Tom shifted the wriggling baby in his arms and frowned. “What do you mean? You’re a smart woman. Educated. You got yourself this far. You must have a good head on your shoulders.”
“Well, except for where love is concerned.”
He couldn’t argue with that. But he tried. “Maybe. But that doesn’t have anything to do with loving your daughter. You’ll be a fine mother to Montana, and I admire that in you.”
Darcy smiled, looking grateful. She started to say something else, but the front door opened and in blew the three other older ladies, their arms full of flowers…including the roses that he had brought Darcy. And then, from the other way, came Margie Alcott with that promised glass of iced tea.
Tom gently, carefully handed the baby back to Darcy and stood up, reaching for his hat. “I expect I ought to go. I don’t want to overstay my welcome. And it looks like you have—”
“Oh, pooh.” Margie Alcott waved at him to sit back down. “Here. You didn’t even have your tea yet.” She put it in his hand. “Now, sit right back down and have your visit with Darcy.”
Tom looked Darcy’s way, wanting her approval. “It’s just easier to go along with her,” she assured him. Tom grinned and sat down, only then realizing that Margie was still talking to him.
“When I get my bridge club gone—well, I suppose they’ll want to be introduced to you first. Anyway, once they’re gone I want you and Darcy to go into her bedroom and—”
“Mother!”
Tom didn’t know where to look. Certainly not at Darcy, who was laying the baby in her receiving blankets on the sofa cushion. So he settled for taking a huge swig of the tea. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was. Or how much he genuinely liked iced tea. Enough to scrutinize it carefully for several moments.
“Oh, Darcy. I don’t mean like that. For heaven’s sake. I was talking about that baby crib in there.”
“What about it?”
To Tom’s ear, Darcy sounded downright suspicious. He chanced a peek at her. Sure enough, her eyebrows were lowered.
“Well, I never could get it all put together right.”
“But you told me you had.”
“I know. But there were too many parts, and I couldn’t figure out where all of them went. And I didn’t want you to worry. But now I’m half afraid to lay that precious baby in it for fear it’ll collapse around her.”
Darcy sank back against the leather sofa’s thick pillows. “Oh, dear God, Mother. Don’t say things like that.”
“Well, it’s the truth. So I thought I’d get Tom here—” She turned to him. “By the way, it’s nice to meet you.” All he got to do was nod before she continued. “So I thought I’d get Tom, as long as he’s here, to take a look at it for us and make sure it’s safe for Montana. Don’t you think that’s a good idea?”
Tom saw his chance and jumped in. “I think it is. I’d be glad to troubleshoot for you.”
Darcy rolled her head. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. I’ve put up a crib or two in my time before.”
“You have?”
“Yeah. Remember I said Sam had five babies?”
“You know a Sam who had five babies?” That was from Margie Alcott.
Tom turned to her. “Yes, ma’am. Sam’s my older sister. Samantha. She taught me a thing or two about babies and their contraptions along the way.”
Margie Alcott’s eyes lit up. “She did?”
“Mother. Stop it right there.”
Tom looked at Darcy. “What’s wrong?”
She looked tired, but she was grinning—and shaking her head. “If I were you, I wouldn’t say another word, Tom.”
“Why not?”
“Because if you do, you’ll find yourself Eligible Bachelor Number Two.”
6
DARCY SAT CROSS-LEGGED on her twin bed with her mother next to her, who cuddled a sleeping Montana in her arms. They silently, companionably watched Tom trying to wrestle into submission an ornately carved, stubbornly constructed baby crib.
From her viewpoint, though, Darcy figured—even if she didn’t know him—she’d be happy to buy a ticket, climb the bleachers along with a throng of women, find her seat, eat her popcorn, and just watch him…oh, say…reconstruct a building, for example. Or put together a puzzle. Or paint a brick wall. Or rewrite, by hand, the entire phone book. Mud wrestle. It didn’t matter…as long as he was naked, of course.
It was true. The man was perfectly constructed, a work of art himself. Clothes couldn’t hide that, any more than she could hide, from herself, that she wanted him. Wanted him bad. Well, who wouldn’t? It’s not fair. Just look at him. The man’s physique screamed Take Me Now!
Darcy sighed. Great. She’d just objectified Tom. Made him a sex object, a great body with no thoughts or personality. Well, shame on her—especially since she knew all her own arguments. She didn’t want a man in her life…yada, yada, yada. Well, not wanting a committed relationship doesn’t mean I’m dead. Nor did it mean that her libido had been stitched up along with everything else. She could still appreciate his fluid movements, his muscled legs, that broad back—another sigh escaped her. She’d better stop right now with all this wanting him, before the rest of her body caught up with her thoughts and gave her hell.
“What’s all that sighing about, Darcy? Your bottom hurting?”
Darcy froze, wide-eyed. Her nails dug into her knees. His back to her, Tom made a choking sound. Slowly, ever so slowly, as if it took an act of conscious will, Darcy turned her head until she faced her mother. “No. My…bottom’s not hurting, thank you.” It was, but she wasn’t admitting it.
“Well, that’s good. Because it will when the numbness wears off—”
“Can we talk about something else, Mother?” Darcy counted it a victory that she got her words out without shrieking.
Margie patted Montana’s back and stared at Darcy. “Now, don’t get upset, honey. It’ll get your hormones bubbling and then you’ll be crying.”
“Now, Mother—let’s talk about something else now.”
“All right.” Her mother looked Tom’s way. “Just look at all that trouble he’s having, Darcy Jean. I told you it was a nasty piece of furniture. Myself, I got a blood blister on my thumb, trying to deal with it.” She held it up for inspection.
Warmed, despite herself, by her mother’s past attempts with the crib, as well as by every bit of support, emotional and financial, she’d unstintingly given in the past several, trying months, Darcy hugged her mother and then eyed her own infant daughter. She rubbed a finger lovingly over the child’s soft forehead. “I appreciate your war injuries, Mom. And I’m sure Tom appreciates your encouragement now.”
“I do,” he said. “And I’m doing fine over here.” Pieces of crib and tiny bits of necessary hardware littered the carpet around him. “Be done in a jiffy.”
No, he wouldn’t. That much was obvious to Darcy. Because, using one hand to hold up two ladderlike side-slats that threatened to collapse onto one another at any second, he picked up a screwdriver from the tool box Margie had presented and…lost his grip on his handiwork. The slats slowly, gracefully banged together and then backwards against the wall.
Darcy jumped at the sound and felt her mother do the same. She glanced