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The Bachelor and the Babies
HEATHER MACALLISTER
BACHELOR TERRITORYDaddy in training!When Harrison Rothwell is left to look after his two tiny nephews he decides to demonstrate that his rules of business management can be applied to any situation.Trouble is, the boys are messy, disorganized and won't stick to their diaper roster! In short, Harrison soon realizes that bachelors and babies don't mix! Which is where Carrie Brent comes in. His cute next-door neighbor may be totally disorganized but, when it comes to rug rats, she's a natural! Worse, Harrison can feel himself falling for Carrie's haphazard charms. And that will never do–because there's nothing remotely disorganized about falling in love!Heather MacAllister is the author of more than ten Harlequin Romance® novels written as Heather Allison.There are two sides to every story…and now it's his turn!
“Nathan, want juice?” Harrison asked warily (#u8d4f0761-df67-5fc1-acfb-4a5742d318be)Letter to Reader (#u8b6854f8-4546-58e0-9b36-14cac3f73a3c)Title Page (#u008278be-b833-5149-b251-a4bc882dc4df)Dedication (#ubdb6cfee-1009-5cf2-94e7-c49eb17de696)CHAPTER ONE (#u42c95031-bd5b-50f1-b5db-932020aab645)CHAPTER TWO (#u7b7a21a4-f348-5fee-8bd8-6d3e44486e62)CHAPTER THREE (#u2de8d6ec-54be-5785-b872-dfeb8c47dd65)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“Nathan, want juice?” Harrison asked warily
“No!”
“Banana?”
“No!”
“Sesame Street?” he offered recklessly.
“No!”
“A fully funded college account?”
“No! ”
“Bad decision, kid. I’m a man of my word.”
Harrison stepped over a diaper box, detoured around his rearranged furniture and surveyed the remnants of his living room. So this was the way parents lived. If he could bring order into the chaotic lives of parents, he was a sure candidate for a Nobel prize. Possibly two. They’d make a movie of his life. They’d erect statues in his honor. Children would be named after him. Political parties would court him. There would be Harrison Rothwell action figures.
Yes, life would be sweet—once he had it organized.
Dear Reader,
I had fun remembering my two sons as babies when I wrote The Bachelor and the Babies. I have firsthand experience with most of Harrison’s adventures, from the teething to the ominous cleanup announcements over the grocery store intercoms. And they say plastic mustard containers are unbreakable—ha! But stores love me now. The boys are teenagers and they still eat every two hours!
I hope you enjoy reading about mothering—from a man’s point of view!
Best wishes,
The Bachelor and the Babies
Heather MacAllister
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Sandy Weider,
in gratitude for coming to so many autographings
over the years, and for carpooling to the meetings.
Now whose turn is it to drive?
CHAPTER ONE
“BUT I have to see Harrison Rothwell. Now’s a good time for me. It’ll just take a minute.”
The insistent female voice vibrating through the closed door to Harrison’s office sounded vaguely familiar, but not familiar enough for him to break off his telephone call.
Renewing his concentration, he closed his eyes and swiveled his office chair so that he faced the windows overlooking the flat vista of Houston, Texas.
“Now, Harrison, if we do take your Rules of Time Management back for a fifth printing, we’d like to tell marketing that a sequel is in the works.”
“Felicia, I said all I have to say about corporate time management in that book. I already tweaked the chapter on fax machines and cellular phones and until we get widespread video phones, there’s nothing further to add.”
“Then how about something different?”
“What have you got in mind?”
His publisher drew a breath and Harrison visualized her gearing up for her sales pitch.
“Three words—domestic time management.” Felicia waited, obviously expecting a reaction.
Yes. Harrison had already toyed with the idea of expanding into the domestic market. Even now, clones of his time-management programs were cutting into his company’s seminar and training business, however, it strengthened his negotiating position if Felicia thought he was reluctant. He waited, letting the silence work for him.
“I can’t make an appointment for later. I’ll be sleeping later,” sounded clearly outside his door. “Our schedules aren’t meshing, here.”
So much for working the silence. Harrison winced and covered the telephone mouthpiece hoping that Felicia hadn’t heard.
What was that woman still doing out in his reception area? He was surprised that his assistant hadn’t been able to evict the unwanted visitor. Sharon was usually very efficient in guarding Harrison’s time from salespeople and the like. This person didn’t have an appointment, Harrison knew, because he’d allocated ten more minutes to his current phone call, fifteen minutes to return more calls, then ten minutes to review notes before the Friday staff meeting. No appointments until after lunch.
“Don’t you have anything to say?” Felicia prompted.
“Domestic time management?” he repeated, trying to ignore the arguing going on outside his door.
“Yes,” she insisted. “You’ve helped corporations desperate to increase efficiency with fewer personnel. How about some help on the home front? People are horribly overscheduled. Stress is king. Everyone is doing more and enjoying it less. They need downtime, Harrison. And you’re the man to help them get it.”
“It’s a very tempting idea,” he said slowly, as if he needed more persuasion. “Let me draw up some notes and—”
He was interrupted by a. pounding on his door. “Harrison, tell your secretary to let me in!”
“Harrison? Is everything all right?” his publisher asked.
“Ah, let me get back to you, Felicia.”
Disconnecting the call, he strode toward the door and flung it open. A woman with dark curls backed against him. He inhaled an unfamiliar perfume mingled with traces of cigarette smoke before setting her on her feet.
She whirled around, her hair flying. “Hey, Harry, how’s it going?”
Harrison found himself staring into the defiant brown eyes of Carrie Brent, the nemesis of the White Oak Bayou Condominium Residents’ Board—the same board of which he was a member. “What’s this all about, Carrie?”
“I want to talk with you.”
“Haven’t you heard of the telephone?”
“I want to be able to see your face. It’s harder to brush off someone when you see them in person. I learned that when I was a psychology major.”
Harrison didn’t want to hear about it. Psychology was the major Carrie quoted most often in her runins with the condo board. “Then you’ll have to make an appointment.”
“Well, I would if you had any openings when I’m awake.”
He blinked. “You’re awake now.”
“That’s what I was telling her.” Carrie hooked a thumb over her shoulder, and shot a disgusted look at Harrison’s secretary.
“Sharon knows that I have a very tight morning schedule, and you aren’t on it, either awake, or asleep.”
“This will only take a minute, unless you plan on being pigheaded and unreasonable.”
Absolute silence was punctuated by the distant warbling of office telephones. Everyone within earshot of Carrie’s voice was ignoring work to stare.
How often had Harrison preached keeping business and personal life separate? And standing in front of him, looking like an escapee from a gypsy camp, was Personal with a capital P.
“If you wish to discuss time-management techniques, then please make an appointment,” he enunciated clearly for his employees’ benefit. “If you wish to discuss anything not related to my business, then please contact me during evening hours.”
“I work during evening hours!”
“And I work during daytime hours. You are interfering with that work.” He turned to walk back into his office.
“Then I’ll sit right here and wait until you take a break.” She sank onto the floor outside his office, her skirt billowing around her.
She was making a scene. Carrie Brent was deliberately making a scene at his place of work.
She was wasting time. His time. His employees’ time.
It was obvious that Carrie Brent was not familiar with effective time-management techniques. Harrison pointed to his office.
Carrie got to her feet and sauntered inside.
“Show’s over,” Harrison announced to the room at large, then firmly shut his office door. “You may have the six minutes left of the phone call you interrupted, which is five more minutes than you deserve,” he snapped at her.
“How generous of you.” Bracelets clanked as she dug into a shapeless sack that was apparently serving as her purse. She pulled out a crumpled, folded piece of paper. “That’s where it went. Receipt,” she told Harrison and continued babbling while she searched. “I bought these great hip-hugger jeans, but I was in a hurry and didn’t try them on. They didn’t fit. I couldn’t believe it. I’ve been a size eight hoping to be a size six for as long as I can remember and the jeans don’t fit! Then I realized they were from the petite department.” She looked up at him. “I was so relieved when I saw the tag, you know?”
No, Harrison didn’t know and he didn’t want to know. He had to restrain himself from yanking the bag from her and dumping the contents on the floor. “You should have made an appointment. I don’t allocate time to deal with disorganized malcontents.”
“But you have time to cite me for—” she whipped out a folded piece of paper “—displaying hanging plants in unapproved containers?”
“Is that what this is about?” He didn’t want to hear it. Carrie lived a lifestyle continually at odds with the conservative community at the condos. He didn’t know why she insisted on living there, but she did, and the result was continual friction. “Make an appointment for an appeal to the board. I do not conduct personal business—”
“You and your appointments!” She waved the citation in front of his face. “By the time the board agrees to listen to me, the plants will be dead from lack of sunlight!”
“Not if you transfer them to approved containers.”
“And approved would be white or green plastic?” She grimaced. “You people would prefer plastic to original pieces of Mexican pottery? We’re talking art here!”
“White and green preserve the integrity of the outside appearance.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Plastic integrity. I knew it.”
“Carrie...” Shaking his head, Harrison shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned against the credenza. “Those are the rules.”
“The people who wrote those rules have no soul. I’m trying to...to...” She threw up her hands in frustration.
But Harrison knew exactly what she was trying to say. Carrie had lived in the complex longer than he had. He remembered the first time he’d met her. She’d arrived at his door with a pan of hot, vegetarian lasagna and a bottle of cheap chianti.
Since she lived on a downstairs corner, she’d watched the movers unload the few possessions that had survived the flooding at his former home. When she saw the secondhand couch and chairs, and the water-stained table legs, she’d apparently decided a soul mate was at last moving to White Oak Bayou Condominiums.
Harrison had enjoyed the evening too much to correct her impression.
But she figured out her mistake when Harrison had tried to repay her hospitality by inviting her to dinner after the decorator had finished replacing the furniture and changing the curtains in his new home.
Carrie had stepped inside the door, gazed around the room, then wordlessly stared at him with an expression he interpreted as betrayal. She’d handed him another straw-wrapped bottle, then left.
He’d never opened the wine, but he still had it. He didn’t know why. Maybe as emergency fuel if his car ever ran out of gas.
“I didn’t think my pots would bother anybody. Nobody can see them from the street.”
“They are not approved containers.”
“Pottery is better for the plants, anyway. Didn’t anyone notice how healthy mine look and how anemic everyone else’s look? Wait!” She smacked her forehead with the palm of her hand. “Plastic flowers! Of course. Has the board thought of that?”
“Carrie, this isn’t the proper venue for your complaints.” How could she think that coming here today and wasting his time would win his sympathies? Again, Harrison wondered why Carrie Brent wanted to live in a place where she so obviously didn’t fit in. He made a show of consulting his watch. “Since I can’t act without the rest of the board—”
“Can’t, or won’t?”
“Both.”
They locked gazes. “In other words, I’ll have to miss work if I want to challenge this citation,” she said.
“If you’re working at seven o’clock on the third Thursday of the month, then yes.”
“And if I don’t challenge it, then it goes into my file with all the other citations, until they reach critical mass, also determined by the board, and I’m evicted. Do I understand the plan correctly?”
Before answering, Harrison drew two deep breaths. It was a technique he found useful to keep from engaging in useless arguments. “I know of no plan to evict you.”
Carrie looked at him as though he was as dumb as dirt. “You know...” She held up the citation. “For anybody else, one of you would have knocked on my door, or left me a note telling me to take down the pots. But no. Because it was me, the board issues a formal citation.” She jammed it back into her purse.
She was right, he had to admit. The board seemed to enjoy catching her in minor violations, such as when a car with her visitor tags parked in the covered area instead of the visitors’ lot.
Or the fact that she’d set her recycling bin out too early because she didn’t get home until after the morning pickup. When she’d petitioned the board, they’d refused to consider the fact that Carrie worked nights. Decent women shouldn’t work nights unless they were nurses, one woman had said.
Harrison hadn’t been on the board then, but they’d told him all about Carrie Brent when he’d been elected earlier this year.
