“I can take care of my son,” she said. “I have since the day he was born, without anyone swooping in to help or fix my problems.”
And wasn’t that a damn shame? He shook off the thought and shrugged. “Not swooping,” he said. “Just extending a hand, but as you said, it’s your call.”
“That’s right. And...and I have a plan.”
He didn’t state the numerous flaws her plan held. Such as, even if she located employment right off the bat, she wouldn’t receive an actual paycheck for two weeks. Maybe longer. And the cheapest not-a-dump motel in town that he knew of—even with the less expensive off-season rates that would start in a few days—hovered around the fifty-dollar-per-night range. Supposing she got five hundred dollars for her car, and he thought that was the most the junkyard paid, she’d only have enough funds for a week.
But he didn’t point out any of these facts. Instead, he gave her a short nod and said, “You should get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day. For both of us.”
Chelsea opened her mouth as if to say more, but closed it just as fast. Another visible tremble swept through her slender body before she disappeared behind the safety of her closed door. Dylan stood there and tried—oh, he tried—not to make her and her son his responsibility.
Because nothing had changed there, either. They weren’t.
She was in a tough predicament, yes, but she had refused his help. That should be enough to allow him to walk away without feeling any residual guilt. He couldn’t, though.
Just couldn’t.
Swearing quietly, he finished off his water and tossed the empty bottle into the trash. He’d see what he could do about giving Chelsea and Henry Bell their new fresh start, but without her knowledge. And once they were adequately settled, he’d put both of them out of his head and wipe his hands of the whole ordeal.
Before his Foster DNA kicked in again and had him doing something even more insane. Like falling in love with both mother and son. Nope. That couldn’t happen.
Wouldn’t. Happen. No way in hell.
The sound of a door thudding shut followed by short, quick footsteps scampering across the hardwood floor woke Dylan with nearly the same effectiveness as a shotgun blast. Well, to say he’d been fast asleep would be an overstatement. Fitfully dozing, perhaps.
Squinting open one eye, he saw Henry, who was clothed in the brightest fire-engine-red pajamas Dylan had ever seen, approach the minifridge. Assuming the boy would grab a bottle of water and return to the other room, Dylan closed his eyes and feigned sleep.
What had he gotten himself into? How in the hell was he going to create a brand-new fresh start for a vulnerable, stubborn woman and her feisty child?
It was a helluva lot. More than he’d originally realized when he’d arrived at the harebrained scheme a few short hours ago. Chelsea required a job, a place to live, child care for Henry and, unless the prior three were within walking distance of each other, reliable transportation until she could afford to buy another car.
Again, he considered the simplest action: leaving her to her own devices and going on his merry way as if they’d never met. And once again the tension in his gut told him—in no uncertain terms—that he couldn’t. Nope, she was not his logical responsibility. That was fact. Yet fate had seen to it that she’d walked into his family’s restaurant, that her car had broken down in their parking lot and that he’d been the Foster to find her.
Sensible didn’t have a foothold in the equation.
Urgency to get started overtook his body’s desire to sleep, but Henry hadn’t yet returned to his mother. Once he did, Dylan would go downstairs and call the junkyard, see about getting someone over here within the next few hours. Then he’d check in with his family to see if they had any ideas, and if all went well, he’d soon have the beginnings of a plan in place.
The thought had no sooner crossed his mind when Dylan heard a door open and close, and then the telltale sounds of Henry all but running down the stairs to the restaurant’s kitchen. Dammit all. What was that kid up to?
Sitting, Dylan wiped the grit from his eyes and contemplated his next move. The kid couldn’t be more than four or five, tops, and the kitchen wasn’t exactly childproofed.
He stood and followed Henry’s trail, taking the stairs two at a time, thoughts of sharp knives and gas-burning stoves filling his heart with dread. When he entered the kitchen, he stopped and waited for his pulse to return to normal. The kid was standing in front of the commercial refrigerator, his sandy-brown hair spiked and mussed from sleep, with the door wide-open. He was staring at its contents so intently he seemed oblivious to Dylan’s presence.
“Morning, Henry,” he said. “Hungry, I take it?”
The boy startled, sending a tremor through his thin, almost bony body. “You scared me! You shouldn’t do that. Mommy says it’s not nice to scare people.”
“Sorry, kid. But you probably shouldn’t be exploring on your own.” At least, not in a room filled with an abundance of child-safety hazards. If Dylan hadn’t been awake, anything could have happened. He shoved that thought far into the abyss—the boy was fine, after all—and asked, “Does your mom know you’re down here, or is she still sleeping?”
“I told her and she said she’d get up in five minutes, but she didn’t.”
“Ah.” And that, Dylan knew from his own childhood, was equivalent to receiving permission to go ahead and do as you pleased. “Well, I bet your mom is more tired than usual.”
“Right, so I ’cided to let her sleep.” Henry finally turned to look at Dylan. “She was sad last night. I thought if I made her breakfast, she’d smile. I like it when she smiles.”
Unexpected emotion gathered in Dylan’s throat. He swallowed it down, nodded and knelt in front of Henry. “That’s a fine idea. Mind if I help? I’d like to see your mom smile, too.”
“Don’t know,” Henry said, his tone solemn. “Do you cook good or bad?”
“Um. Neither, I guess. More like somewhere in between.”
Narrowing his eyes in contemplation, the tyke tapped his chin with the practiced seriousness of a fifty-year-old business magnate in the middle of a high-stakes negotiation. “I guess it’s okay if you help, but I’m in charge. It was my idea.”
“True. Though, you do realize that being in charge is a big responsibility? Maybe we could agree to be partners?” Dylan ruffled Henry’s hair. “What do you say?”
“I know what foods Mommy likes and what she doesn’t like,” Henry pointed out, expertly avoiding both of Dylan’s questions. “Do you know what foods she likes?”
“Other than bread and coffee, nope.”
“Then I should be in charge.”
Sensing this conversation could continue ad nauseam unless someone gave in, Dylan took the fall. “All righty, then, you call the shots and I’ll cook.” Pleasure at winning gleamed in Henry’s eyes, and Dylan forced back a chuckle. “Does you mom like eggs? Peanut-butter toast? Oatmeal? Or—”
“Nothing with peanut butter! She hates peanut butter because she’s...she’s—” Henry curled his bottom lip into his mouth as he searched for the correct word “—allergic! Gives her itchy bumps and makes her cough. She wouldn’t smile then. So, no peanut butter.”
Amused, Dylan nodded. He distinctly remembered Henry stating that his mother had eaten a peanut-butter sandwich for breakfast the prior day, so he doubted she was allergic. No sense in arguing with the guy in charge, though. “You’re right.