Make Me A Match. Cari Lynn Webb
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Day care. The dollars added up far too quickly. “One of my assumptions was wrong.”
His eyes narrowed, but that smile... “I’ll want a paternity test.”
She nodded, unfazed. “I brought one.”
* * *
“SHE’S GOT YOUR nose, Coop.”
Coop couldn’t see what Gideon saw, maybe because a demoralizing thought kept buzzing in his brain. You’re going to lose your second opportunity in the NHL, even if you win the bet.
It can’t be mine.
The baby swaddled in neon pink in Nora’s arms seemed like any other to him: round cheeks, tufts of blond hair, squinty eyes. Maybe the eyes looked like his after one too many beers the night before, but those days were few and far between now. As were his days of picking up women in bars.
A change made too late, it seemed.
He’d retreated with sluggish steps to the bar when Nora told him she was going to breast-feed. “It might not be mine,” he said to his friends. His words didn’t sound convincing.
Nora’s words sounded convincing.
“Congratulations on a baby girl.” Coach guffawed and set a shot of whiskey on the bar in front of Coop. “She’s got the Hamilton nose. Won’t be long before you’re having tea parties and playing with dolls.”
“Taking her to tap-dancing lessons,” Ty said slyly, clearly enjoying this too much.
“Laying down the law with the guy who takes her to prom.” Gideon grinned.
“Jumping the gun, as usual.” A band of disappointment tightened around Coop’s chest. If he was a dad, he had an obligation to stay where his child was. “Let’s wait for the results of the paternity test. In the meantime, back to the issue at hand. Matchmaking.”
Mary Jo, the bus-route driver, banged into the foyer and through the second door, shaking off snow that covered her boots and parka. She’d been a couple years ahead of Coop in school, but she looked as old as truck-driving Derrick, a crony of hers and ten years her senior. Lines had made permanent inroads on her forehead and from the corners of her frequently frowning mouth. Her divorce battle had aged her.
Nora waved to Mary Jo, buttoning up her yellow blouse. “Is the bus ready to leave?”
“The bus isn’t going anywhere.” Mary Jo clomped across the wood floor, tugging off her gloves. “That darn weatherman was wrong again. It’s a blizzard out there. Service is cancelled for the day.”
“But...I’m stuck?” Nora’s horrified gaze bounced around the bar and landed on Coop. “Here?”
She’d taken the bus. She’d implied money was tight. There were hotels and motels in town, but could she afford a room? And how would she get there? Mary Jo wasn’t offering a ride. Helio’s Taxi was closed for the day. He was in the back on his fourth beer. Between the drifts of snow on the ground and the severity of the storm, it wouldn’t be safe for Nora to walk anywhere with a baby.
Coop felt paralyzed.
Next to him, Ty was lost in thought, staring at the Anchorage Beat. Gideon asked Mary Jo if her divorce was final. Derrick tugged on a gray streak in his beard and made a joke about the fragility of buses on Alaskan highways. Trucker humor. Mary Jo gave Derrick a smiling gesture of disrespect. Bus-driver humor.
Just another Friday night at the bar.
A dark and stormy night. Near whiteout conditions. A woman alone. With a baby.
A baby that could be his.
He dropped his booted feet to the floor.
Ty’s head came up. He assessed the situation with goalie-like speed. “Don’t do it. Don’t ask her to stay at your place.”
“Why not?”
Gideon stepped into Coop’s path, keeping his voice low. “Even the Moose Motel is better than your place.”
Coop had expected advice about keeping his distance from Nora until he knew that baby was his. He hadn’t expected criticism of his home. “Are you kidding me right now? Free accommodations? She’ll be grateful.”
“She’ll think you’re incapable of looking after yourself.” Ty made a sweeping gesture that encompassed Nora, the baby and then Coop. “Look at her and then take a good, long look at your scruffy, backwoods self.”
“If that’s a commentary about my beard—”
“Who cares about your weak attempts at facial hair?” Gideon had on his banker face, which was also his poker face, which was also his don’t-be-a-doofus face. “Your place is a dump. Duct-taped carpeting, leaky faucet, creaky floors.”
“It’s warm and dry. I can sell it or abandon it if I ever get out of this town.” That’d been the reason he’d taken it in trade for an RV he’d been unable to move on the car lot. “My place is free for Nora. Don’t forget free.”
“You’ll be amazed at what a woman won’t forget.” Ty’s gaze drifted back to the Anchorage Beat. “Whatever. That’s the second bad decision you’ve made tonight. Let’s just hope you don’t make a third.”
“HOME SWEET HOME.” Coop opened the door for Nora and stepped aside.
Nora had been giving Coop points for a nice truck. No rust-eaten side panels. No dented fenders. No crumpled fast-food wrappers. And he’d driven competently on the snowy roads and through the storm.
But the house...
A dark and dated mobile home. Subtract ten points.
Duct tape across the foyer carpet and on the transition to kitchen linoleum. Subtract twenty points.
The shabby, sagging furniture and dreary lighting, the bigger-than-big-screen television, the mess of boots and shoes by the door, the stack of empty soda cans next to the sink. Subtract forty points.
Her backpack dropped to the ground. If Coop lived like this, how could he afford child support?
“That you, Cooper?” A scratchy, sleepy male voice erupted from the back at loudspeaker volume.
Zoe startled, jerking against Nora’s torso beneath her parka. Nora slid the zipper down, preparing to get settled in. What choice did she have but to stay?
“Yeah, Pop. I brought home a guest,” Coop shouted. He shoved a workout bag beneath a storage bench, nudged a jumble of shoes and boots against the wall, hung up his jacket and another that was on the carpet. “My dad moved in a couple years ago. He couldn’t live alone after the accident.”
The floor creaked in a back room. Coop’s father appeared in the hallway, leaning heavily on a cane with a hand that had no fingers.
Nora gave Coop all his dark-mobile-home, worn-living-room and bad-housekeeping points back.
The older Mr. Hamilton had short, peppery hair and the spotted, leathery complexion of a fisherman. His steps were stilted—he walked with his gaze on the carpet in front of his feet—and he spoke like a ringmaster whose microphone had died. “If it’s Gideon, I didn’t get the dishes done today and the week’s recycling is still on the counter. Got busy watching my shows and—”
“Pop—Brad, this is Nora,” Coop said at baby-waking volume. He stopped cleaning. Stopped moving. Stopped looking like a man who made the world go around with his smile. He looked like a boy about to tell his father he’d been in a playground fight and broken his best friend’s nose. “She’s, um...”
Nora tried to shrug out of her parka so she could remove a stirring Zoe from the baby carrier. Coop helped her get free, allowing Nora to slide the carrier straps to her