Adding Up to Marriage

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“So you don’t like me.” “Whatever gave you that idea—?”

“Silas. Please.”

Somehow, she imagined him removing his glasses, rubbing his eyes. The hormones moaned. Shut. Up.

“I think it’s safe to say—” he exhaled into the phone “—that we have … different ways of approaching life. But that’s neither here nor there. Look, I’ll pay you whatever … whatever you think is fair. Name your price.”

Visions of paid bills and maybe a new pair of hiking boots danced in her head. Cautiously she tossed out a figure, Silas said, “Done,” and Jewel sucked in a breath. “And like I said,” he added, “it’s only temporary. Until October. So what kind of schedule would work for you?”

“Um … if you don’t mind being flexible, why don’t we take it day by day—?”

“Works for me. Can you start tomorrow?”

“Uh, yeah … sure—”

“Then how about I swing by your place about eight-thirty to give you a set of keys to the house? And instructions?” “I guess. We don’t have any appointments tomorrow, so—”

“Great. See you then.”

Instructions, right, Jewel thought through the mild dizziness as she set her phone back on the counter. No doubt annotated and color coded. Like those scary Supernanny charts.

Her hormones scrambled for cover.

“Dad-dy! Where are you?”

Kids. Right.

Still clutching his phone, Silas walked back into the bathroom where his children—irrefutable evidence of his life having once included sex—had apparently decided why use a tiny squirt of shampoo when half the bottle was so much better? Or—he picked up the weightless plastic shell from the middle of the bathmat—the entire bottle. However, given the condition Silas and his brothers used to leave the bathroom in after their baths when they were kids, he was grateful most of the water was actually still in the tub.

“Look at Tad’s hair!” Ollie said, giggling and pointing to the Marge Simpson ‘do atop his youngest son’s head. Ollie, however, had gone more Marie Antoinette. All he needed was one of his plastic boats on top to complete the look.

Giving Silas a big, dimpled grin, Tad scooped up a mountain of froth. “We made bubbles!”

“So I see,” Silas said, sinking onto the covered toilet lid and thinking, God, I love these kids, his heart seizing up with a random attack of the what-might-have-beens. At least they didn’t happen as often as they did in the beginning. But they still came, sneaking up on him like ninjas in the middle of the night. Or like now, when the thought of entrusting them to some ponytailed, raspy-voiced, braless weirdo was making his brain hurt.

Figuring the suds made soaping them up redundant, Silas rolled up his shirt sleeves and turned on the handheld shower, a move that got a pair of “Awwww … not yets!”

“You want me to read?” he said as Marge, then Marie, dissolved into foamy streaks slithering down the boys’ chests. “Then you have to get out of the tub now.” Doughboy appeared at the open doorway, took one look at the Torture Weapon in Silas’s hand and backed out again. “And anyway,” he said, wrapping up each boy in turn like little mummies in their bath sheets, “I’ve got news.” He grabbed Tad to rub his curls mostly dry with a hand towel. “Jewel’s agreed to be your nanny.”

“Re-re-really?” Ollie said as Silas attacked his wet head, his grin enormous when he resurfaced, a blond porcupine pumping his fist. “Yes!”

“Yes!” Tad echoed, his still-damp curls bobbing as he, too, pumped his fist so hard he lost his towel. Then naturally both boys dissolved into giggles because, you know, life was go-ood.

Smiling, grateful, Silas hauled them both into his arms—was there anything better in the whole wide world than freshly bathed little boys?—and down the hall to their room, where he read three books and tucked them in with hugs and kisses and tried very, very hard not to think about Jewel Jasper’s voice.

Which he’d be hearing again in … less than twelve hours.

Hell.

The doorbell rang precisely at eight-thirty the next morning.

Waking Jewel up.

Muttering not-nice words, she fought her way out of the tangled covers—she’d always been a thrasher, had been told sharing a bed with her was like trying to sleep in a blender—yanking on her shorty robe as she lurched toward the front door.

The bell rang again. As did her cell phone.

She glanced at the display. Oh, joy.

“‘Lo,” she croaked as she tugged open the front door, assuming it’d be Silas on the other side and not an escaped convict. Or worse, somebody trying to save her soul. Got it in one, she thought as, nodding to Silas to come in, she pointed to the phone and mouthed, “My mother.”

“Oh, sugar, I’m so glad I got you.….” Hearing the tears in her mother’s voice, Jewel squeezed shut her eyes, only to realize when she opened them again that Silas was staring at the life-size pelvis complete with embryo and placenta sitting on the banged-up coffee table she’d picked up for next-to-nothing at a yard sale when she’d moved into the house. She shoved the front door closed with her bare foot, her mother’s “Monty broke up with me!” knifing through her morning groggies as she padded into the living room.

“Oh … I’m so sorry,” she said, thinking, Who the heck is Monty? On her way to the kitchen she poked Silas in the arm, distracting him from the pelvis. “Coffee?”

“Uh … sure,” he said, distracting Mama from Monty. For the moment.

“Honey? Who are you talking to?”

“A friend,” Jewel said, shrugging at Silas’s lifted eyebrows before yanking open the fridge for the Folgers, briefly considering snorting it instead of waiting for it to brew.

“Don’t you try to fool me, young lady, that was a man’s voice!”

“Nothin’ gets past you, huh?” Jewel said, carting the coffee over to the coffee maker, remembering too late when she reached up into the cupboard for the filters that she wasn’t wearing anything under the robe. Oops. “I can have men friends, Mama.” Although having them ogle her butt wasn’t on the list this morning. “Listen, I have to go, but how’s about I come down and go to lunch with you or something on Saturday? Cheer you up?”

“Oh … not today?”

Jewel sighed. Much as she truly loved her mother, all she wanted was for the woman to grow up. To be her mother and not that clingy chick in high school who tells everybody she’s your BFF when she’s not.

To give Jewel a chance to do some growing up of her own.

“I’d love to, Mama, really, but my day’s already full. But hey—why don’t you go shopping? You know that always makes you feel better.” For at least twenty minutes.

“Well … I suppose I could.” A delicate sniff sounded in Jewel’s ear. “But it’d be so much more fun with you along.”

At one point, that had been true enough. For Jewel, anyway. Nobody knew her way around a mall better than her mother, even if Mama was always trying to buy Jewel prissy, girly-girl things she’d never wear. “I know, but I can’t today. I’ll call you later, how’s that?”

After promising her mother she’d call as soon as she could, Jewel pocketed her cell and shut her eyes again, willing the coffee aroma into her veins. As usual the conversation was ripping her in two: she could be what her mother wanted her to be, or what Jewel needed to be, but not both. And the endless tug-of-war was making her bonkers.

Still, self-preservation kept her heels dug in and her bleeding hands tight on that rope, boy … or risk toppling right over into the Aching Void of Need she’d had to haul Kathryn DuBois out of more times than she could count, when yet another relationship fizzled out on her. On them both, actually, since losing three “daddies” and any number of also-rans hadn’t done Jewel any favors, either.

But if nothing else she’d learned from her mother’s example, having seen first-hand the vicious cycle of hope and heartbreak that were part and parcel of letting “love” blind you to reality. Hence her resolve to never let anybody do to her what so many had done to her mother.

Besides, if she didn’t stay strong, who’d take care of Mama?

“Let me guess,” Silas said behind her, making her jump. Because somehow she’d forgotten he was there. “I woke you.”

Jewel made sure she was smiling before she turned. “Only because I slept through my alarm.” She peered behind him. “You lose somebody?”

“The kids? Like there was any way we could talk with them around. Anyway, Ollie’s in school already. I left Tad at the shop with Noah. And my dad. And everybody else. One kid, a half-dozen sets of eyes … should work out just about right.” Silas folded his arms over his chest. Doing the Stern Look thing. On him, it worked. As did the gray, geometric-patterned sweater and jeans. Geek chic. “You do that often? Sleep through your alarm?”

Jewel’s stomach growled, reminding her of the vast void within. “No, actually,” she said, opening another cupboard door for oatmeal. “But I got called out unexpectedly last night with a mother having false labor. She didn’t settle down—” she yawned “—until nearly five.” The oatmeal dumped into a bowl with milk, she set it in the microwave and edged toward the fridge. “Want some eggs with your coffee?”

“Already ate. Thanks.”

“Whatever. I’m starving.” She cracked three eggs into a bowl, dumped two pieces of what her mother called “bird seed” bread into the toaster. “But don’t you worry,” she said, banging a skillet onto the old gas stove, “that was a one-off. My sleeping in, I mean. Normally I’m up at like six, raring to go. I have a lot of energy, which you may have noticed.”

But she doubted he’d heard her, since when she turned he was frowning at the disaster of a living room with its re-re-recycled furniture, littered with DVDs and textbooks and clothing that had wandered out of her closet and hadn’t yet found its way back, not to mention the dozen bulging, partially ripped garbage bags of kids’ and baby clothes and toys the church ladies had left for her to pass along to some of her and Patrice’s needier clients. The pelvis. Then his gaze drifted back to her, those green eyes positively teeming with questions.

And something else, something that sent little flickers of heat hoppity-skipping through her blood. Good thing, then—really good thing—she didn’t have to worry about pesky things like him maybe coming on to her. Because, alas, she was only human. And kinda, um, lonely, truth be told. As was Silas, she’d bet the farm.

Which could present a problem. Because while Jewel was not into sharing her body with all and sundry, she did have to admit to a certain fondness for sex, dimly remembered though that might be. Hence the hormones, which even now were whispering how little stoking it would take to go from flickers to raging conflagration.

Little creeps.

“Maybe you should get dressed,” Silas said softly, taking the bowl of beaten eggs from her, and she thought, Don’t look at the mouth, even as she noticed how turned down that mouth was at the corners. Disapproving and whatnot. “Before somebody sees us through the window—” he nodded toward the curtainless kitchen window facing the street “—and gets the wrong idea.”

Oh.

Her cheeks flaming, Jewel fled, feeling like a scolded little girl.

Which went a long way toward damping those flickers, boy. Yes, indeedy.

Silas beat those eggs as if his salvation depended on it.

Since his reaction to Jewel was making him feel close enough to perv status to ratchet the discomfort level up to, oh, about a million-point-two.

Even though there was no reason it should. Okay fine, so a brief glimpse of her bare bottom—hell, if he’d blinked he would’ve missed it—when she’d lifted her arms had fired a jet or two. Perfectly natural. And inevitable, frankly, considering how long it’d been since those particular jets had fired.

It was who the jets were firing for that had him all shook up.

Why hadn’t he blinked? Why?

Silas set the bowl of eggs on the counter—no point scrambling them until she returned, they’d only get cold—and wandered back into the living room, which could only be called a wreck. Gal hadn’t been kidding about her housekeeping skills. Or lack thereof. Scrupulously avoiding the model of the female innards on the coffee table, he instead found himself checking out the dozen or so videos scattered beside it.

Big mistake.

Orgasmic Birth?

“Snooping?” Jewel said from the other side of the room, making him spin around to see she’d buried all jet-firing attributes beneath a too-big, zipped-to-the-neck hoodie and a pair of holey jeans. Hair back. Face bare.

Eyes wary.

Aaaand there went the protective mode again.

Better than perv mode. Right? Maybe. Maybe not. “Of course not—”

“Oh, that’s the one in the player now,” she said, nodding at the case. Still in his hand. Busted. He lifted it, coherent speech beyond him. She grinned, effectively disabling the protective mode. “It’s excellent, you should give it a looksee sometime. Eggs ready yet?”

“No, sorry …” Silas dropped the case—setting off a clattering DVD avalanche which he had to stop and clean up—before following her back to the kitchen. “Didn’t want ‘em to get cold,” he said, turning the flame on underneath the cheapo skillet.

“I can do that—”

“No, it’s okay, you sit.” So I don’t have to look at you.

She got her oatmeal out of the microwave, stirred in a generous pat of butter and like half a cup of syrup of some kind. Good Lord. “You sure—?”

“Yes,” Silas said.

So she sat, and he scrambled—the eggs, his brain, whatever—a minute later sliding the plate with eggs and toast in front of her at the chewed-up dining table. Her gaze met his for a nanosecond then skittered away, yanking her usual exuberance along with it. Huh.

“Thanks,” she said, pushing her glasses up on her nose, and it occurred to him she didn’t see herself as sexy. Which was not his problem. No, his problem was him seeing her as sexy.

“Can’t remember the last time anybody made me breakfast,” she said, not looking at him as she scraped the last bit of oatmeal from the bowl and dived into the toast and eggs.

Silas poured himself a cup of coffee, leaning up against her counter to drink it while she ate. And ate, and ate. Where on earth she put it all, he couldn’t begin to guess.

“Your mother okay?” he asked, more out of politeness than curiosity. Heaven knew he had enough issues with his own mother, he sure as heck didn’t want or need to hear about anyone else’s.

After staring at him a moment too long, Jewel shoved her cheerfulness back out front, like a pushy mama making little Johnny sing for the folks. “Oh, she’ll be fine,” she said with a wave of her hand and a let’s-not-go-there smile. “She’s real good at landing on her feet. In more ways than one. So …” Her eggs polished off, she crammed the last bite of toast into her mouth and brushed off her hands. “What all do I need to know about the boys?”

And would somebody explain to him, considering he was only being polite to begin with, why the brush-off stung? Not a lot, but enough to make him wonder.

He pulled a list of instructions and emergency phone numbers from his back pocket and unfolded it, setting it in front of her. Still chewing, she quickly read it, then glanced up at him, her eyes glittering with amusement behind her glasses. Like snow in shadow, he thought, then mentally slapped himself.

“Why don’t you just send ‘em to military school and be done with it?”

Silas bristled. “I love my kids, Jewel. And I take my fathering responsibilities very seriously.”

“Well, of course you do! I don’t mean …” After checking for a clean spot on her napkin, she yanked off her glasses to clean them. “Okay, I was only trying to make light of the moment, but …” The glasses shoved back on, she huffed out, “My mouth has this bad habit of spitting out random inappropriateness when I least expect it. I apologize.”

This said eye-to-eye. Earnestly. Sincerely.

“And anyway, this—” she lifted the list, thankfully oblivious to the sudden, random buzzing in Silas’s head “—isn’t near as bad as I expected. Considering the boys’, um, high energy level.”

The buzzing faded. For which Silas was even more thankful. “The phrase ‘holy terrors’ has been bandied about a time or six.”

Jewel’s eyes popped wide enough for him to see gold flecks in the dusky blue irises. “They are not terrors! By any stretch of the imagination! And whoever would say such a thing …” Her mouth pulled flat, she shook her head. “Honestly. Some people need their brains washed out. They’re just little boys, for crying out loud,” she said, her fervor pinking her cheeks and making her eyes bluer, and Damn, she’s beautiful smacked Silas right between the eyes. Hell.

“Sounds like you’ve had experience with little boys,” he said, and her indignation melted into a chuckle.

“You couldn’t tell?” Then she flicked her hand: Never mind. “Yeah, I do. When my mother married my stepfather—my second one, I mean—my stepbrother was a toddler. I was eleven, and ohmigosh, I thought Aaron was the cutest thing ever. I adored him, took him everywhere, played dress-up with him—you can wipe that look off your face, your boys are safe, I outgrew that phase years ago—even let him sleep in my bed with me. ‘Course,” she said with a crooked little grin, “the older he got the more I decided he was a pain in the posterior, but I still loved him. Still do,” she added softly. “God, I miss that kid.”