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The look was delightfully jumbled and…fun, Kate thought. One might think the toys had simply been dropped wherever they fit. But she knew that great care, and a deep, affectionate knowledge of children, had gone into the design of the display.
Bells chimed cheerfully as they stepped inside.
Customers wandered. A toddler banged madly on a xylophone in the play corner. Behind the counter, Annie Maynard boxed a flop-eared stuffed dog. “He’s one of my favorites,” she said to the waiting customer. “Your niece is going to love him.”
Her glasses slid down her nose as she tied the fuzzy red yarn around the box. Then she glanced up over them, blinked and squealed.
“Brandon! Tash! Come see who’s here. Oh, come give me a kiss, you gorgeous thing.”
When he came around the counter and obliged, she patted her heart. “Been married twenty-five years,” she said to her customer. “And this boy can make me feel like a co-ed again. Happy holidays. Let me go get your mother.”
“No, I’ll get her.” Kate grinned and shook her head. “Brandon can stay here and flirt with you.”
“Well, then.” Annie winked. “Take your time.”
Her brother, Kate mused, had been leaving females puddled at his feet since he’d been five. No, since he’d been born, she corrected as she wandered through the aisles.
It was more than looks, though his were stellar. Even more than charm, though he could pump out plenty when he was in the mood. She’d long ago decided it was simply pheromones.
Some men just stood there and made women drool. Susceptible women, of course. Which she had never been. A man had to have more than looks, charm and sex appeal to catch her interest. She’d known entirely too many who were pretty to look at, but empty once you opened the package.
Then she turned the corner by the toy cars and very nearly turned into a puddle.
He was gorgeous. No, no, that was too female a term. Handsome was too fussily male. He was just…
Man.
Six-two if he was an inch, and all of it brilliantly packaged. As a dancer she appreciated a well-toned body. The specimen currently studying rows of miniature vehicles had his packed into snug and faded jeans, a flannel shirt and a denim jacket that was scarred and too light for the weather.
His work boots looked ancient and solid. Who would have thought work boots could be so sexy?
Then there was all that hair; dark, streaky blond masses of it waving around a lean, sharp-angled face. Not rugged, not classic, not anything she could label. His mouth was full, and appeared to be the only soft thing about him. His nose was long and straight, his chin, well, chiseled. And his eyes…
She couldn’t quite see his eyes, not the color, with all those wonderful lashes in the way. But they were heavy-lidded, so she imagined them a deep, slumberous blue.
She shifted her gaze to his hands as he reached for one of the toys. Big, wide-palmed, blunt-fingered. Strong.
Holy cow.
And while indulging in a moment’s fantasy—a perfectly harmless moment’s fantasy—she leaned and knocked over a small traffic jam of cars.
The resulting clatter slapped her out of her daydream, and turned the man’s eyes—his surprising and intense green eyes—in her direction.
“Oops,” she said. And grinning at him, laughing at herself, crouched down to pick up the cars. “I hope there were no casualties.”
“We’ve got an ambulance right here, if necessary.” He tapped the shiny red-and-white emergency vehicle, then hunkered down to help her.
“Thanks. If we can get these back before the cops get here, I may just get off with a warning.” He smelled as good as he looked, she decided. Wood shavings and man. She shifted, deliberately, and their knees bumped. “Come here often?”
“Yeah, actually.” He glanced up at her, took a good long look. She recognized the stirring of interest in his eyes. “Guys never outgrow their toys.”
“So I’ve heard. What do you like to play with?”
His eyebrows shot up. A man didn’t often come across a beautiful—provocative—woman in a toy store on a Wednesday afternoon. He very nearly stuttered, then did something he hadn’t done in years—spoke without thinking first.
“Depends on the game. What’s yours?”
She laughed, pushed back a tendril of hair that tickled her cheek. “Oh, I like all kinds of games—especially if I win.”
She started to rise, but he beat her to it, straightening those yard-long legs and holding out a hand. She gripped it, discovered to her pleasure it was as hard as she’d imagined, and as strong.
“Thanks again. I’m Kate.”
“Brody.” He offered the tiny blue convertible he was still holding. “In the market for a car?”
“No, not today. I’m more or less browsing, until I see what I want….” Her lips curved again, amused, flirtatious.
Brody had to order himself not to whistle out a breath. He’d had women come on to him from time to time, but never quite like this. And he’d been in a self-imposed female drought for… For what was beginning to seem entirely too long.
“Kate.” He leaned on a shelf, angled his body toward her. Funny, how the moves came back, how the system could pick up the dance as if it had never sat one out. “Why don’t we—”
“Katie. I didn’t know you’d come in.” Natasha Kimball hurried across the shop, carting an enormous toy cement mixer.
“I brought you a surprise.”
“I love surprises. But first here you are, Brody, as promised. Just came in Monday, and I put it aside for you.”
“It’s great.” The cool-eyed, flirtatious expression had vanished into a delighted grin. “It’s perfect. Jack’ll flip.”
“The manufacturer makes its toys to last. This is something he’ll enjoy for years, not just for a week after Christmas. Have you met my daughter?” Natasha asked, sliding an arm around Kate’s waist.
Brody’s eyes flicked up from the truck in its open-fronted box. “Daughter?”
So this is the ballerina, he thought. Doesn’t it just figure?
“We just met—over a slight vehicular accident.” Kate kept the smile on her face. Surely she had imagined the sudden chill. “Is Jack your nephew?”
“Jack’s my son.”
“Oh.” She took a long step back in her mind. The nerve of the man! The nerve of the married man flirting with her. It hardly mattered who had flirted first, after all. She wasn’t married. “I’m sure he’ll love it,” she said, coolly now and turned to her mother.
“Mama—”
“Kate, I was just telling Brody about your plans. I thought you might like him to look at your building.”
“Whatever for?”
“Brody’s a contractor. And a wonderful carpenter. He remodeled your father’s studio last year. And has promised to take a look at my kitchen. My daughter insists on the best,” Natasha added, her dark gold eyes laughing. “So naturally, I thought of you.”
“I appreciate it.”
“No, I do, because I know you do quality work at a fair price.” She gave his arm a little squeeze. “Spence and I would be grateful if you looked the building over.”
“I don’t even settle for two days, Mama. Let’s not rush things. But I did run into something annoying in the building just a bit ago. It’s up in the front charming Annie.”
“What…Brandon? Oh, why didn’t you say so!” As Natasha rushed off, Kate turned to Brody. “Nice to have met you.”
“Likewise. Give me a call if you want me to look at your place.”
“Of course.” She placed the little car he’d handed her neatly back on the shelf. “I’m sure your son will love his truck. Is he your only child?”
“Yes. There’s just Jack.”
“I’m sure he keeps you and your wife busy. Now if you’ll excuse me—”
“Jack’s mother died four years ago. But he keeps me plenty busy. Watch those intersections, Kate,” he suggested, and tucking the truck under his arm, walked away.
“Nice going.” She hissed under her breath. “Really nice going.”
Now maybe she could run out and see if there were any puppies she could kick, just to finish off the afternoon.
One of the best things about running your own business, in Brody’s opinion, was being able to prioritize your time. There were plenty of headaches—responsibilities, paperwork, juggling jobs—not to mention making damn sure there were jobs to juggle. But that one element made up for any and all of the downside.
For the last six years he’d had one priority.
His name was Jack.
After he’d hidden the cement truck under a tarp in the back of his pickup, had run by a job site to check on progress, called on a supplier to put a bug in their ear about a special order and stopped at yet another site to give a potential client an estimate on a bathroom rehab, he headed home.
Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, he made a point to be home before the school bus grumbled to the end of the lane. The other two school days—and in the case of any unavoidable delay—Jack was delivered to the Skully house, where he could spend an hour or two with his best pal Rod under the watchful eye of Beth Skully.
He owed Beth and Jerry Skully a great deal, and most of it was for giving Jack a safe and happy place to be when he couldn’t be home. In the ten months Brody had been back in Shepherdstown he was reminded, on an almost daily basis, just how comforting small towns could be.
Now, at thirty, he was amazed at the young man who had shaken that town off his shoes as fast as he could manage a little more than ten years before.
All for the best, he decided as he rounded the curve toward home. If he hadn’t left home, hadn’t been so hardheadedly determined to make his mark elsewhere, he wouldn’t have lived and learned. He wouldn’t have met Connie.
He wouldn’t have Jack.
He’d come nearly full circle. If he hadn’t completely closed the rift with his parents, he was making progress. Or Jack was, Brody corrected. His father might still hold a grudge against his son, but he couldn’t resist his grandson.
He’d been right to come home. Brody looked at the woods, growing thick on either side of the road. A few thin flakes of snow were beginning to drift out of the leaden sky. Hills, rocky and rough, rose and fell as they pleased.
It was a good place to raise a boy. Better for them both to be out of the city, to start fresh together in a place Jack had family.
Family who could and would accept him for what he was, instead of seeing him as a reminder of what was lost.
He turned into the lane, stopped and turned off the truck. The bus would be along in minutes, and Jack would leap out, race over and climb in, filling the cab of the truck with the thrills and spills of the day.
It was too bad, Brody mused, he couldn’t share the spills and thrills of his own with a six-year-old.
He could hardly tell his son that he’d felt his blood move for a woman again. Not just a mild stir, but a full leap. He couldn’t share that for a moment, a bit longer than a moment, he’d contemplated acting on that leap of blood.
It had been so damn long.
And what harm would it have done, really? An attractive woman, and one who obviously had no problem making the first move. A little mating dance, a couple of civilized dates, then some not-so-civilized sex. Everybody got what they wanted, and nobody got hurt.
He cursed under his breath, rubbed at the tension that had settled into the back of his neck.
Someone always got hurt.
Still, it might have been worth the risk…if she hadn’t been Natasha and Spencer Kimball’s pampered and perfect daughter.
He’d gone that route once before, and had no intention of navigating those pitfalls a second time.
He knew plenty about Kate Kimball. Prima ballerina, society darling and toast of the arty set. Over and above the fact that he’d rather have his teeth pulled—one at a time—than sit through a ballet, he’d had his fill of the cultured class during his all-too-brief marriage.
Connie had been one in a million. A natural in a sea of pretense and pomp. And even then, it had been a hard road. He’d never know if they’d have continued to bump their way over it together, but he liked to believe they would have.
As much as he’d loved her, his marriage to Connie had taught him life was easier if you stuck with your own. And easier yet if a man just avoided any serious entanglements with a woman.
It was a good thing he’d been interrupted before he’d followed impulse and asked Kate Kimball out. A good thing he’d learned who she was before that flirtation had shifted into high gear.
A very good thing he’d had the time to remember his priority. Fatherhood had kicked the stuffing out of the arrogant, careless and often reckless boy. And had made a man out of him.
He heard the rumble of the bus, and sat up grinning. There was no place in the world Brody O’Connell would rather be than right here, right now.
The big yellow bus groaned to a stop, its safety lights flashing. The driver waved, a cheerful little salute. Brody waved back and watched his lightning bolt shoot out the door.
Jack was a compact boy, except for his feet. It would take some years for him to grow into them. At the end of the lane, he tipped back his head and tried to catch one of those thin snowflakes on his tongue. His face was round and cheerful, his eyes green like his father’s, his mouth still the innocent bow of youth.
Brody knew when Jack stripped off his red ski cap—as he would at the first opportunity—his pale blond hair would shoot up in sunflower spikes.
Watching his son, Brody felt love swarm him, fill him so fast it was a flood of the heart.
Then the door of the truck opened, and the little boy clambered in, an eager puppy with oversize paws.
“Hey, Dad! It’s snowing. Maybe it’ll snow eight feet and there won’t be any school and we can build a million snowmen in the yard and go sledding.” He bounced on the seat. “Can we?”
“The minute it snows eight feet, we start the first of a million snowmen.”
“Promise?”
Promises, Brody knew, were always a solemn business. “Absolutely promise.”
“Okay! Guess what?”
Brody started the engine and drove up the lane. “What?”
