Navy Seal Dad. Metsy Hingle
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had grown up to be a major stuffed shirt who wanted what he perceived to be a perfect wife. A position that, according to Chloe again, Rachel appeared to fit perfectly. But ever the romantic, Chloe believed marriages should be entered into for one reason only—love. And, of course, Chloe had been enthralled by the tale of her affair with Mac and had long since made up her mind that Mac was the only man Rachel would ever love. She certainly prayed her friend was wrong, Rachel thought.
“She’s a very gifted artist.”
Rachel jerked her attention back to Mac. “Chloe invited you inside?”
“She practically insisted when I told her who I was. Anyway, I happened to notice the artwork. She seemed a little surprised that I thought they were good. Then she admitted they were hers and I got her to point out a few of the others she’d done. Like I said, she’s very talented.”
“I know she is.” It was Chloe, who for all her bravado, doubted her own talent.
“She’s agreed to sell me one of the small oils for my mother.”
“Sounds like you two hit it off,” Rachel said with dismay.
Mac grinned at that. “My guess is the uniform had something to do with it. That, and the fact that she apparently knew who I was. I take it you told her about us.”
“I may have mentioned your name to her in passing,” Rachel replied, knowing as she said the words what a whopper she was telling. Chloe had listened to her sob her heart out far more times that she cared to remember after Mac had left. And she had been the one in the delivery room with her when she’d borne Mac’s son. Thoughts of their son had her nerves—already wound tight as a spring—growing even more strained. Rachel held her breath and waited for Mac to mention P.J.
The smile disappeared from his lips. “Then I guess I’m lucky she didn’t slam the door in my face.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Come on, Rach. I can’t imagine you would have many nice things to say about me, considering how badly I handled things before I left.”
Rachel met his somber gaze. “Then you’d be wrong, Mac.” No matter how things had ended between them or how deeply he had hurt her, she would always be grateful to him for giving her P.J.
“Rach,” Mac said her name like a prayer as he moved in, cupped her shoulders. “If only you knew how many times I—”
The lights flickered on inside and after a quick snick of locks, the door opened to reveal a sleepy-eyed Chloe clutching her big fluffy robe around her. “Are you guys deliberately trying to catch pneumonia? It’s freezing out there.”
“Sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean to wake you,” Mac told her.
“You didn’t. The little monster did.”
Rachel stiffened at her friend’s words, and the frown on Mac’s face set her nerves to racing again. “I’d better go,” she told him, hoping to hurry him along. “I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
Ignoring her dismissal, Mac kept his focus on Chloe. “Little monster?” he repeated, a determined expression on his face.
“P.J.,” Chloe offered with a yawn.
“P.J.?”
As if on cue, P.J. let out a squeal guaranteed to wake the dead. And just as she knew he would, he came waddling over to the door on his little chubby legs, his arms outstretched. “Mama,” he said, one of the few words in his limited baby vocabulary that anyone could understand.
“You have a son?” Mac asked Chloe.
Seeing no hope for postponing the truth, Rachel reached for her son. Holding him in her arms, she turned back to face Mac. “He’s not Chloe’s son, Mac. He’s mine.”
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