Baby, I'm Yours

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“Yes, actually. But why do you automatically assume Kevin won’t?” And why was she still defending him? “He already has a year under his belt. And that was without any outside motivation. Now, with Pippa…” Her eyes got itchy. “I’m just worried you’re setting yourself up for a major disappointment, Dad.”

The sharp ache of failure glittered in her father’s eyes. “We thought we were home free with your sister, too. That even though we’d forced her into recovery, for her own child’s sake she’d want to stay clean. And look how that turned out.”

After a moment, Julianne propelled herself to her feet, dislodging the sixty-pound foot warmer. When she got to the door, however, she turned around, her brow knotted with the effort to focus her thoughts into words. “You know, it’s not exactly in my best interest, either, if your theory about Kevin proves to be wrong. And yet I can’t see myself sitting around, waiting—hoping—for Kevin to fall on his face just so you’ll win, either. There’s something about him…” She shook her head. “He’s not Robyn, Dad.”

Dad sighed. “He talks a good talk, honey, I’ll give you that. But that’s no reason to feel sorry for him.”

“I don’t feel sorry for him, dammit! I’m not even sure I like him all that much, to be honest. I just think he’s a guy trying to fix his mistakes, who wants to be with his own child. He’s not the bloody devil, for crying out loud!”

“Julie-bird—”

“And for the love of God will you stop calling me that? I’m not a freaking child!”

She waited a moment to absorb her father’s stymied expression before leaving the room.

Kevin tossed his duffel onto a plaid club chair in Victor’s guest room, next to a heavily draped window overlooking the backyard. The room was okay, if kinda impersonal. Inoffensive. Like what you’d find in a better-grade motel, maybe. But the bed—queen-size, with one of those fourteen-inch mattresses—was a damn sight better than Felix’s futon. Place was a helluva lot quieter, too.

Speaking of whom… Felix definitely had a lot to say about this most recent development. Tact wasn’t exactly the old guy’s strong suit. Except, Kevin frankly wondered if his friend’s loud objections weren’t due more to his losing what he’d hoped was a buffer between him and Lupe than to Kevin’s moving into Victor Booth’s house.

Kevin unzipped his bag to load his few shirts, a couple pairs of jeans, into one of the cedar-scented bureau drawers. A clotheshorse, he was not. Wear it, wash it, repeat until replacing was the only option, was his motto. Somehow, he doubted the girl child snoozing peacefully next door was going to subscribe to the same fashion philosophy, if the piles of baby sleepers and what-have-you he’d seen Julianne folding earlier was any indication. Not to mention his nieces, all of whom could sniff out a mall from fifty miles away.

“Here.”

Kevin turned to see Julianne standing in the doorway, bearing linens and ambivalence, a grinning Gus at her side. “Thanks,” he said, crossing the springy Berber carpet to take them. The linens, anyway. Man, that conflict in her eyes stung. But whatever was going on underneath that pale blond hair—aside from the obvious, that his being there threatened her status quo as far as Pip was concerned—was off-limits. For the next month he was under her father’s microscope, and he had no intention of letting anything, or anybody, distract him from the task at hand. Which at the moment was to make up his bed. He whisked off the tailored, earth-toned spread to reveal a thickly quilted mattress cover.

“Want help?”

He flicked a glance in her direction. Damn, she looked ready to keel over. “I meant it when I said I could do this myself.”