The Acquired Bride. Teresa Southwick
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“The very same.” So she knew who he was and that he didn’t have to wonder where his next dollar was coming from.
“Great,” she muttered. Then her chin lifted slightly, reinforcing her defensive body language. “Do you have children, Mr. McCormack?”
“I’m not married,” he said.
“That’s not what I asked. Your marital status doesn’t preclude fathering children.”
“For me it does. I would never be that irresponsible.” He met her gaze and realized that she barely came up to his chin. He was six feet tall, which made her—really small.
“Have you ever heard the saying ‘Never judge a man—or woman, until you’ve walked in their shoes’?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Here’s another one. When you have triplets, we’ll talk.” She reclaimed the hands of her two still-sniffling girls. “Not that it’s any of your business, but each of the children was allowed to choose one treat. While I was paying for them, Lukie grabbed his and the girls’ too and took off while my back was turned.”
“I see.” What he didn’t see was where her husband fit into all this. Why wasn’t he with her to help corral three small children? “I didn’t mean to judge. You’re right. I haven’t a clue how to deal with one child, let alone three the same age. Sorry.”
“Apology accepted,” she said. When she looked at her son, her anger faded and a different sort of look suffused her features, an expression that was both mad and tender. “You are in a lot of trouble, young man. Never, ever run off like that,” she said again.
“Wanted a b’loon,” the child said, his bottom lip slightly thrust out. “No time out, Mommy.” He shook his head and backed up into Quentin’s leg.
“I know you wanted a balloon. But we can’t always have everything we want when we want it. Especially on our budget.”
One of the little girls looked tearfully up at Dana. “Mommy, make Wookie give me my cotton candy.”
“Me, too,” the other girl chimed in.
“Taking your sisters’ treats…” Dana heaved an exasperated sigh and shook her head at her son. “Your attention span isn’t long enough for the time out you deserve. Give Molly back her cotton candy and Kelly her chocolate.” She looked closer and for the first time seemed to notice his empty hands. “You couldn’t have eaten all of that so fast. The spirit is more than willing, but the tummy is way too small.”
Quentin saw the exact moment when she started to put together what happened. Her gaze went to her son’s sticky empty hands, then to the circle of goo surrounding his own Italian leather loafers, then finally up to his designer pant legs that were now so stiff they could stand up by themselves.
Her eyes and mouth opened wide and rounded into Os. “Good heavens,” she said. “Please tell me, my son didn’t do that to you.”
“Don’t worry about it. Accidents happen.”
“Oh, Lukie, tell Mr. McCormack sorry.”
The boy looked up at him. “Sorry, Mr. Mac.”
“It’s okay, pal,” he said, ruffling the boy’s hair.
“It’s Mr. McCormack,” she corrected her son.
“That’s a pretty big mouthful,” he said. “Mac’s fine.”
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am about this Mr. Mc—”
“Please call me Quentin.”
“All right, Quentin,” she said. “I insist you let me have your trousers cleaned for you.”
“That’s a tough one. Unless you want me to drop ’em right here in front of God and everyone on Main Street.”
She blushed and the look went straight to his heart, infiltrating his defenses without firing a shot. Of course it didn’t hurt that she had a sweet smile, with full, sensuous lips, and curls around her face that looked as if a man had run his hands through her hair while kissing her senseless. The combination was his second triple whammy in the last five minutes.
She shook her head. “No, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t drop your pants right here. I want to do the right thing, but something tells me a public display of that nature would be stickier than the puddle at your feet.”
“I agree,” he said grinning. He had a feeling his smile was way too wide, but maybe it would hide his reaction to her.
“But I insist you send me the cleaning bill.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“But how can I repay you for this?” she asked.
“You can answer a question for me.”
“All right,” she agreed.
“What kind of establishment is Bad Nets and Boots?”
“Excuse me?” She looked at him blankly.
“Lukas told me that’s where you work.”
She laughed, a merry sound that knocked on the door closing off his heart. Avoiding emotional entanglements was his stock in trade. He’d learned that women were more interested in his checkbook balance than in the man who signed the checks.
“I manage a store here in town. It’s called Bassinets and Booties,” she explained.
“Ah. That explains why I’ve never seen you before.”
“You mean you’ve never shopped our aisles of smiles containing diapers, cribs and layettes?”
“Can’t say I have.” He couldn’t help joining in her laughter. Then, he asked, “And where does Mr. Hewitt work?”
He wanted to kick himself when a dark look erased the merriment from her face. In its place she wore a pinched expression that pulled her full lips into a straight line. “There is no Mr. Hewitt. He passed away.”
“I’m sorry,” he said automatically.
Except he found himself very much not sorry that she was unattached. But he couldn’t help wondering if part of the Storkville legend had touched her long-distance. Was her love for the husband she’d lost boundless? He hoped not.
As soon as he’d thought it, he was appalled. What had gotten into him? He’d been slimed on the outside and now he knew it was merely a visible manifestation of what he was like on the inside. Worse, he didn’t know what to say to get past the awkward moment.
He could only come up with, “You’re very lucky to have the children.”
“Don’t I know it. And no one is going to take them from me,” she added emphatically.
“Why would anyone take them?” he asked, puzzled.
“A better question would be why would anyone but me want them,” she shot back. “They’re demanding, rambunctious, active. They do everything in triplicate.” She nodded forcefully. “But Molly, Kelly and Lukas are my whole life.”
“I envy you. My whole life is business and it’s not nearly as exciting as your children.”
“Should I be flattered or insulted? What kind of business are you in?” she asked.
Her face appeared innocence itself, but he read between the lines of her question to another one: How much money do you make?
“I deal in investments. Finances. A little of this and that,” he said vaguely. “That’s not the same as the commitment you’ve made. Your children are lucky to be on the receiving end of such unconditional love.”
“They might trade a small percentage for an extra pair of hands,” she