Janelle Denison: Ready-Made Bride

The rocker was like nothing she’d ever seen in any store, a one-of-a-kind original. “It’s almost as big as you are.”

“Yep.” He flicked the reins, tousling the dark brown braided rope that made up the horse’s mane. “Dad said he wanted to be sure I didn’t outgrow it too fast. Did I ever tell you about the fort and swings he made for my school?”

“No.” But she had a feeling he was going to tell her every little detail.

Smiling contentedly, she listened as Andrew continued to rave about his father’s virtues. Andrew’s incessant chatter sounded like music to her hungry soul, filling up every empty, aching place in her. He made her forget for a brief time that the dreams she’d cultivated while growing up in various foster homes had been shattered by a husband more interested in climbing the corporate ladder than giving her the family they’d talked about. Somewhere along the way having children dropped to the bottom of his list of priorities.

After her divorce three years ago she’d immersed herself in her writing. She’d created a children’s series, which had helped to fill the emptiness. She’d thought Andy’s Adventures, and the precocious little boy she’d created had been fulfilling enough until Andrew Fielding had written her a fan letter and completely changed her life, giving her writing a new direction.

“Megan, you okay?”

A small, warm hand curled around her arm, and she glanced into his concerned face. Immediately, she sat up, hating that she’d somehow worried him. “I’m fine, why?

“Because you looked so sad.”

She smiled for him and made up an excuse. “I was just thinking that I promised your father I’d make dinner. Maybe we should go see what we should have tonight.”

Andy agreed, giving her a spontaneous hug that nearly unraveled her. “We’re gonna have so much fun together, Megan.”

She smiled into his baby soft hair. The week was going to fly by. “I’m planning on it.”

He pulled back, eyes wide and brimming with anticipation. “Do you think we can bake chocolate chip cookies while you’re here? They’re my favorite, and Dad’s, too.”

Arching a brow, she stood. “He bakes cookies?”

Andy clasped her hand as they headed toward the kitchen. “Naw, he buys the hard kind from the grocery store, but he likes the soft, homemade ones I sometimes sneak home from Grandma’s.”

She nodded in understanding. “Then homemade chocolate chip cookies it will be.”

“Yes!” he said zealously, and Megan wondered about the mischievous sparkle in his eyes.

Andy shoveled a forkful of mashed potatoes into his mouth and washed it down with a big gulp of milk that left a thin mustache on his upper lip. “You’re the best cook we ever had, Megan,” he said, wiping his mouth with his napkin.

“She’s the only cook we’ve ever had, son,” Kane interjected, before Megan took Andy’s comment the wrong way and thought he had a steady stream of women traipsing through his house.

Andy shrugged and continued to eat like he hadn’t been fed in a week.

Kane’s gaze shifted, meeting Megan’s across the table. Reluctantly, he agreed with Andy’s assessment of Megan’s culinary skills. He hadn’t been grocery shopping in almost a week, yet she’d managed to make a hearty meal any man would appreciate. She’d taken frozen, boneless chicken breasts, thawed them in his microwave-which he hadn’t even known the contraption was capable of doing-then she’d breaded the poultry and fried it in oil and herbs until the outside was brown and crispy and the meat tender and juicy.

“Aren’t these mashed potatoes great, Dad?” Andy asked, spooning a second serving onto his plate.

Kane frowned. “They aren’t much different from the ones I make.” Except her mashed potatoes didn’t have lumps, and they tasted buttery, unlike his bland, pastelike spuds.

“Megan adds butter and milk,” Andy told him.

“A family secret?” he asked wryly, feeling a prick of annoyance over his son’s obvious heroine worship. Okay, so he wasn’t the best chef, but it wasn’t as though they’d starved before Megan’s cooking.

“More like Betty Crocker’s secret.”

He stopped dragging a piece of chicken through the best gravy he’d ever tasted. “Pardon?”

“Betty Crocker. The brand for mashed potatoes,” she explained, slanting him a curious look. “The directions call for milk and butter.”

“Of course.” His stomach churned, and a damnable muscle in his cheek ticked. “I’ll have to pay better attention next time.”

He could tell his comment puzzled her, but to his relief she let their conversation about mashed potatoes drop. Instead, she turned her attention to Andrew. “So, what are we going to do for your birthday?” she asked him.

“I want a big party,” he said, indicating with the stretching of his arms just how big he wanted the get-together to be. “The biggest ever, with you and Dad, my friends from school and Grandpa and Grandma Linden.”

Kane put his fork on his empty plate, hating to be the one to crush his son’s hopes. “Andy, you know Grandpa and Grandma are planning on giving you a party on your birthday Thursday evening.”

His chin shot up a notch. “Will you be there?”

He never was. He’d never been invited to the yearly birthday bash the Lindens held in their grandson’s honor, and although he knew they wouldn’t make a scene if he went, he preferred to spare Andrew the obvious tension between adults on his special day. A weary sigh escaped him. “No, I won’t be there, but we’ll spend Friday together. Maybe we can go get a pizza, play some arcade games, then go to the ice-cream parlor for a banana split.”

Andy wasn’t falling for the subtle bribe. “That’s not the same, Dad.”

But that’s the way it was and had been for the past five years. He didn’t have the mental energy to break tradition. Sensing Megan’s gaze on him, he glanced at her, expecting to see condemnation in her blue eyes for his nonparticipation. He had every intention of shooting her a mind-your-own-business kind of look, but the honest-to-goodness caring softening her expression stopped him cold.

Abruptly, he pushed back his chair and stood, suddenly feeling suffocated. He didn’t want this woman’s compassion, didn’t like her probing where he was most vulnerable. He barely knew her and didn’t like that she could affect him so strongly.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do in my workshop.” Giving her a curt nod and ignoring her startled expression, he turned and left the kitchen.

TWO days, and his house smelled like her , a light, floral fragrance that teased his senses and went straight to his head faster than a shot of one-hundred-proof whiskey.

Two days, and she’d worked her way into his son’s heart and brought laughter to his home. Every time he turned around she was there, smiling and talking to him in that sweet voice of hers. And damn, but she made the most delicious beef stew and corn bread he’d ever tasted, all from scratch.

One week? He didn’t stand a chance, not when every time she spoke he wondered what her lips tasted like. She reminded him how much he’d liked being married and having a wife to fill the emptiness in the house at night… that first six months when he’d thought life couldn’t be more perfect.

He’d disillusioned himself big-time.

With a low growl of frustration, Kane scrubbed a piece of sandpaper over the flat surface of wood he’d cut for a shelf. Other than the handshake he’d shared with Megan the day she’d arrived, he wouldn’t be touching her. His personal stakes were too high to risk. Distance would save his sanity and protect his emotions. It had for years.