“How about we leave the doll on one of the picnic tables and maybe whoever she belongs to will come looking for her later?”
“But we have to make sure they get her back,” Emma insisted.
“I’m sorry, sweetie, but I think we’ve asked everyone,” she said, calling off the search gently but firmly.
“We didn’t ask the boys.”
Monica blinked but somehow managed to hold off a snort when she looked down at the doll’s sequin-strewn gown. Smiling, she tightened the more bedraggled pigtail and ran a soothing hand over the girl’s soft cheek. “You’re a sweet kid.”
“We can ask them,” Emma insisted, nodding to the red-haired twins Saturdaddy Number Two turned loose on the world.
Monica eyed the boys skeptically. They looked to be all boy, through and through. “Most boys don’t play with dolls, honey.”
“Some do,” a deep voice interrupted.
Gripping Emma’s arms to steady herself, Monica whipped her head around. She knew instinctively who was speaking. Saturdaddy Number One. Mr. Spotted in the Wild. He stared straight at her, his chin lifted high and his eyes narrowed to slits. Pride and defiance etched lines into his forehead. Cripes, he was even more gorgeous up close. A rugged-looking male model born to pose propped against a faux rock climbing wall.
He held a boy dressed in baggy jeans and a shirt declaring him a one-man wrecking crew on his hip. The little fellow peeked at them from the crook of his father’s neck. The shock of wavy black hair matched, but the resemblance ended there. Whereas her hunk had green eyes the color of an old Coke bottle, the little boy’s were nearly black and glassy with misery. At least some of those tears managed to overflow the fringe of lashes to streak down cheeks as brown as burnt caramel. Slowly, as if she were the predator she’d thought him to be a short time ago, he lowered the loose-limbed boy to the spongy ground.
“Go thank the little girl for finding P.C.,” he said gruffly.
“P.C.?” Monica blurted.
When he raised a challenging eyebrow, she laughed and shook her head. She watched as Emma handed over her prize as though the grungy doll were the Holy Grail.
“Not very P.C. if you can’t even call the doll by her proper name.”
“Not very P.C. for you to ask only the girls if the doll was theirs,” he countered.
“Touché.” Monica inclined her head in acknowledgment of the hit, but she wasn’t about to let opportunity slip away. “Hi, I’m Monica Rayburn,” she said, extending her hand.
He clasped her hand. “Colm Cleary.” He nodded to the boy who’d returned to his side so quickly she wondered if the two of them were magnetized. “This is Aiden,” he said, running a protective hand over his son’s head.
She smiled down at the shyer of the Cleary men. “Hi, Aiden. I’m Monica.” Colm cast a pointed look at Emma. Startled from her trance, she laughed and placed her hand on her niece’s shoulder. “Oh! This is Emma.”
“Hello, Emma,” Colm said, dipping his head in greeting. “Thank you for finding our friend for us.” He turned his attention to the boy clinging to his side. “Aiden, did you thank Emma?”
“Thanks,” the little boy murmured.
“You’re welcome,” Emma replied primly. “Monnie, can I go up to the slides again?”
Monica gave one of the lopsided pigtails a tug. “Sure, kiddo. Knock yourself out.”
Emma took three steps and skidded to a stop. Spinning around, she fixed her eyes on Aiden. “You wanna come?”
In a flash, all vestiges of shyness disappeared. With Princess Clarissa dangling by her tattered tulle overskirt, Aiden took off after Emma without a backwards glance for his father. Colm exhaled long and loud, stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans, and dug the toe of his shoe into the recycled rubber chips.
Amused by his undisguised relief, she turned to him, her lips curving as she spoke. “Crisis averted?”
“We’re talking Charlie-Sheen-level meltdown averted. Without the swearing. Or the drugs. Or the hookers.”
“Ah, well...winning.” She grinned.
He rolled his eyes but rewarded her with a smirky smile. The lopsided flash of teeth packed a wallop.
“So, uh, Colm,” she began, hoping her voice didn’t sound as high and squeaky to him as it did to her, “has Aiden always been a big Clarissa fan?”
In an instant, the smile was gone and the squinty-eyed stare was in place. “Is there a five-year-old who isn’t?”
Monica searched her memory, trying to access the detailed wish list Emma had presented to all members of the family at Christmastime. She seemed to remember a few items with a royal theme, but frankly had no clue if they had anything to do with the scraggly doll Colm’s son clutched as he climbed the rungs to get to the slide platform.
Kid stuff was way beyond her areas of expertise. She could talk to him about buying and selling. Debate the ins and outs of various retirement plans and speculate on commodity futures. If he asked, she’d tell him to sink whatever extra cash he had on hand into pork belly futures. After all, there’s no safer investment than bacon. But if he asked her what Princess Clarissa’s story might be, she’d be toast.
“So, what do you do?” she asked, scrambling to find a safe topic. She didn’t want this big, beautiful beast of a man to grow bored and wander into the trees.
He answered the oh-so-innocuous question with a husky chuckle. The smirky smile made another appearance as he cocked his head and peered down at her. “I’m a partner in a security company. Trident Security. What do you do, Monica?”
She chose to ignore the taunting edge in his tone. “I’m in commodities.”
“Commodities?”
He didn’t bother masking his confusion, so she launched into the canned spiel she usually saved for alumni events. “I advise people on what futures to buy and sell. Like stock investments, but I deal more with livestock, grain, and currency futures.”
“Yeah, I know what commodities are. Cornering the orange crop like in Trading Places, right?”
“Don’t forget the pork bellies.” She grinned. “Sexy stuff, those commodities.”
He ran his hand over his jaw, and Monica found she was as pleased by the rasp of his stubble against his palm as she was the note of wonder in his voice.
“You don’t...” He trailed off, dropping all pretense of subtlety as he let his gaze travel over her. “I didn’t peg you for the high finance type.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and swung her weight onto her right leg. “I didn’t peg you for the type to let his boy play with dolls.”
Her assessment scored an honest-to-goodness laugh. When she spotted the dimple, all hell broke loose. Heat flared in her cheeks and her heart did a girly flutter she’d swear she hadn’t felt since Jeremy Lansford asked her to go to the Spring Fling dance in eighth grade. She didn’t want to think too hard about the effect the perfect little indention was having on some other bits of her anatomy.
“You have to pick your battles, right?” He gave his head a rueful shake. “I admit I fought it to start, but you realize it doesn’t matter. I mean, girls play with trucks and Legos and stuff, right?”
“Were you trying to sound less sexist?”
He had the good grace to wince. “Came out better in my head.” Rocking on his heels, he cast her a sidelong glance and dropped his voice