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Gabe couldn’t argue that, though Brooke’s looks were only a small part of why he couldn’t get her out of his thoughts.
He tilted his head to study the serious little girl. “You know, you kind of do.”
By now, Brooke had reached them. “What’s that?”
“The two of you. You sort of resemble each other.”
“You think?” Brooke studied the ten year old with mild interest, and then with good humor said, “Blond, blue eyes.” She clapped her hands together once. “There you go. We’re twinkies!”
Delighted, Macy grinned. “Yes, we’re twinkies. I wish I was pretty like you.”
From Brooke’s expression, the painful comment pricked her heart in the same way it touched his. No little girl of ten should have low self-esteem.
“You are pretty, Macy. Remember, we’re twinkies?”
“Oh, yeah.” A tiny smile lifted the corner of her mouth but didn’t light her eyes. They had their work cut out for them to help Macy feel good about herself.
“You both have a dimple, too. Right there.” Gabe poked his finger gently into Macy’s cheek and winked. “Come on. A.J.’s headed for the climbing toy without us.”
Brooke sucked in a worried gasp and bolted toward A.J. Gabe and Macy followed at a slower pace. He didn’t get why Brooke freaked out if A.J. so much as moved without her moving, too. But in the end, he knew his son was in good hands.
When A.J. saw her coming, he shrieked with laughter and took off running, certain they were playing a game. She caught him, swooped him high over her head and spun him in a circle. His laugh echoed straight into Gabe’s heart.
“A.J. likes Brooke, too,” Macy said quietly. “She’s really nice.”
Gabe watched his son with the nanny, throat constricting. A.J. did like Brooke. In the space of such a short time, he’d bonded with her. Last night his son had cried when she left for the day. Cried and asked for “Book, Book.” Gabe had fought like mad not to call her back and ask her to stay for dinner.
His son needed a mother.
Gabe’s gaze focused on Brooke as she followed A.J. up the slide, held him between her knees and came sailing down, arms overhead like a kid on a roller coaster.
With a shake of his head, he dropped his gaze to the patch of green grass.
Yes, his son needed a mother.
But not Brooke Clayton.
The chat and clatter inside the Cowboy Café swelled to a pleasant din as Brooke dashed inside, arms chilled and wet from the sudden cloudburst. She shook the droplets from her hair and stood on the mat someone had placed by the door. She felt at loose ends today, a surprise given her reluctance to work for Gabe in the first place. He and A.J. had driven up to Denver to visit family and take care of some business. He hadn’t invited her along and it was silly to feel left out. She’d had to give herself a talking to after his Hummer had pulled out of the garage this morning. She was only the nanny.
Somehow she felt like more. Clearly, A.J. returned the feelings. His daddy didn’t.
She adored the child and the man had her thinking romantic thoughts.
With a shiver, she brushed the raindrops from her arms and sniffed the scents of fresh pot roast and sweet, yeasty bread, nearly moaning with enjoyment.
Calls of “Hey, Brooke,” and “How you doin’?” joined a half dozen head nods to acknowledge her entrance. She returned the greetings, the warmth of the café chasing away the afternoon chill. She’d missed this, missed the familiarity of knowing and being known. Though she hadn’t realized it until now, she’d missed the comfort of being surrounded by friends and neighbors whose grandparents and grandkids she knew. Her damp spirits lifted.
The tables were full, so Brooke settled at the counter, her favorite spot anyway. The Denver Post at her elbow headlined the Colorado Rockies’ win over the Mets.
Kylie Jones plopped a vinyl-covered menu on the counter in front of her. “The Rockies are doing well this year. Have you been to a game?”
“Not this year.” Not in several years. She’d been so intent on Marty and his plan to go to the mission field that she’d lost focus of the things she cared about. What had she been doing with Marty in the first place? Except for their shared faith, they were nothing alike. His idea of physical activity was surfing channels with the remote control. Not only had she not been in love with Marty, she’d not even enjoyed his company that much. What kind of woman decided to marry a man solely because he couldn’t have children? But that’s what she’d done. When Marty confessed his inability to father a child, she’d considered him an answer to her prayers. The pressure to have kids was off.
