Navy Seal Dad. Metsy Hingle
good. Then she admitted they were hers and I got her to point out a few of the others she’d done. Like I said, she’s very talented.”
“I know she is.” It was Chloe, who for all her bravado, doubted her own talent.
“She’s agreed to sell me one of the small oils for my mother.”
“Sounds like you two hit it off,” Rachel said with dismay.
Mac grinned at that. “My guess is the uniform had something to do with it. That, and the fact that she apparently knew who I was. I take it you told her about us.”
“I may have mentioned your name to her in passing,” Rachel replied, knowing as she said the words what a whopper she was telling. Chloe had listened to her sob her heart out far more times that she cared to remember after Mac had left. And she had been the one in the delivery room with her when she’d borne Mac’s son. Thoughts of their son had her nerves—already wound tight as a spring—growing even more strained. Rachel held her breath and waited for Mac to mention P.J.
The smile disappeared from his lips. “Then I guess I’m lucky she didn’t slam the door in my face.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Come on, Rach. I can’t imagine you would have many nice things to say about me, considering how badly I handled things before I left.”
Rachel met his somber gaze. “Then you’d be wrong, Mac.” No matter how things had ended between them or how deeply he had hurt her, she would always be grateful to him for giving her P.J.
“Rach,” Mac said her name like a prayer as he moved in, cupped her shoulders. “If only you knew how many times I—”
The lights flickered on inside and after a quick snick of locks, the door opened to reveal a sleepy-eyed Chloe clutching her big fluffy robe around her. “Are you guys deliberately trying to catch pneumonia? It’s freezing out there.”
“Sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean to wake you,” Mac told her.
“You didn’t. The little monster did.”
Rachel stiffened at her friend’s words, and the frown on Mac’s face set her nerves to racing again. “I’d better go,” she told him, hoping to hurry him along. “I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
Ignoring her dismissal, Mac kept his focus on Chloe. “Little monster?” he repeated, a determined expression on his face.
“P.J.,” Chloe offered with a yawn.
“P.J.?”
As if on cue, P.J. let out a squeal guaranteed to wake the dead. And just as she knew he would, he came waddling over to the door on his little chubby legs, his arms outstretched. “Mama,” he said, one of the few words in his limited baby vocabulary that anyone could understand.
“You have a son?” Mac asked Chloe.
Seeing no hope for postponing the truth, Rachel reached for her son. Holding him in her arms, she turned back to face Mac. “He’s not Chloe’s son, Mac. He’s mine.”
Two
“Yours?” Mac repeated, feeling as though he’d been sucker punched.
Rachel hiked up her chin. “That’s right,” she told him. “Mine.”
Still reeling from the shock of discovering Rachel had a child, Mac looked from her to the dark-haired boy in her arms and back again. Rachel’s son and his, Mac realized as he stared into eyes identical to his own.
He had a son. A son!
A son he’d known nothing about.
Suddenly shock gave way to temper as the reality of the situation hit him. He kept his eyes trained on Rachel’s face. And even though he already suspected he knew the answer he asked her, anyway, “How old is he?”
When Rachel remained silent, he asked again. “How old is he, Rachel?”
“He’s eighteen months,” Chloe offered, and earned a scowl from Rachel.
He didn’t have to be a math wizard to figure out that Rachel had been about four weeks pregnant when he had left New Orleans. Had she known about the baby and chosen not to tell him? Or had she found out later and decided he didn’t deserve to know that he was going to be a father?
Either situation left a foul taste in his mouth and did nothing to ease his anger with Rachel or with himself. Doing his best to control the emotions slamming through him, Mac said, “Which means I’m his father.”
“Of course you’re his father,” Chloe told him as she moved beside Rachel and placed a protective hand on her shoulder. She looked him up and down, narrowed her eyes. “All you have to do is look at him to see that. Or do you need proof?”
Rachel groaned.
“No, ma’am. I don’t need proof. He’s my son,” Mac announced, daring Rachel to deny it.
She didn’t. She simply hugged the squirming tike to her.
“Down,” the little boy insisted.
“No, P.J. It’s time—”
“May I?” Mac asked. Taking a step forward, he held out his arms. When Rachel hesitated, he added, “You don’t have to worry that I’ll drop him. I have a couple of nieces and nephews. I’ll be careful.”
Rachel said nothing. She simply handed him the baby.
“Hey, big guy,” Mac managed to say past the lump in his throat. He stared at this miniature version of himself, recognizing the strong McKenna chin, the eyes so like his own. The nose was Rachel’s, though, he thought. So was the mouth. But there was no question that he was a McKenna. His son. His son, Mac repeated silently, rocked again by the realization that he and Rachel had created a child. When the boy reached for the hat Mac had forgotten was clutched in his fist, Mac laughed and gave it to him. “Hey, you’re a strong fellow, aren’t you?”
“He’s also stubborn,” Rachel offered. “No, no, P.J.,” she told him, and rescued the hat before the little guy could chomp down on it.
“What’s P.J. stand for?” he asked.
“Peter James.”
Surprised, Mac met Rachel’s gaze. “You gave him my name?”
“Actually I gave him our father’s names. I remembered you saying you were named after your father. And my dad’s name is James. I hadn’t planned to give him a nickname, but somehow, the initials seemed to fit him.”
Sort of the way the name Mac had always fitted him better than the names Peter or junior, Mac thought. “It happens that way sometimes,” Mac offered and noted the way P.J. was eyeing his medals. “It’s all right, P.J. You can touch them,” Mac encouraged, and earned a grin that warmed him down to his toes.
“That might not be such a good idea. I’m afraid that he’s at that stage where everything goes into his mouth,” Rachel began, but P.J. was already trying to sample one of the medals. “No, no, P.J. No eat,” Rachel corrected.
“Your mom’s right, buddy. Trust me. They look a lot better than they taste.” Reluctantly he started to hand him off to Rachel. P.J. had other ideas. Clinging to the medal, he began to wail in protest.
“Come on, sweetie,” Rachel cooed.
Those big, fat tears nearly did him in. “Hey, it’s okay,” Mac said, and gave serious consideration to ripping off his shirt and giving it to the little fellow. “Why don’t I just—”
Rachel leveled him with a look, and he fell silent as she pried the chubby little fingers free from his shirtfront. “There, there now. It’s all right, angel,” she murmured.
“Why don’t I take him inside and give him a snack?”