The Perfect Father. Elizabeth BevarlyЧитать онлайн книгу.
site before the end of the day to retrieve his son on his way home.
To say she was surprised to view Chase Buchanan’s face through the peephole would have been an understatement. She hadn’t even told him where she lived. She wished he had given her some kind of warning, hated the fact that she was dressed in her most ragged jeans and a faded Princeton sweatshirt, now spattered with Simon’s lunch, and wore neither makeup nor shoes. Dammit, she thought, why did men have to be so freaking difficult?
Just as she was tugging the front door open, Simon buried both fists in her hair and yanked hard in an effort to attempt what had become his latest quest—trying to pull himself up over her face toward the top of her head, presumably to sit atop her. Why a baby would want to sit on the top of her head, Sylvie had no idea. But as a result of his maneuvering, she was unable to greet Chase cordially, because her face was full of baby belly.
“Sylvie?” she heard his deep, resonant voice say.
Very gingerly she pushed Simon to the side and peeked around him. Sure enough, it was Chase Buchanan standing at her front door, dressed in all his power-suited glory and looking like a man who ruled the world. Immediately feeling self-conscious in her baby-sitting attire, not to mention the added accessory of said baby still fastened to her head, she stammered out something in greeting and tried to pull Simon away from her face.
“Uh, come on in,” she said, stepping backward as she struggled to free the baby and lower him to her shoulder. “Long time, no see.”
She had begun to wonder if she had scared Chase off forever after their little tête-à-tête last week. Although she’d searched for him every night, he hadn’t returned to Cosmo’s, and she’d been surprised to discover how much she missed seeing him on a regular basis at the restaurant.
With one final yank she managed to pry the baby from her head and lower him into her arms, pushing at her disarrayed hair with her free hand and hoping she didn’t look too ridiculous. Then, unable to halt the question that formed so quickly in her brain, she added a little breathlessly, “What are you doing here?”
Chase strode past her and into the apartment, his eyes never leaving the baby who clung to her shoulders. Simon stared back, tucking his head warily into the curve of Sylvie’s neck and chin, studying the stranger with a combination of curiosity and suspicion.
“I went to Cosmo’s to see you, but then I remembered you have Mondays off,” Chase said.
His gaze finally lifted to lock with hers, and Sylvie was once again struck by how clear and beautiful his green eyes were. She couldn’t help but wonder why she’d never noticed them before.
“Mondays and Wednesdays,” she said softly, unsure why she was bothering to remind him. “I sit for Simon on those days. It gives him a day off from day care. Plus, I just love doing it. Um, how did you find out where I live?”
“Well, no one at the restaurant was willing to part with the information, that’s for sure,” he said stiffly, as if insulted that he was in no way trusted by the wait staff of an establishment into which he’d pumped a considerable portion of his income over the past two years. “So I looked in the phone book. There was only one S. Venner listed. I took a chance that it was you.”
She nodded. “Very resourceful.”
“Not really.”
Chase took a step toward her and studied the baby again. “So this is your nephew, the one who’s made you completely rethink the issue of motherhood.”
Sylvie smiled. “Chase, meet Simon McGuane. Simon, this is Chase Buchanan. He’s a friend of mine, so you can trust him.”
Chase glanced up when she introduced him as her friend, and she wished she could tell what he was thinking. He had a funny expression on his face, one she was in no way able to decipher. So she smiled experimentally, only to become more confused at the brief twitching of his own mouth in return.
The baby in her arms broke the tension of the moment by reaching a chubby hand out toward Chase. “Bob?” he said quietly.
Chase frowned, glaring at Sylvie. “Bob?” he repeated. “Who the he—” He stopped abruptly in deference to the little ears. “Who’s Bob?” he asked.
She laughed. “No one. ‘Bob’ is Simon’s favorite thing to say. He can make other sounds—dada, mama, gigga, babba, abba...all that important baby conversation—but ‘bob’ is by far his favorite.”
“Bob,” Simon said again as if to reinforce her explanation. He wiggled restlessly, and Sylvie bent to sit him on the floor. Immediately he maneuvered himself onto all fours. “Bob-bob-bob-bob-bob,” he sang out merrily as with quick, deft movements he crawled toward a quilt spread open on the other side of the living room that housed a variety of brightly colored plastic toys.
Chase watched the baby go, marveling at what a splash of colorful incongruence Simon’s play area was in the otherwise sleek, neutral, sophisticated furnishings of Sylvie’s high-rise apartment. Along with that, he took in the padded corner protectors on the coffee and end tables, and the complete absence of knickknacks from the bottom three shelves of her bookcases—items that had been mingled haphazardly elsewhere in the room on higher ground. More toys were scattered about the floor—on the sofa, under tables, poking out from beneath chairs—and a cardboard book with a puppy on the front, whose corners looked suspiciously gummed, lay neglected near his feet.
He was surprised that a woman who clearly preferred clean lines and minimal furnishings would allow such a clutter in her home. Then he turned to see Sylvie staring after the baby with such obvious love and devotion etched on her face that he ceased to wonder at all.
When Simon plopped himself down on the quilt and contented himself with a fistful of something that resembled a green plastic doughnut, Sylvie turned to Chase again, and he was chagrined that she caught him staring at her. A rush of pink stained her cheeks as she hastily looked away and jabbed a thumb over her shoulder toward the kitchen.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” she asked, sounding nervous for some reason. “It wouldn’t take but a minute. I have some of those International kinds if you like. You know, the kind you use to celebrate the moments of your life? Or is that Kodak film that does that?” she prattled on nervously. “Or AT&T? Gosh, all those advertisements run together sometimes, don’t they? Maybe it’s Hallmark or Coca-Co—”
“Sylvie,” Chase interrupted her quietly.
She shoved a hand anxiously through her bangs as she looked at some point over his shoulder. “What?”
All at once Chase was at a complete loss. He had no idea what he’d intended to tell her, why he’d come over to her apartment or why he suddenly never wanted to leave. “I...is it all right if I stay for a little while? I think we need to talk some more about this...this...this proposal you offered me.”
He could see that she was surprised to discover he was still considering it. Surprised and clearly delighted.
“Of course you can stay for a while. Stay for dinner if you’d like. I think I have a couple of steaks in the freezer that I could thaw in the microwave. And there’s stuff for a salad. A couple of potatoes. I’m not a gourmet chef by any stretch of the imagination—I usually eat at Cosmo’s before I start work—but I can whip up the basics when hard-pressed.”
Chase knew he should decline, knew he should discourage any further contact with Sylvie Venner that was anything other than casual, especially since he’d come to tell her that he couldn’t possibly be the man who would father her child. Instead, he found himself shrugging out of his coat and suit jacket, tossing them with much familiarity over a nearby chair and loosening his tie to unbutton his collar.
“Only if you let me help you with dinner,” he also heard himself say agreeably. “I, on the other hand, am a more than fair cook.”
“You got it,” she told him with a smile.
“And coffee sounds good for a start.