A Dad for Her Twins. Tanya Michaels
if she’d been caught in the midst of something illicit. “What are you guys doing out here?”
“We were worried about you.” The daughter fisted her hands on her hips. Mini-Kenzie. “You said you were going to run get the mail, then you didn’t come back. For all we knew, the elevator was stuck between floors!”
The boy looked faintly disappointed. “I had this plan for prying the doors open. Who’s he?”
“Kids, this is our across-the-hall neighbor, Jonathan Trelauney.”
“JT,” he told the children. “Nice to meet you.”
“These are my twins,” Kenzie said. “Drew and Leslie.”
“Not the identical kind of twins,” Drew interjected.
JT bit back a smile. “I noticed.”
“Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” The boy’s tone was thick with suspicion. “Doesn’t your air conditioner work? If you’re hot, it would be smart to wear shorts instead of jeans.”
Kenzie’s head whipped around as she shot her son a warning glance. “Use your manners, Drew.”
“But, Mom, I was just—”
“Let’s get back in our own apartment and leave Mr. Trelauney alone.”
Yes, JT thought with relief. Alone would be good. He attempted his goodbye again. “Well, thanks—”
The elevator ding sounded, reminding him that Mrs. Sanchez had said she would bring Kenzie food and an official welcome today.
“—forthemail,” he blurted. Then he shoved his door closed.
He caught a glimpse of Kenzie’s mouth falling open. She was probably taken aback by his rudeness. If she’d known he was saving her from possible matchmaking attempts, she might have appreciated his efforts. A moment later, there was another knock. JT, trying to learn from his mistakes, was slow to answer.
“It’s Sean,” his friend called from the hall. “I know you’re home. I just saw you shut the door in some poor woman’s face.”
JT ushered him in. “Don’t judge me. It’s complicated. You want a beer? I could use a beer.”
Sean, dapper in a button-down shirt and slacks, and making JT feel like the Wild Man of Borneo in comparison, frowned. “Do you even have beer in the apartment?”
“Um…no.” On his wedding anniversary, back in February, JT had gotten stinking blind drunk. After that, the thought of booze had made him sick for months and he’d avoided keeping any around. “Can I get you some lemonade?”
“All right, but only one, I have to drive,” Sean deadpanned. “Tell me about the hottie in the hall.”
“You can’t call Kenzie a hottie,” JT objected as he pulled a pitcher out of the refrigerator. “She has two kids.”
“The boy and girl? She doesn’t look old enough to have kids that age.”
JT recalled what she’d said about marrying as a teenager, but didn’t share the information with his friend; it seemed like a violation of privacy. “Why exactly are you here? Please don’t tell me it’s to ask if I’m painting anything. I was up until dawn, sketching and mixing colors on a canvas until my vision blurred.”
“About that.” Sean squirmed, looking uncomfortable, which was worrisome. Sean rarely let anything discomfit him. “Now don’t be mad.”
Lemonade missed its destination, splashing on the counter rather than into a glass. JT narrowed his eyes. “What did you do?”
“I was thinking entirely of you,” Sean said. “Well, mostly of you. Partially. We are business partners. Financially linked?”
“I’m aware. Cut to the chase.”
Sean swallowed. “I accepted a commission for you.”
“You what?”
“This older couple, the Owenbys, came into the gallery last night. You’d like them. Real marine-life enthusiasts, big contributors to the aquarium—”
“Sean!”
“They saw the abstract seascape mural of yours in Tennessee and want to hire you to do a much smaller version for their home.”
“No.”
“I told them they could leave a down payment with me and that I’d work out the details with you. Think of me as your agent.”
“Which you aren’t!”
“Don’t you even want to know how much they’re paying?”
“You had no business accepting that check!” JT thundered. He’d contact them and tell them no. Sean would refund their money. That would be that.
“I’m trying to help.” Sean had raised his voice, too. It was unlike him to show such blatant emotion, which made his angry insistence doubly effective. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’ve bottomed out.”
“Gee, that escaped my attention.”
“JT, I’m the best friend you’ve got, so get your head out of your ass and think it over. This doesn’t even require the creativity of having a new idea. All you have to do is duplicate what already exists.”
Pathetic. People were really willing to pay him money for that?
He wondered absently what his checking account looked like these days. He’d been coasting on some previous investments, what he’d made on the house sale and his part of the gallery proceeds. Gallery earnings, according to what Sean told him at lunch the other day, had steadily dipped for the past quarter. God, he was pathetic. Sean essentially did all the work in what was supposed to be a joint venture, picking up JT’s slack for two years. Shame burned in his gut.
Maybe this was a way for JT to step up to the plate. Skulking around his apartment and waiting for his next great idea hadn’t netted results.
“I thought it would help get you back in the habit,” Sean pressed. “Kick-start your artistic drive.”
“Oh, well then, I’ll just slap some blue squiggly lines on a canvas and we’ll all be happy, won’t we?” But JT’s sarcasm had lost its venomous edge. If he revisited a former painting, might it help him recapture what painting had been like back when he actually had inspiration?
He would do the painting, but he was still infuriated by Sean’s high-handed techniques. Infuriated that he’d been reduced to this. He took a swig of his lemonade and walked past Sean, carrying both glasses.
“Where are you going with those?”
JT didn’t bother glancing back. “To my studio to see if I can find something toxic to mix into yours.”
“So is that a yes?”
“You should leave before I change my mind.”
The front door opened before JT even finished his sentence, followed by a muffled whoop of triumph from the hall. JT was alone with two glasses of lemonade and the sudden fear that the only thing more pathetic than repainting something he’d already done would be painting a version that sucked.
Then again, at this point, what did he have left to lose?
Chapter Four
“I don’t know, Mom,” Leslie said from the beanbag chair where she was rereading The Trumpet of the Swan. “It still looks crooked.”
Kenzie paused at the top of her stepladder to shoot her daughter a mock glare. “She who decides she’d rather read than help does not get to offer criticism.”
“Would you actually let us help?” Drew asked excitedly, temporarily forgetting his handheld video game. “I didn’t