Brady's knitted eyebrows told a different story.

  * * *

  "THANK YOU."

  "Sure." After returning Stephanie safe and sound and still somewhat sedated to Valley View, Brady climbed out of the airport courtesy vehicle to gather her things and walk her to her front door.

  The return flight had been uneventful, leading him to wonder why she'd ever panicked to such a degree.

  "Want to come in for a minute? You've got to be beat."

  "True," he said. A nap would be great, but it was already getting dark and he still had a long night ahead of him in flying home. "But I should be getting back."

  "Michael always tried resting between flights." Though she wore a heavy woolen sweater, she crossed her arms, rubbing herself to ward off the cold.

  "A good policy." But Brady had heard enough about his old friend to last him a good, long while. The last thing he wanted to do was chill in the guy's home. Especially since he'd spent a long afternoon musing about how much it sucked being stuck at nine thousand feet for over fifteen hundred nautical miles alongside a sleep ing beauty no doubt dreaming of a man other than him. "But I've got things to do back home."

  Lightning cracked the western sky.

  "That came in faster than I'd expected." Cramming his hands in his jeans pockets, he was itching to get a hold of a weather report.

  A light sprinkle started to fall, making the already nippy autumn air downright frigid.

  Jogging to the front door, Steph shouted over her shoulder, "Mother Nature's trying to tell you something…"

  "You're probably right," he said as the cold rain fell harder.

  Her home was as welcoming as her shop. Small, but cozy with sunny-yellow walls, honey-toned hardwood floors and the kind of feminine, frilly touches he wouldn't have thought Michael would've gone for. An overstuffed floral sofa and love seat nicely blended with a maple china cabinet crammed full of china collectibles. A redbrick fireplace was flanked by built-in bookshelves. An assortment of paperbacks, hardcover novels and even magazines were crammed haphazardly amongst framed photos—mostly featuring Michael or the babies. On the mantel sat a wooden flag case Brady presumed Stephanie had been given at Michael's memorial service. His formal Air National Guard portrait sat alongside it.

  In front of a large window sat a playpen, surrounded by stuffed animals and the kind of primary-colored blocks and chubby toys Lola played with when she'd been a baby.

  "This is nice," he said.

  Outside, the rain fell harder.

  Inside, his heart pounded when Steph removed the black velour jacket she'd been wearing to reveal a surprisingly low-cut tank that showed off toned arms and even a peek of belly.

  "Thanks." Tugging at her shirt, she tossed the jacket over the back of a white armchair. "There were a lot of things Michael and I still wanted to do—mostly landscaping, but…" Darting into the kitchen, she returned moments later with a dish towel, daubing at her face and throat. "I got wetter than I'd thought."

  When she offered it to him, he shook his head. "No, thanks."

  "Want something to drink? Eat?"

  "It's nice of you to offer, but I'm good." As soon as the rain cleared, he was out of here. Standing next to Steph, in Michael's home, he had never been more keenly aware of the fact that the two of them together would be a disaster. Sure, it was peaceful around here now, but once her girls were home, this place would be a madhouse. He'd done the husband thing and failed miserably. Same CD, different track when it came to his parenting skills. He was trying to make things better, but Steph and her babies deserved more.

  "It's so quiet with Michaela and Melanie not here." She sat hard on the sofa. "Once this storm clears, maybe I should head down to Little Rock to get them."

  "What was the original plan?" he asked, perching on a sofa arm.

  "Olivia was bringing them to school in the morning."

  "Sounds like a good friend."

  "The best." Hand to her throat, Steph glanced away.

  What was she thinking? Was she as uptight about him being here as he was?

  Pulling out his iPhone, he asked, "You don't mind if I ch
eck radar, do you?"

  "Please. Do whatever you need." Eyeing her lone suitcase lying on the entry hall floor, she said, "In fact, while you do that, I'll unpack. Once the girls are here, I'll never find time."

  With her gone, he told himself the radar was riveting, but in truth, he couldn't help but notice how the place smelled like her. A little sweet. Flowery. Infinitely attractive.

  Steph must've turned on her bedroom TV, as the sound of a weather forecast drifted down the dark hall.

  The longer Brady sat on his own, watching a line of severe storms blossom into a mess he had no desire to fly into, the more he wondered what the hell he was going to do. Here he was, essentially stuck smack-dab in the middle of Bumpkinville, USA, with a gorgeous old friend. Any sane guy would no doubt find that a good thing. But all it took was one look at the picture on the mantel to remind Brady that no matter how tempting Steph became, this was a look, don't touch situation.

  "I just saw radar," she said, strolling up from behind him. "Not that I'm an expert, but looks like you're going to be here awhile."

  "Yeah." He'd reached the same conclusion. The storm system had been predicted to form far south of the region and not until early tomorrow.

  "You're welcome to my guest room." She walked by him, sitting cross-legged on the couch. During the short time she'd been gone, her bra had been disposed of. She still wore the thin, white tank top and when she leaned far to her left to switch on a lamp, her breasts threatened to make an appearance.

  Mouth dry, he pressed his lips tight. What the hell had he gotten himself into? "I, ah, don't want to put you to any trouble. If it comes down to it, I can always crash on the plane."

  Her face paled.

  Catching the gist of what he'd said, he backpedaled. "The dinette folds down into a decent bunk."

  She nodded, but it didn't take a rocket scientist to tell his one innocent statement had reminded her of her husband and the way he'd met his demise.

  The harder the rain fell, the more difficult it became to find conversation.

  Thankfully—at least for him—a steady dripping noise had started in the kitchen, giving them both the opportunity to inspect.