Father in the Making. Marie Ferrarella
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had no reason to doubt her late best friend’s allegations. Why would Diane have lied to her?
Still she had promised Nonna to try to make friends with him, or at least to be civil for everyone’s sake, especially Mickey’s. Jack had confided to her grandmother last night that he felt Mickey was withdrawing into himself even more than he had first thought. She had seen evidence of that for herself firsthand.
And it was obvious that she couldn’t be there for Mickey, couldn’t help him, if she was busy fighting with his boor of a father.
No, no more recriminations, she upbraided herself just before she’d rung the bell. She’d promised. And, unlike some people, she thought, Blaine’s image coming to mind, she never broke a promise. Mickey was far more important to her than any feelings she might—
“Hello.”
The single word, warm, sexy and enveloping, put her instantly on her guard. Damn, but he did raise her hackles. And, if she were honest with herself, for more reasons than one.
With all her heart, Bridgette wished that Diane hadn’t confided in her to the extent that she had. Listening to the litany of complaints hadn’t enabled her to do anything for Diane. Recounting the tales hadn’t even been cathartic for her friend. Cataloguing Blaine’s faults had been neither cleansing nor helpful to her frame of mind. If anything, it had only depressed Diane.
And it certainly had gone a long way toward tainting her own view of the man, Bridgette thought.
Well, tainted or no, she had a promise to keep.
“Hello,” she echoed. Crossing the threshold, she looked about the living room. It was crowded with boxes, just as it had been yesterday. The man obviously moved fast only when it came to his women. “Is Mickey around?”
“In his room. With Spangles,” Blaine added in case she wanted to take him to task for some reason about leaving the boy alone. Blaine had no way of second-guessing what she would do or say and he wanted to avoid any scene whatsoever for Mickey’s sake.
“Good.” She wanted no witnesses to the scene she was about to play out. “I wanted to talk to you.”
“Oh, great,” he groaned as he shut the door. “Should I go get Jack to act as referee?”
She ignored his sarcastic question, or at least tried to. Bridgette took a deep breath as she turned around to face him.
She turned a little too quickly and her breasts brushed against Blaine. Surprised, he caught her by the shoulders to keep from throwing her off balance. The thought telegraphed itself through his system that touching her, touching any part of her, was a very pleasurable experience. One that, under other circumstances, he would have enjoyed exploring.
As it was, he was afraid of having his hands bitten off. He meant to drop them quickly to his sides, but something inherent within him prevented him from following through. Instead, he slowly slid his palms down the length of her arms before he finally backed away from her.
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