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Ross gave his son an I-can’t-believe-you-said-that look. “Obviously you haven’t met the right girl yet.”
Justice’s eyes crinkled with delight. True to the blood flowing through his little veins, Ross’s son set down his crayons and regarded him with a confident expression. “I’ve met lots of girls. There are bunches in my preschool class.” He said this as if revealing top-secret information. “Emma Beth has a dog even.” Justice’s attention turned toward the items Brielle had set out on the counter. “I want a dog, but Mommy says they are a lot of work. I bet I’m good at making omelets.”
Ross grinned, ruffled the boy’s downy soft hair again just for another touch of his son’s warmth. “I bet you are, too.”
* * *
In the end, neither was good at making omelets that particular morning. Usually Ross had no problems mustering up simple dishes in the kitchen. As a long-term bachelor, he was a decent cook. But whether it was knowing that he was cooking with his son, that he was cooking for Brielle, or the constant fear that Justice was going to topple out of the chair he stood on, fall off the countertop Ross kept repositioning him on, burn himself by getting too close to the oven, or some other situation that four-year-old boys got themselves into, Ross wasn’t sure. Just that his kitchen skills were lacking that day.
When Brielle stepped into the kitchen, she was confronted by a mess the likes of which her kitchen had most likely never seen.
“Um, I see you boys have been busy.” Her gaze traveled over the countertops, which were covered with various bowls, pans, and measuring utensils.
Ross just stared at her, wondering what had happened to his ability to breathe. Brielle took his breath away.
She’d changed into shorts and a T-shirt that hugged her breasts and accentuated her tiny waist. He longed to wrap his arms around that waist, to hold her to him, to see if their bodies fit together the way they once had.
So much for his claim of the night before.
Not that he hadn’t meant it. At the time he had. But he’d been blinded by anger and betrayal.
Perhaps the same anger and betrayal Brielle had felt when she’d come to Boston, pregnant with his child, and seen him with another woman.
He had dated. He’d had to do something to occupy his mind, his lonely heart, because as bad as things had gotten between them, he’d missed Brielle like crazy when he’d gone north. He’d serial-dated those first few months, searching for but never finding what he’d once had with Brielle. Not ever even coming close.
“We’re making omelets for chicks,” Justice announced proudly, obviously not realizing what a disaster their attempt was. Then again, one had to appreciate a kid who looked on the bright side of things.
“Do what?” Her gaze jerking to Ross, Brielle frowned, obviously seeing nothing bright in the current disaster she surveyed or their son’s comment.
“Uh, yeah,” Ross interrupted before Justice elaborated. “Omelets for chicks. One in particular. You. Unfortunately, we ran into a few problems.”
Glancing around the cluttered countertops, Brielle’s brow rose. “Just a few?”
Justice surveyed their mess and wrinkled his nose. “My daddy and I aren’t very good at getting chicks.”
“Obviously you don’t know your dad,” Brielle said with the sarcasm that seemed to accompany most of what she said to or about him these days. Then, realizing what she’d said, she popped her hand over her mouth, wincing at her blunder. “Sorry,” she mouthed at him, her eyes softening and holding real regret. “I didn’t mean that the way...well, you know.”
He did know. He’d seen his son for the first time the night before. Of course the boy didn’t know him, and that was Brielle’s fault.
And his own. Somewhere during the long night he’d admitted to himself that he hadn’t been blameless in the events that had played out.
Rather than call her on her comment, he just shrugged as if her barb hadn’t stung. “How about I take you both out for breakfast this morning?”
With one last look around the disaster they’d made of her kitchen, she accepted his olive branch. “That sounds like a good idea. On the way you can explain to me why my son has mentioned ‘chicks’ twice.”
“Our son mentioned chicks because that’s where eggs come from and we were making omelets, right?” Ross glanced at Justice for confirmation.
Being the sharp little munchkin he was, he nodded as if he were in on the biggest of secrets. He slipped his hand into Ross’s and grinned. “Right.”
Ross’s gaze went from where his son’s hand held his to Brielle’s pale face. If she expected him to apologize for trying to form a bond with their son, for telling him the truth, she’d be sorely disappointed. The kitchen was another matter altogether. That he’d make up to her later by cleaning up the mess.
“Let’s go before we both end up in the doghouse,” he warned his son, holding onto the boy’s hand loosely yet so emotionally tight that he’d never let go.
Coming to Bean’s Creek had been the right thing.
Without even realizing it, he’d been coming home.
CHAPTER EIGHT
