“I’m not his mother,” Harper felt compelled to point out—partly because she didn’t want anyone to think she was trying to take Melissa’s place in her son’s life and partly because the title of mother terrified her even more than the responsibilities of being a caregiver.
“Maybe not biologically,” Kenna acknowledged. “But in every other way that matters.”
Harper knew it was true, and she felt a pang deep in her heart for the little boy who would never really know the woman who had given him life or how very much she’d loved him. She would tell him, of course. She would do everything in her power to ensure that he never forgot his mother, but she knew that he was too young to really hold on to any of the memories that he had.
“When Melissa asked me to be his godmother, I didn’t hesitate. She was my best friend, and I loved Oliver from the minute he was born. But I never thought I would actually have to do anything more than take him on occasional trips to the zoo or museums and buy him fabulous presents.”
“I’m sure she thought the same thing,” Kenna said sympathetically.
* * *
Ryan worked late that night, and when he got home, Harper was getting Oliver’s bedtime snack of oatmeal and banana ready.
They chatted a little about their respective days—he told her about the plans for Garrett Furniture’s upcoming annual summer picnic and she told him about meeting Kenna and Jacob at the park. Though the conversation was easy, he detected a hint of coolness in her tone—the likely cause of which was revealed by her next comment.
“The receipt for your dry cleaning is on the counter,” she told him as she settled Oliver into his high chair. “Along with the note from Nadine Deacon that was in the pocket of the jacket you wore for the funeral.”
He’d forgotten about the note—probably two seconds after Nadine had slipped it into his pocket.
“Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised, but I actually thought you’d managed to refrain from hitting on women at your best friend’s funeral.”
Her comment chafed, as she’d no doubt intended. Maybe he did have a reputation for enjoying the company of various and beautiful women—and he wasn’t going to apologize for it—but he wasn’t an indiscriminate womanizer.
“I didn’t ask for her number—she gave it to me and told me to call if she could help with anything.”
“Oh, well, that’s different, then,” she said, in a tone that indicated it was not. “Although I’m not sure that Brittney would agree.”
“Bethany,” he reminded her.
Oliver blew a raspberry, spraying cereal and banana out of his mouth. Harper used his bib to wipe his chin, then offered him another spoonful.
“And you’re hardly in a position to criticize me when you were chatting up the long-haired guy with the polished loafers.”
“Simon Moore was the real estate agent who sold this house to Melissa and Darren. He came to pay his respects.”
“Are you saying that he didn’t give you his number?”
“He gave me his business card,” she acknowledged. “In case we decided to sell.”
“We’re not selling their house.”
She scraped the last of the oatmeal out of the bowl. “That’s an emotional rather than a rational response.”
“How would you know?” he challenged.
She stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you’re so damned rational about everything, I sometimes wonder if you feel anything.”
“I feel plenty. I just don’t think it’s necessary to share my emotions with everyone around me.”
“I’m not everyone—I’m the man you’re helping to raise a child with,” he pointed out, his voice tinged with frustration.
“I grew up in a home filled with drama,” she told him. “And as if it wasn’t enough that I had to live in it, I got to read about it in the headlines of the tabloids, so forgive me for wanting to spare Oliver that.”
He knew some of her family history from Darren and Melissa—and yes, because he’d seen some of those same headlines—but he hadn’t thought about how her parents’ very public breakups and reconciliations had affected her. Until now.
“There are no photographers lurking in the bushes outside,” he assured her.
She sat back in her chair and sighed, toying with Oliver’s spoon as he played with a chunk of banana. “I know. Or at least the logical part of my brain does. And then I remember being blindsided when I walked out of school one day to find a reporter demanding to know how it felt to know that Peter Ross was claiming he wasn’t my father.”
“Jesus, Harper—I’m sorry.”
She shrugged. “Apparently the tear-streaked face of a ten-year-old love child on the cover of a magazine helps to sell a lot of copies. Eventually, the test results proved that he was my father, but that wasn’t worthy of mention.”
No wonder she’d learned to hide her feelings.
Ryan was angry at the reporters who hadn’t seen her as anything more than a juicy headline, sick for the child she’d been and frustrated that the woman she’d grown into was so determined to keep him at a distance. While he understood a little better now why she kept such a tight rein on her emotions, she needed to understand that they were a team and that they needed to work together to do what was best for Oliver. And it would be a lot easier to do that if he wasn’t continuously running up against the walls she kept putting up between them. But her confession about her past gave him hope that she was starting to open up to him, at least a little.
Oliver had finished his snack, so Harper gave him his two-handled sippy cup. He raised it to his mouth, one-handed, and sucked back milk like a man taking a swig of beer.
Ryan couldn’t help but smile, thinking about the countless brews that he’d tipped back over the years with Darren. “Like father, like son,” he noted.
Harper’s lips started to curve. Then her smile wobbled and her gaze shifted away.
He could guess what she was thinking, because his mind had gone in the same direction. His offhand comment had reminded both of them that the little boy wouldn’t have the chance to learn anything else from either of his parents.
Grief made his chest feel tight, and that was before he saw the tears precariously balanced on Harper’s bottom lashes.
Oh, crap.
He’d practically demanded proof of her emotions, but he hadn’t wanted to see her cry.
What was he supposed to do now?
Ryan didn’t have a lot of experience dealing with emotional females. It was rare for him to get so deeply involved with a woman that she’d feel comfortable crying on his shoulder, and even when he ended a relationship, he was careful to ensure there was no cause for tears.
Of course, this situation was completely different, and he knew he shouldn’t be surprised by Harper’s grief—it had been a hellish few weeks for both of them. Truthfully, he was a little surprised she hadn’t broken down before now.
Not that she was breaking down now. Despite the shimmer of tears in her eyes and the quiver of her chin, she was valiantly fighting to hold it together. Obviously she didn’t