Tommy said, “We were nice. It’s how we’re nice. We play with the Squirt, we play with the kid.”
Mitch quelled the urge to throttle him. Then Jenny got a tight-lipped look about her that irritated him. He’d just bet that Miss Jenny Litton didn’t like his kids any more than she liked him. In a flash, he went from wanting to throttle his sons to wanting to defend them in front of this judgmental woman. If she walked across that sticky spot on his floor and dared to say anything—
“Dad? There goes the bus.” Luke, who’d been silent up till now, pointed out the window.
Damn. “Luke, can you drive the boys? I’ll take Crystal to the elementary school before I head for the store. I’ve got a meeting there, but I’ll ask the guy to reschedule. I won’t be long,” he said to Jenny. “Then I can come back and we’ll talk.”
She seemed to perk up a little at that. He tried not to sigh. His experience with women was limited, but he remembered how Anne had always liked to talk about stuff like this. He went up to grab a sweater, deciding he’d have to shave when he got home. He swiped a hand across his chin and felt the stubble there. Great. He sure hated mornings.
When he got back downstairs, Jenny was helping Crystal into her coat. “Will you be here when I get home from school?” Crystal asked Jenny, her eyes bright with hope.
Jenny looked up at Mitch. He nodded.
“Sure. You bet I’ll be here.” Crystal threw her arms around Jenny’s waist, and Jenny bent and hugged her tight, before releasing her to Mitch.
“Can you manage to get her to school in one piece, or would that be too much to ask?” she whispered as he was walking out the door.
“The boys were just playing.” But he shut up after that. He understood that she was upset. The e-mail must have really scared her. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Oh, by the way, don’t open the door to the laundry room. The dog’s in there. He’ll probably just go to sleep.”
As he turned the key in the Jeep, he thought of how Jenny looked, pretty and fragile. But that was deceptive. She had a will and a mouth to follow up on that will. He was going to have to do some real smooth talking.
He frowned and looked in the rearview mirror at Crystal. She was sitting in the back seat, and she was smiling a little, looking out the window.
When had he last seen her smile? Not since she’d left South Carolina, he realized.
JENNY THOUGHT briefly about trying to create some order in this kitchen, but quickly changed her mind. Cleaning up here would be…presumptuous, not that she guessed that would be a word they’d use in this house. Not that she’d bet Mitch would even notice. He hadn’t even noticed that Crystal had cut herself playing football. Football! So what if he hadn’t been home? He should have seen that Crystal was upset when he’d got back last night.
She looked around the kitchen. What had they had here, anyway? A food fight?
She was still fuming about Crystal, about the scare that had brought Jenny halfway across the country without much more than the clothes she wore. She picked up a sponge and squirted some soap on it, then began to attack the kitchen counter with short, vehement strokes. She was probably going to ruin her nails on his kitchen counter. And her stomach was doing the usual morning flip-flops.
And she couldn’t stop thinking about a certain man’s bare chest, those clearly defined muscles, the dark hair that glistened and curled, about the goose bumps on all that bare skin. He looked so…physical. Male.
Not her type, of course.
Her sponge knocked a piece of cereal off the counter. Glad for the diversion, she picked it up and threw it into the disposal.
Over the past two weeks, she’d tried to picture Mitch Oliver’s house. He’d described it to Crystal. An old farmhouse that’s been added on to a lot. She’d had her own mental picture of that house—white and meticulously cared for, a green roof and shutters, kind of like the houses rich people had in the Hamptons. Pretentiously unpretentious.
Jenny’s mother had been a maid in a house that was pretentious, a little Tara, big white pillars and all. It was fake, just as these rambling farmhouses were fake in their own way.
Fake, she told herself. Fake.
She hadn’t had a really good look at the outside of Mitch’s house. She’d been too worried about Crystal, too afraid that she’d miss the turn, that the directions she’d got at the gas station were wrong.
But she’d got a bit of a look. The house was big, and it was white, and the green shutters were surely there. But there was something so unpretentious about it that it hadn’t registered until now that Mitch’s house appeared to be the genuine article—a big old farmhouse.
Okay, it wasn’t pretentious. But it was a mess. Why would someone with all his money want to live like this? She forced herself to stop picking up bits of cereal. Let him clean his own kitchen.
She tossed the sponge into the sink and took a look around. It was very odd, being alone in a house of a man she hardly knew. There was a hush. The dog in the laundry room must be sleeping; she didn’t hear so much as a sigh.
A few of Mitch’s cabinet doors were open; she closed them. She wandered into the family room, tucking the breakfast-room curtain into place as she went.
The house had good bones. In the family room, there was a big stone fireplace that took up most of the end wall. Built-in bookshelves stood on either side of it, but there weren’t many books there. Instead, there were photographs, and there were lots of trophies. The big hockey star was obviously proud of his trophies and not much of a reader. There was a big-screen television, some comfortable leather chairs, a set of barbells askew on the floor in front of the fireplace. The whole place needed a good dusting.
She saw open French doors to her left, and a lot of sunlight shining through them. She wandered over and stood in the doorway looking in. It was a huge room, modern and light, apparently new. Various exercise machines—expensive, professional-looking models, were arranged in front of floor-to-ceiling mirrors. There was a weight bench and even more weights. At the rear, a wall of sliding glass doors led to a deck and hot tub. Beyond the deck, a lawn, white with frost, sloped down to a pond, which was brilliant blue in the early-morning sunshine.
Well. Mitch’s house might be messier than she’d expected, but it was expensively fitted just the same, and those trophies—and this room—showed plenty of ego.
Just because some judge put blood and money over love, Mitch had been given the opportunity to raise Crystal…and he was making a mess of it.
She heard an automatic garage door opening. Finally. She heard him open the outside door, then a friendly whine of the dog. When he opened the door to the kitchen, she was already walking back to meet him there.
He was leaning down, with a big hand on the collar of the dog…horse. The animal strained, whined again, looked at her. Mitch said, “I guess this is as good a time as any to meet Face-off.” He nodded toward the dog.
“Okay.” She stopped in her tracks, her gaze riveted on the dog. She swallowed. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a dog that big.” Crystal, you poor thing, having to deal with this beast, on top of everything else!
Mitch’s head was bowed. One hand still held the dog’s collar, another scratched behind its ears. The dog quieted some, but still eyed her. “He’s big, but he’s gentle. He’s never growled at the kids, let alone bitten anyone.” The scratching continued, big, competent hands, blunt fingertips buried in the dog’s glossy fur.
“Well, as long as he doesn’t bite,” she said uncertainly, taking a few cautious steps forward. “But if he doesn’t bite, why do you have that death grip on his collar?”
She was almost upon him, so close she could smell the sharp cold that radiated off his leather