The Paternity Factor. Caroline CrossЧитать онлайн книгу.
that it’s the wrong height for Chloe’s high chair and meals would be so much easier if—”
“Jessy.” The paper came down and he regarded her impatiently. “You want a table? Fine. Call Robinson’s. Tell them to send something out and have them put it on my account.”
He had an account at the furniture store? She bit her lip, resisting an impish urge to ask him why, if that was the case, the house was emptier than a pauper’s wallet. While the old Shane would have come back with a smart remark of his own, she was pretty sure the new one would stiffen up like a starched sheet hung out in a hot breeze, and she wasn’t quite done with him yet.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Would it also be all right to get one of those rocker-recliners so I’d have someplace to read to Chloe?”
“Get whatever you want,” he said flatly.
“Okay. Great. I’ll do that.”
“Good.” As quickly as that, the paper went back up.
Thoughtfully she set the bowl down on the counter, got the margarine out of the fridge and the syrup out of the cupboard. She poured the latter into a measuring cup, then checked the light on the waffle iron, which indicated it wasn’t quite ready. Picking up her coffee mug, she once more faced the breakfast bar, “Shane?”
“What?”
“There’s something else I’d like to ask.” She smothered a smile as she heard him sigh a second before he lowered the paper again.
One straight black eyebrow slashed up in question. “What is it now?”
“How would you feel about painting Chloe’s room?”
He frowned. “What’s the matter with it the way it is now?”
“It’s just so...bland. I’d like to add some color, maybe do a wallpaper border, just...brighten things up. Make it more suitable for a small child.”
For a moment he looked as if he were going to balk. Just as quickly, however, his face smoothed out, returning to its usual indifferent mask. “Fine. Pick out the paint and I’ll get somebody in to do it.”
“Don’t be silly,” she protested. “I’ll take care of it. I like to paint.”
He shrugged. “Do whatever you want.”
She smiled at him sweetly. “Great. I’ll do it Saturday then—if you’re free to watch Chloe?”
His expression grew even more shuttered. “Sure.” He started to go back to the paper, then reconsidered. “Is there anything else?”
“Well... As a matter of fact...”
“What?”
“Would you like some breakfast?”
He shook his head. “No, thanks. I’m not hungry.”
“Oh. Okay.”
With a rustle of newspaper, he returned to the day’s headlines.
Jessy didn’t say a word. On the contrary, she turned serenely around, set down her mug, flipped up the top of the waffle iron and poured in a puddle of batter. She replaced the top, picked up the syrup and put it in the microwave to warm.
In seconds the kitchen was filled with tantalizing aromas.
She pretended not to notice, just as she continued to ignore Shane. Instead she set a place for herself at the counter, poured herself a glass of milk and placed it, the margarine and the now-warm syrup within reach. Then she retrieved her waffle, put it on a plate and sat down. Settling her napkin in her lap, she picked up her knife and carefully buttered the warm, golden circle.
Two stools down, Shane had gone very still.
She reached for the syrup and slowly drizzled it across the waffle’s steaming surface. Then she cut off a bite-size piece and popped it into her mouth, unable to completely mask a soft sigh of pleasure at its sweet, buttery taste.
Very slowly, the paper came down. “You didn’t tell me you were fixing waffles,” Shane said brusquely.
“You didn’t ask.”
“I didn’t think I had a waffle iron.”
“You don’t. You were a little shy on cookware, so I brought over some of my things.”
He gave her a long, indecipherable look, then deliberately laid down the paper, pushed back the stool and stood. “I’ve got to go,” he said curtly. He stalked out of the room.
“Have a nice day,” Jessy called after him. She calmly ate another bite, thinking it was too bad he was so pressed for time.
Waffles were his favorites.
Three
When Shane walked in the door after work Friday night, Jessy was curled up on the family room couch, reading a magazine.
She sat upright as he came into the room. Pushing her glossy mane of golden brown hair off her face, she sent him her usual friendly smile. “Hi.”
He tossed his keys onto the counter and loosened his tie with a jerk. “Hi, yourself.”
He realized he sounded surly, but he didn’t particularly care. The whole damn day had been horrible. He’d overslept and missed his morning run. The rain that had threatened for two days had commenced at exactly the same time he’d had a tire blow out on the freeway. When he finally arrived at the office, damp, disheveled and late for an important meeting, he’d learned that Grace, his secretary for the past three years, had fallen in the shower and broken both arms. Topping things off, a shipment meant for Minnesota had gone to Missouri, one of his major suppliers was having financial problems and the truckers’ union was making noise about a possible strike.
Now here he was, home at last Or at least, he thought it was his home, he amended, taking a swift look around. In the time since he’d left that morning, it appeared he’d acquired an oversize rocker-recliner, several occasional tables, a pair of table lamps and a richly patterned Persian rug for his family room, plus a sleek dinette set that now occupied a space next to the windows.
Following his gaze, Jessy said mildly, “The furniture came.”
“Yeah. I noticed.” He was in no mood for small talk. It was after eight, he had indigestion from the too-spicy pizza he’d eaten for dinner and he was dead-dog tired. All he wanted was to be left alone, to have a little quiet time to get his head together before the whole damn thing started all over again in the morning. Not that he expected her to care.
“You’re home late.” She drew up her legs and looped her arms around them.
“Yeah.” He’d gone by the hospital to take Grace some flowers and wound up spending more than an hour assuring her she didn’t have to worry about her job, the hospital bill, or anything else. “I guess I should have called.”
“No problem,” she said easily. “Have you had dinner?”
“Yeah.” He picked up the mail and began to sort through it.
She was silent a moment. “Tough day?”
“You could say that.”
“I’m sorry. It must be the rain. Chloe had a bad one, too, poor little thing. It wore her out. She was out like a light by seven-thirty.”
He set down the mail, which except for an invitation to one of his best customer’s wedding was mostly flyers and bills, and turned to face her. “Well, I’m not far behind her. I’m going to go for a short run, then turn in, okay?”
It wasn’t a question so much as a declaration of his need for space, but she nodded anyway, her eyes very blue in her tranquil face. “Fine by me. I’m going to finish