His Secret Son. Stacy Connelly
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a secret.
“Didn’t you know, Lindsay?” Ellie was asking. “Ryder moved back last year.”
“Yes, I’d heard. But that doesn’t exactly explain why you invited him over for breakfast,” Lindsay answered back in an aside that must have been loud enough for Ryder to hear, judging by the way one side of his mouth kicked up.
Ellie laughed. “I didn’t invite him for breakfast—though you’re welcome to join us,” she called over her shoulder to the man in question.
“Love to.”
Of course he would, Lindsay thought as she drew in a breath. Nightmare. Really, really had to be a nightmare. “Then why did you invite him over, Gran?” she asked even as habit kicked in and she reached for the plates to set the table.
“To take a look at fixing up the house. Isn’t that what you and your parents have been trying to get me to do for months now?” Ellie’s expression seemed a shade too innocent, but Lindsay was too caught off guard by her words to focus on the meaning behind them.
“But Ryder—” Her protest died on her lips as she realized she didn’t know exactly what Ryder had been doing for a living since he returned home. He’d worked at his in-laws’ firm in San Francisco, building billion-dollar, award-winning high-rises. Not something there was much need for in Clearville.
Still... “You’re...you’re a handyman?” Lindsay asked as she carried the plates toward the eat-in nook.
A very small nook she couldn’t get to without stepping way too close to Ryder. She tried to squeeze by, but he moved directly into her path and reached for the plates. “I do like to consider myself handy.”
Lindsay didn’t want to remember all the places those skilled hands had once touched while standing in her grandmother’s kitchen. Didn’t want to remember—ever. But she did. She remembered every touch, every kiss, every mistaken belief that what she was feeling—what they were both feeling—had to be love.
And that Ryder seemed to want her to remember was just...cruel. Like tossing her foolishness for falling for him, for thinking making love with him meant something, back in her face.
The stoneware plates, still caught between both their hands, rattled as her hands shook. “Hey, Lindsay,” Ryder said softly, his eyebrows pulling low. But whatever else he might have said was lost by the thump of footsteps coming down the stairs.
“Mom, what’s—”
Robbie’s typical question of “what’s to eat?” cut off as the boy slid to a stop in the kitchen doorway, his gaze shifting between his mother and Ryder. Lindsay jerked back so quickly only Ryder’s fast reflexes saved the plates from crashing to the tile floor.
“Hey, honey.” Reaching out, she restrained herself from pulling him into her embrace. Instead she took small comfort in resting a hand on her son’s narrow shoulder. He wasn’t big on hugs anymore, at least not when other people were around. And she no longer had the power to kiss an owie and make the hurt go away. It was all part of growing up, she knew. Part of changing from boy to man, a transition she knew nothing about.
And seeing the two of them—father and son standing side by side for the first time—she felt a wave of dizziness rock her. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, drowning out all other sounds and blurring the edges of her vision until she could see nothing else but her boy and the man in front of her.
Everyone had always told her how much Robbie took after her. But then again, everyone also thought dark-haired, dark-eyed Tony Pirelli was her son’s father, and he and Robbie looked nothing alike. So little wonder people saw the resemblance between mother and son in their dark blond, wavy hair, blue-green eyes and slender builds. It was all Lindsay ever saw—until now.
But now, with Robbie and Ryder together, wasn’t there a similarity in the shape of their chins, their wide foreheads, the arch of their eyebrows? Even, heaven help her, the cowlick at the part of their hair, far more noticeable in Ryder’s short style than in her son’s too-long bangs.
Not a mirror image by any means. More of a time progression of what Robbie might look like in another twenty years...
“Who’s that?” Robbie murmured, his head lowered so far he might have been asking the question of the racecar speeding across the front of his shirt.
“Robbie, this is...”
Your father.
For that split second, Lindsay nearly blurted out the truth she had kept secret for so long. The promised relief from the weight that had settled in her chest from the time Robbie was a toddler and started calling her own father “Dada” was almost overwhelming. But this couldn’t be about her. She had to think about her son...and about Ryder and the kind of father he might make.
She had no idea how Ryder would react to the news. He could turn his back on Robbie the same way he’d turned his back on her. Or—and wasn’t this her greater fear?—he could try to take Robbie away. He had nine years’ worth of visitation rights. Lump that altogether and he could steal the boy she loved more than her own life away from her for a long, long time. Not that joint custody worked that way, but the words joint custody filled her with a fear no amount of truth telling could free her from.
No, she had to get to know Ryder much better than she did now—much better than she’d even known him in high school—before she would tell him about Robbie.
So she said, “Robbie, this is Ryder Kincaid.”
“Hey, bud,” Ryder said, sticking his hand out. He had his fist closed and Robbie somewhat cautiously reached out to bump knuckles. His arm skinny, pale and still little-boy smooth; Ryder’s well-muscled, tanned and covered with a light sprinkling of masculine hair. His tone more relaxed than Lindsay would have expected, he added, “Your mom and I used to be friends back in school.”
“Really?” Robbie glanced sidelong from behind his glasses at Lindsay as if waiting for her to verify a truth he couldn’t quite believe.
Yeah, well, she’d always known her son was smart. Smarter than her teenage self, who’d actually believed she and Ryder had something more than friendship.
Still, she faked a smile and agreed, “That’s right. We started hanging out while I was tutoring Ryder in math.”
It was a bit of a low blow. Robbie had never needed any kind of help in school—not from her and certainly not from another student. Pointing out that Ryder had was more than a little immature.
But Ryder merely grinned. “That’s right. Your mom was the smartest girl I knew.”
Not smart enough to keep from being totally fooled by him. But Lindsay swallowed her anger the same way she had a decade ago—by focusing on Robbie. “Why don’t you finish setting the table?” she suggested with a nod at the stack of plates Ryder had already placed on the table.
“Set it for four, sweetie,” her grandmother called out from her place at the stove, proving she’d been listening in all along. “Mr. Kincaid is joining us for breakfast.”
Ryder grinned at Robbie. “Call me Ryder. Mr. Kincaid is my dad.”
The boy muttered something beneath his breath that might have been Ryder’s name, but Lindsay could barely hear over the words echoing through her head.
“Mr. Kincaid is my dad.”
But with Robbie gathering silverware from the kitchen drawer and her grandmother flipping the bacon popping in the skillet, Lindsay took the opportunity to ask, “What are you doing here, Ryder?”
“Like your gran said. She called looking for a quote to fix up the house. You don’t have a problem with that, do you?”
He