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Juliette, however, calmly set her box on a nearby table and crouched in front of her baby sister, brushing back a tangle of pale blond hair from a very pissed-looking little face. “So what’d they do this time?” she asked, and the child rattled off a litany of offenses, which were then interrupted by a very masculine but somewhat weary “Bella. Enough.”
Followed by a silence thick enough to slice.
“Hey, Dad,” Juliette said, standing, then twisting her baby sister around in front of her like a shield. “Look who I ran into at the estate sale! And she gave me a ride home. So I invited her to breakfast. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
Oh, dear. Was that adolescent defiance rearing its pretty little head? Only, before Claire could process that little tidbit, a certain steely blue gaze rammed into hers—speaking of pissed—and a thousand ancient insecurities tried to rear their heads, and she thought no.
Or, more exactly, Hell, no.
Hey, she’d survived an ever-changing cast of roommates in more New York apartments than she cared to count, not to mention pointless cattle call auditions and insane directors and leering weirdos on the subway, capped off by caring for her dying mother back here in Maple River for nearly a year. A weenie, she was not. Not now, anyway. So no way was a pair of hot blue eyes slinging her back to that hellacious era when she hated her hair/body/clothes and a cute boy’s smile would render her a blithering, klutzy idiot.
Not that she’d actually ever seen Ethan smile. Although he was cute. In a brooding, Brontë-dude sort of way. Even if she hadn’t known he was ex-military, his posture and close-cropped hair—a dirty blond, maybe?—would have given him away. He was maybe a hair over six feet tall, but his bearing was…fierce. She imagined he was hell in football practice. Even though she’d never heard any of his players bad-mouth him. Ever.
“Your home is…” Claire glanced around, taking in the clutter of toys and sports equipment smothering what had probably at one time been nice furniture in mostly tans and reds and dark greens…the charred-brick fireplace…the mantel choked with family photos. From some unidentifiable part of the house, an obviously ticked-off male child bellowed, immediately followed by an even louder bellow in response. Claire turned back, smiling. “Lovely. Thank you for having me.”
“You’re welcome,” Ethan mumbled, then yelled up the stairs. “Guys! Come pick up your crap! We’ve got company!”
“Aw, Dad…”
“Jeez, Dad!” Juliette chirped.
Ethan stabbed a dark look in her direction before turning again, shouting, “Now!”
Sneakered feet thundered down the wooden treads, attached to a pair of gangly, shaggy-haired tweens—one blond, one red-haired—who threw Claire a mildly curious glance before attacking the mess. And she had to admit she felt a pang of sympathy for Ethan, raising four kids by himself. There had only been one of her, and both of her parents, and as a kid she’d been way too much of a scaredy-pants to rock the boat. But this—the boys vroomed around the room like a multilimbed dust devil, snatching up equipment and tossing it more at than in what Claire assumed was a mudroom off the kitchen—was Crazyville. You hear that, ovaries—?
Ah. The glare was once more aimed in her direction. Over, she realized, Bella’s head, who’d somewhere along the way ended up in her daddy’s arms. Strong, muscled arms underneath a gray fleece pullover that emphasized the equally muscled, broad shoulders carrying the weight, if not of the entire world, at least the world that was his.
Realizing Juliette had disappeared—to the kitchen, Claire presumed—she said in a low voice, “I don’t mean to intrude—”
“It’s okay,” he muttered through a jaw that redefined tight. “Jules likes to cook, but it’s mostly lost on her brothers and sister.” His eyes dropped to the little girl clinging to him like a baby monkey, his expression softening. Sort of. “Can’t get this one to eat eggs for anything.”
“Because eggs are gross,” Bella said, making a face exactly like her father’s, and it was everything Claire could do not to laugh. Then the little one leaned back, frowning into her father’s eyes. “And could you please tell Harry an’ Finn to stop calling me a baby. It hurts my feelings.”
