Nancy Warren - Aftershocks

Briana was a little more organized than he was, and his math was better than hers. They were a good team at work. A fantastic fit physically.

He could so easily imagine what it would be like to walk into the house and find her in casual clothes, the fantastic smell of her cooking wafting through the house. A special expression in her eyes that she saved for him alone.

Sure, he was getting ahead of himself, but at nearly forty years old, he knew when his feelings for a woman were serious.

If she hadn’t taken to his kids, he wouldn’t indulge such a fantasy even for a moment, but what amazed him was the way she’d acted on Dylan’s phone call almost like a mother. She hadn’t messed around or tried to find someone else. She’d dropped everything and sped over to sit with his children.

“I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t been there today,” he said at last. “Thank you.”

He took a step forward, and she took a step forward, and then they realized at the same moment what they were doing and stopped.

“Well,” she said, “I should get going now you’re home.”

“No,” both kids cried at once. “We have to finish the game.”

“Please?” Fiona said, disentangling herself from Patrick’s legs and giving him the pleading look that always turned him into mush. “Can we finish the game?”

“Can she stay for supper, Dad?” Dylan piped up, more enthusiastic than Patrick had seen him in a long time.

“Oh, I don’t-”

“Can she stay for a sleepover?” Fiona asked loudly, not to be outdone by her older brother.

He bent to ruffle Fiona’s curls, giving Briana a moment to recover her composure. He wasn’t going to be the one to say no to that one. In fact, he thought Fiona had a fine idea there.

They were saved by Dylan, who told his sister, “Grown-ups don’t have sleepovers.”

Well, Dylan had pretty much let Briana know he didn’t have women sleeping over on a regular basis, so that was good. And he’d saved both adults from having to comment on Fiona’s idea.

Patrick glanced up finally to see that Briana’s color had subsided from tomato to more of a watermelon tinge. “Stay for supper. You cooked it. We can at least feed you.”

“That’s okay, really. I love to cook, and since I moved here, I haven’t had a lot of opportunity.” She shrugged. “I was happy to have free run of a big, fully equipped kitchen.”

“I’m not sure how fully equipped this one is anymore. I’m no gourmet, and Mrs. Simpson’s recipes aren’t exactly cutting edge. Our pantry runs more to chicken noodle soup and Cheerios than cilantro or lemongrass.”

Briana laughed. “That’s okay. I used some canned stuff and there were lots of spices in the walk-in storage cupboard. Well, I do want to talk to you about the phone-in show.” She smiled hugely. “You were great.”

Fiona, who’d been waiting impatiently for a pause in the adult conversation, tugged at Briana’s skirt. “Can we finish the game now?”

Briana glanced at Patrick, half-laughing, half-shy. “If you’re sure you don’t mind me staying for dinner…”

“Absolutely sure,” he said. “I’ll go change while you finish the game and then we’ll eat. Sound good?”

He watched as the three of them settled back to Monopoly. Fiona, he noticed, kept shuffling closer to Briana until the two of them were hip to hip. Briana put an arm around the little girl and looked down at her fondly. Dylan stayed in his own spot, but his eyes never left Briana’s face. It seemed to Patrick that Dylan was experiencing his first full-blown crush.

“Get in line, son,” Patrick muttered to himself as he headed down the hall to his own room.

Since he was hot and sticky from a long day at work and the lights in the studio, he indulged in a quick shower, then pulled on his usual postwork uniform of jeans and a T-shirt. He thought about shaving for a second time today, but he didn’t want anyone-especially himself-getting the wrong idea about tonight.

He left his five o’clock shadow, knowing there’d be no after-dinner nooky with a woman who worked for him. Unfortunately.

By the time he made his way back to the den, he saw that his children were cleaning up the game, so quietly and cooperatively, he wondered for a second if some pod-kids had swapped places with his own. Then he realized they were trying to make a good impression on their guest.

He walked on and found Briana in the kitchen, one of Mrs. Simpson’s aprons wrapped twice around her slim waist. She’d taken a casserole dish out of the oven, filling the room with truly heavenly scents.

“That smells fantastic,” he said, his stomach beginning to rumble appreciatively.

“Thanks. It’s a superquick version of chicken cacciatore. I hope your children will like it.” She glanced at him with a worried expression. “I thought I’d serve it over pasta. Kids like pasta, don’t they?”

He had a feeling she could serve Dylan and Fiona nothing but leafy dark-green vegetables and liver and they’d be as excited as though they were eating hot dogs and potato chips. “They love pasta. Thanks again for doing this.”

He leaned against the counter and watched her competently serve up four plates of food.

As much as he enjoyed the show, he couldn’t stop a frown from forming between his eyes. “I’m going to have a talk to the car pool. I can’t believe those women drive off before the kids are inside the house.”

She nodded. “I thought the same thing myself. But I’ve never been in a car pool with children, so I don’t know what the protocol is.”

“The protocol is safety first, or it should be,” he answered shortly. “Whoever was driving today didn’t even check to see that Mrs. Simpson’s car was out front before leaving a nine-year-old and a five-year-old to fend for themselves.”

“The kids did really well, though,” Briana reminded him. “Dylan was very responsible. When Mrs. Simpson didn’t show up, he called you. And he wouldn’t let me in the house until I’d identified myself.”

Patrick smiled in spite of himself. His son was plenty responsible, thank God.

“It was bad luck that Mrs. Simpson had that car accident,” Briana continued. “Things like that don’t happen every day.”

“Around here it seems like they do. Damn lights.”

“I was thinking about that,” she said, turning to him, the ladle in her hand. He watched a single drop of rich, red sauce plop to the counter. “Do you think the lights could be related to the aftershock?”

He nodded. “Maybe. The point is, I need a better backup system for the kids.”

She turned back to her task, and there was a moment’s silence. Finally she said, “I’d be happy to keep a list of alternative caregivers and all their emergency numbers if you like.”

He squeezed the countertop behind him to stop himself from going over there and taking her in his arms. “Briana, I can’t think of anyone I’d trust more.”

“Don’t say that,” she said, sounding almost guilty.

He took a step toward her, and she ducked her head again, her color mounting. What was that about? Surely she could take a simple compliment. Or maybe because she didn’t have kids of her own, she felt that somehow she wasn’t to be trusted. “I do, Briana. I trust you.”

If anything, she looked even more uncomfortable. He would have called her on it, but he heard the unmistakable sound of four young feet pounding toward the kitchen.

“Wash your hands for supper,” he called out, stopping them in midstride. The pounding retreated and both kids headed for the bathroom before reappearing a few minutes later with clean hands. Dylan, he noted, had even brushed his hair.

Dinner that night was the best meal he’d eaten in his own home in ages. It wasn’t just the food-though a woman who could whip up anything that tasted this good, and do it so fast, deserved a medal-but the atmosphere. The four of them had fun being silly. Dylan told some juvenile joke he’d heard at school, and Fiona told Briana about something she’d learned on Sesame Street, then when it was clear their dinner guest didn’t know the entire cast of the show, his daughter happily enlightened her.