Play Dates. Maggie Wells
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chased away the impulse to tease. “Any woman? Don’t you have to talk to Aiden’s mother?”
“No, I don’t. She’s dead.”
Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh! I’m sorry.”
Cringing, she felt her ears go up in flames as she let her palm slide down her throat until her fingers came to rest in the hollow at the base. All in all, a much better position to choke off any other embarrassing assumptions.
Clearly regretting his blunt answer, Colm grimaced apologetically as he slipped his hands into his pockets once again. “She passed a long time ago.”
“I am sorry, though. What I said was a stupid…I was trying to be all cool and clever,” she admitted, wrinkling her nose. “Never works for me.”
He shot her a sly look from under thick lashes. “Really? I’d bet you do okay with your husband.”
She grinned at his not-so-gentle probing. “Yeah. No husband.”
“Boyfriend?”
“Nope.”
“Good.” Colm chuckled and gave a helpless shrug. “Okay, well, now that we’ve got the ground work laid...If we’re going to keep trying this flirting thing, one of us has to pretend to be good at it.”
Always quick on the uptake when she saw something she wanted, Monica pounced. “I think, you being the man and all, you should do the heavy flirting. You need the practice, right?” She answered her own rhetorical question with a nod. “So, you go on and flirt, and I’ll do my best to fall for your lame lines.”
He lifted his head, skepticism hardening the planes of his face. But instead of agreeing right away, he scanned the play area until he spotted the kids, then heaved a resigned sigh. “Okay, well, you’ve been warned.”
* * * *
He couldn’t stop staring at her. Which was crazy, really, because she wasn’t at all his type. She was all sharp angles and straight edges. Not like Carmen, who should have had a “Dangerous Curves Ahead” sign hung around her neck. But, the last thing he needed was another woman like his late wife. Monica Rayburn with her pointy chin and ruthlessly straight brown hair were strangely appealing. She was so unlike Carmen. Plus, there were those amazing blue eyes. No way could anything dark or mysterious lurk there. They were as clear as the autumn sky. And drilling holes right into him. Holes so big all his brains seemed to leak right out. Knowing he had to say something, anything, he clutched at the only info she’d fed him so far.
“Do you like working in, uh, commodities?”
She smiled. The tiny tilt of her lips should have told him he’d failed spectacularly, but for some reason it didn’t feel like he had. Dark lashes brushed her cheekbones but did nothing to sweep away the sparkle of amusement in those vivid eyes. “Yes, I enjoy my work very much.”
“Why?”
A smooth fall of light brown hair cupped her cheek as she slanted her head to look up at him. A hard fistful of lust and longing landed right in his gut. He wanted to brush the wispy strands away from her face, his fingers all but itching with the need to know if they were as silky as they looked.
“Why do I like my job?”
Shocked by the inanity of his own question, but too far gone to backpedal, he pressed on. “Yeah. What makes you want to buy and sell...pork bellies, was it?”
“I’ve loved bacon since I was a little girl,” she answered with exaggerated sincerity.
Instantly defensive, he flexed his shoulders and straightened to his full height. “It’s not a stupid question, you know. Why people do what they do says a lot about them.”
She blinked. “Oh, I agree. Tell me, what made you decide to open a security company? A burning need to see how many five-digit passcodes your clients could come up with?”
“I was a cop,” he said bluntly. “I quit the force not long after Aiden was born. Couldn’t take the chance of leaving him an orphan.” A surge of masculine pleasure raced through him when her pretty pink lips parted with what he hoped was admiration. “My buddy, Mike”—he nodded toward the tree where his friends congregated—“is a genius with the business side, as well as equipment and those pesky passcodes, but he needed someone with some street smarts and credibility.”
“And that’s where you came in,” Monica supplied with an understanding nod.
Colm nodded as he watched his friend and business partner bob and weave behind the abandoned stroller. Mike had one hand cupped under his daughter’s bottom while she nuzzled into his neck, upset over some playground infraction. Colm smiled as he watched his friend do his version of the white-boy-gone-hip-hop dance all parents master within weeks of holding their offspring. They’d seen each other through a lot over the last five years—good, bad, and downright tragic—but their friendship never changed. Their bond was as strong as it had been since junior high. Stronger.
James made their pack a trio when he came on to handle sales. Unfortunately, he also got mixed up in handling Mike’s younger sister, Megan—the mother of the two redheaded hellions wreaking havoc on the playground, and the flakiest girl on earth. Through a wacky blend of desperation, crowd-sourcing, and plain old trial and error, the three of them had managed to keep their business, themselves, and all five of their offspring alive. A feat. A minor miracle.
“We’re partners.”
She flinched. The movement was slight, but the little jerk of her shoulders cut straight through his usual haze of male oblivion.
“Not partner-partners,” he hastened to add. “Business partners. The three of us.” He turned his head to nod toward James. “We’re business partners.”
This time, she didn’t bother trying to hide her shock. “And you’re all Saturdaddies?”
The label shook a sharp laugh right out of him. “Saturdaddies?”
“You know. Divorced...or widowed,” she said with an incline of her head. “Guys who take their kids to the park on Saturdays.”
“Or working fathers.” He crossed his arms over his chest, leveling his most challenging look at her. “Like those women over there.” He gestured to the mommies gathered at the picnic tables. “Do you ever see them here Monday through Friday?” When she didn’t answer, he forged ahead. “No. They’re making up for nanny time.”
“Is that what you’re doing?”
“Of course.” He shot her a scornful look. “Tell me you don’t have a thousand other things you ought to be doing.” The assertion seemed to give her pause. “But no one wants to be all ‘brush your teeth’ and ‘eat your green beans,’ do they? And so, we’re here.” He spotted the furrow of concern between her brows and sighed, letting some of his defensiveness go with the converted carbon dioxide. “Sorry, I just...” He shrugged and looked away, searching the playground for his son and the words he needed to explain. “Everyone thinks it’s all single moms out there, you know?”
“So, you’re all single dads? I mean, you’re all raising them on your own?”
The undisguised surprise in her voice spoke volumes. Turning to meet those brilliant blue eyes head-on, he nodded. “All full-time dads.” He pursed his lips, waiting patiently as she processed the information. “There are more of us than people think.”
“I suppose there probably are,” she murmured.
Without saying another word, she turned and started searching out her daughter. Convinced he’d been doing better with the awkward conversation than the soapbox, Colm resuscitated his opening gambit. “You never answered me. Why do you like doing the commodities thing?”
“Risk-reward,” she answered, scanning area after area of the structure, not even glancing in his direction. “I’m a gambler. I like the payoff when I take