A Forever Kind of Family. Brenda Harlen
blissfully unaware that the “mama” and “dada” he still called out for weren’t ever coming home again. Ryan tried not to dwell on that fact too much himself, but it was an unassailable truth that squeezed like a fist around his heart.
He missed his friend. He hated that Darren’s life had ended so tragically and prematurely only weeks after his thirtieth birthday. And there were moments, though he would never acknowledge them aloud, when he resented having his own life derailed by the responsibility of helping to raise Darren and Melissa’s child.
Those moments never lasted long—probably not more than a few seconds. Just long enough for the thought to form and guilt to slice him in half. Because how could he be mad at his friend for anything when Darren had lost everything? How could he begrudge caring for his best friend’s son when the little boy already owned his heart?
Maybe Ryan had never given much thought to being a father, but he knew that Darren had been as excited as Melissa when they’d learned she was expecting their first child. And even when Ryan had teased his friend about trading in his Audi for a minivan, Darren hadn’t minded. He’d been sincerely looking forward to Cub Scouts and soccer games and all the things that most dads did with their sons.
But he hadn’t had a chance to do any of them, so Ryan would. He’d even buy that minivan if he had to—but he really hoped he wouldn’t have to. A Jeep, maybe. Yeah, a Jeep had enough seats for carpooling and plenty of cargo space for all of the kids’ gear.
The timer on the oven buzzed. He lifted the pot off the stove and dumped the macaroni into a colander just as Harper came through the back door with the jug of milk he needed to make the cheese sauce.
Her heels clicked on the ceramic tile, drawing his attention to the sexy sling-back shoes on her feet. His gaze skimmed upward, following the curve of her calves to the flirty hem of her skirt, which twirled around her knees—
“Is Oliver still sleeping?”
He dragged his attention away from her legs. “Yeah, but he’s moving around in his crib, so probably not for long.” He dumped the pasta back into the pot and reached for the milk, frowned at the label. “This is nonfat milk.”
“So?” She kicked off her shoes and dropped her purse on the counter.
“So Oliver can’t drink that.”
“Why not?”
“Because babies need whole milk until the age of two, to aid in brain development.”
She huffed out an impatient breath. “Your message didn’t say to pick up whole milk—it just said milk.”
“I figured you knew.”
“Well, obviously you figured wrong,” she snapped at him, as she slipped her feet back into her shoes and grabbed her purse again.
“Where are you going?”
“To get whole milk.”
Clearly, he’d screwed up. Again. Eager to smooth things over, he told her, “Don’t worry. This’ll be fine for his pasta. I’ll go out later and—”
“You asked me to get it,” she reminded him, reaching for the handle of the door.
He slapped his hand on the frame so that she couldn’t open it. “Forget it. It’s not that big of a deal.”
But he could tell by the moisture shimmering in her eyes that it was—at least to her.
He wondered how it was that, only ten minutes earlier, he’d been thinking that they were managing okay and now Harper was on the verge of a meltdown—for reasons he couldn’t even begin to fathom.
“Haven’t you ever heard the saying ‘no use crying over spilled milk’?” he asked, striving for lightness in a desperate attempt to ward off her tears. “Well, I think the same could be said about nonfat milk.”
“I’m not crying,” she denied.
And maybe she wasn’t, but she definitely sniffled.
“Do you want to tell me what this is really about?” he asked gently.
She shook her head. “I’m just tired.”
Which was hardly surprising in light of the hours that she worked—not just at the studio but after Oliver was settled into bed at night. “It’s almost the weekend—you can sleep all day Saturday if you want.”
“I don’t mean physically tired, although I am that, too,” she admitted. “I mean tired of faking it.”
His brows lifted. “What exactly have you been faking?”
She drew in a deep breath and looked up at him. “That I know what I’m doing here, playing house, playing mommy, when the truth is, I don’t have a clue.”
He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then cupped the back of her head and gently drew her closer, until her forehead was against his shoulder. “You’re doing just fine. We’re doing just fine.”
She didn’t pull back, but she shook her head again. “You already do so much more than I do, and when you ask me to do one little thing, I screw it up.”
“No one’s keeping score, Harper.”
“If they were, you’d get all the points,” she said.
“That’s not true,” he denied. “You’d get points for having breasts.”
That, finally, earned him a watery smile.
“Now, why don’t you go get Oliver while I finish making the mac and cheese?” he suggested. “There’s enough for you, too, if you’re hungry.”
“Maybe.” And then, proving she hadn’t lost her sense of humor, she added, “But only if you’re making it with nonfat milk.”
* * *
She didn’t have any of the pasta.
Instead Harper made herself a salad and munched on lettuce and chopped veggies while Oliver shoved handfuls of macaroni in his mouth and smeared cheese sauce all over his face and the tray of his high chair.
Ryan had taken his bowl of pasta into the main-floor den to do some work while awaiting the start of a conference call. In the past, Harper might have resented the inherent flexibility afforded to him because his family owned the business he worked for. Now she was grateful.
Not just because it allowed them to share childcare responsibilities but because their offsetting schedules meant that they didn’t have to spend a lot of time together. Because their late-night encounter the night before had reminded her all too clearly how dangerous it was to be in close proximity to Ryan Garrett.
“Mo!” Oliver demanded, banging his now-empty bowl on his tray.
“Please,” Harper admonished.
“Mo!” he said again.
She got up to put some more macaroni in his bowl, shook her head when she placed it in front of him. “You are a mess.”
“Mess,” he echoed, and grinned to show off his eight tiny pearly-white teeth in a mouth stuffed full of macaroni.
Smiling, she ruffled the soft, wispy curls that fell over his forehead.
He needed a haircut—his first haircut. A few months earlier, Melissa had told her that Darren was pushing her to take Oliver to the barbershop because he was tired of strangers mistakenly assuming their son was a daughter, even when he was dressed all in blue. Melissa had resisted, because she was afraid that if they cut off Oliver’s curls, they might be gone forever. And just in case, she’d already snipped one of them and tucked it into a clear plastic folder in his baby book.
The baby book that Melissa kept in the top drawer of Oliver’s dresser so it was readily accessible to record her son’s every milestone. She’d documented everything from