His Potential Wife. Grace Green
She couldn’t help smiling now as he approached her, his black hair dripping wet, his T-shirt outside-in, his sneakers ineptly tied. She itched to tidy him…but he was the most independent child on the face of the earth and she knew he would balk. From the beginning, he’d adamantly refused to let her tend to him after his swimming lessons.
“You’re not allowed into the men’s changing rooms,” he’d announced. “And—sorry, Mom!—no way am I going into the ladies’ changing rooms!”
Now—reeking of chlorine—he danced in front of her, his gray-green eyes eager. “Can we go to Morganti’s for a burger? Please? I’m starving!”
Willow hesitated. She hated spending money on fast food…yet she hated to disappoint Jamie; he didn’t ask for much. “All right—but let’s not make a habit of it.”
Morganti’s was only a hop and a skip away, at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fir Street. When they got inside, Jamie said, “Are you having a burger, too, Mom?”
“No, I’ll have a hot caramel sundae.”
“I’ll get it.”
He’d adopted a take-charge tone and she knew that for the moment, he’d assumed his man-of-the-house role. He held out his hand for money. “You want nuts on it?”
“No nuts.” She gave him a ten-dollar bill. “But I’ll have double caramel.”
“Can I have a large cola?”
“Sure.”
“Yes!” Gleefully he thrust his backpack at her and scampered off to take his place at the counter.
Willow sat at a vacant table and tucked his backpack under her chair before glancing around.
The restaurant was busy but Tradition, British Columbia, was a small town and she knew most of the people there. With a friendly wave she acknowledged those who sent a smile her way.
At the next table was a group of four—a man and three small children. He was dark-haired and broad-shouldered but he had his back to her so she couldn’t see his face. She had a plain view of the children, though, and they were strangers to her—a lovely blond girl of around nine, who was reading while eating a burger; a younger redheaded girl with grubby tear-stained cheeks; and a little boy in a high chair, whose fair hair was smeared with what looked like ketchup from the French fries spread out on his tray.
The man got up and she heard him say in a deep voice that made her think of dark brown velvet, “Lizzie, keep an eye on these two. I’m going for a coffee refill.”
He strode away toward the counter and she saw that he was quite tall, and wearing a beautifully cut charcoal-gray suit. She also noticed that he walked in an athletic way that spoke of lean muscles and coiled strength, and with a sense of purpose that gave an impression of self-confidence.
He took up his place in one of the short lineups and as he did, she saw Jamie turn from the counter.
He began walking toward her, carefully balancing his tray. She held her breath as the tall cola cup wavered, but he paused and it steadied and he resumed his precarious journey.
All went well until a fracas suddenly erupted at the next table. The tot in the high chair let out an enraged howl: apparently the middle child had stolen a handful of French fries from his tray because the one called Lizzie snapped, “Put those back, Amy! You said you didn’t want any fries. When are you going to stop being such a pest!” She grabbed Amy’s fist and tore the half-dozen fries from her.
“Give those back!” screamed Amy and reached after them.
“No way, you little pest! Pest! Pest! Pest!” Taunting her sister, Lizzie swung her hand away, out into the aisle…
And banged it into Jamie’s carefully balanced tray, knocking it wildly from his hands.
For a split second, silence fell on the group of three. The boy’s mouth froze in a wide-open O; the redhead’s screams stopped as if chopped off by an ax; and the girl called Lizzie’s expression turned to one of stark shock.
And then…oh, the clatter as the tray bounced on the tiled floor; the mess as the cola spilled out in a sticky stream; the cry of dismay from Jamie as he stared in horror at the demise of his gleefully anticipated treat.
But even as Willow shot to her feet, the three children resumed their squabbling.
“That was all your fault, Amy. If you hadn’t been such a pest—”
“You did it!” Amy’s shout was outraged. “It was—”
“I want more fries!” The little boy hammered his hands on his tray. “More, more, more!”
Jamie was quietly sobbing.
“Oh, honey!” Willow hunkered down and gathered his slight body to her. “Don’t cry. It wasn’t your fault, you were being so very careful. We’ll get someone to clean up this mess, and then we’ll just order the same thing again.”
He leaned away from her and furiously swiped his hands over his teary eyes. “I want to go home. I don’t like it in here today.” He glared at the still-squabbling trio who were paying him no attention. “And I don’t like them! They didn’t even say they were sorry—”
“Excuse me.”
At the same time as she heard and recognized the brown velvet voice, Willow saw, over Jamie’s shoulders, a pair of long legs encased in fine charcoal-gray fabric.
She felt a surge of grim satisfaction: the man had returned at just the right time to be assaulted by the full force of her annoyance.
Grabbing Jamie’s hand, she lurched upright, bursting to vent the words of censure that were rising up inside her—
She gulped. And reared back. The stranger was way, way taller than she’d realized.
And he was undoubtedly the most devastatingly attractive man she had ever seen.
Her senses reeled from the dazzling effect of electric-blue eyes twinkling at her from under a slash of black eyebrows; Hollywood white teeth glinting in a wry smile; and features so perfectly chiseled they could have been computer-generated.
By Bill Gates himself.
But even as she gawked at him she had a disturbing feeling of déjà vu.
She had seen this man before.
Somewhere.
But if she had, wouldn’t she have remembered him? He was surely unforgettable—
“Excuse me,” he murmured again, a toe-curling, coaxing tone now brushing his velvety, sexy voice.
Willow stiffened her toes. And her knees. And her resolve. She was not going to allow this man to sweet-talk her. She was made, was she not, of sterner stuff?
She lasered him with an icy glare. “Are those—” she flicked her head curtly toward the trio who were still going at it hammer and tongs “—your children?”
“Yeah.” He raked a long-fingered hand through his black hair. Gold gleamed from his wafer-thin gold watch and from a stylishly engraved gold cuff link and from his wide gold wedding band. He dropped his hand and his hair fell back into perfect place—the unmistakable sign of a very expensive salon cut, Willow thought sourly. “I have to confess,” he murmured, “they are most certainly mine—”
“Then I have to confess they are the very worst-behaved children I have ever seen!”
“If you’ll let me apologize for them—”
“Apologize for them?” Her laugh was scornful. “Oh, don’t apologize for them.” From the corner of her eye, she saw an employee approach to clean up the mess on the floor. “You are the one who should be ashamed. When children behave as yours do there’s no one to blame but the parents!”