Judy Duarte - Triple Trouble / A Real Live Cowboy - Triple Trouble

“Hi.” Charlene looked over her shoulder at him. She set the kettle on the range and carried her mug to the island where a notebook lay open beside her laptop computer. “I thought I heard your car pull into the garage. How was your day?”

“Busy,” he said, releasing Rufus and bending to pick up his computer bag. The big dog followed Nick to the island and flopped down next to Charlene’s chair. “How was yours?”

“Busy.”

He laughed at her dry, one-word response. “Yeah, I bet it was. How did it go with the girls?”

“Fine.” Charlene spooned sugar into her tea and stirred. “Jackie bonked her chin on a chair rung and has a new little bruise. Jessie smeared oatmeal in her hair and had to have a second bath this morning barely an hour after her first one. And Jenny…” She paused, her eyes narrowing in thought. “Come to think of it, Jenny had a fairly quiet day.”

“That doesn’t sound possible.”

“I know,” she laughed. “But she doesn’t seem ill, so I’m happy—but surprised—to report that although I’ve only known them for three days, there’s a possibility that maybe one of them has an uneventful day on occasion.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“Did you talk to the employment agency today?”

“Yeah, they might have three candidates for me to interview soon. They’re running background checks and verifying references for each of the women.” Nick turned on the tap and washed his hands, turning to lean against the counter as he dried them. “What did Melissa make for dinner?”

“Lasagne, french bread and salad—she left a plate for you in the fridge and the bread is in the pantry.” Charlene set down her mug and shifted to stand.

Nick waved her back. “Stay where you are, I’ll get it.” The stainless steel, double-door refrigerator was only a step away. He located the plate and salad bowl, took a bottle of dressing from the inner-door shelf and let the door swing closed behind him as he walked back to the counter. He peeled the plastic wrap off the lasagne and slid it into the microwave to heat, tapping the timer before closing the door.

“What do you want to drink?”

He glanced around to see Charlene at the fridge, glass in hand.

“Ice water sounds good, thanks.”

He heard the clink of ice and the splash of water behind him as he walked to the island and pulled out one of the low-backed stools. The microwave pinged just as he finished pouring vinegar and oil dressing on his salad and he returned to the counter, grabbing a knife and fork from the cutlery drawer. Charlene set his glass of water down next to his salad bowl and returned to her seat as he carried his steaming plate back to the island. He sat across from Charlene and folded his shirt cuffs back, loosening and tugging off his tie.

“Tell me about the triplets,” he said. “How did Melissa survive the day?”

“She said she’s going to cancel her gym membership. Evidently, lifting and carrying three babies for eight hours is more fun than weight lifting with her trainer.” Charlene laughed. “Seriously, she’s great with them, and they seem to like her as much as she likes them.”

“I thought they would,” Nick commented. “She’s good with Rufus, and dealing with him seems to be a lot like having a toddler in the house—he makes messes, demands food regularly, requires massive amounts of attention and sometimes wakes me up in the middle of the night.”

“So, what you’re saying,” Charlene said dryly, arching one eyebrow as she eyed him, “is that three little girls can cause as much havoc as a hundred-and-twenty-five-pound dog?”

“Pretty much,” Nick agreed, grinning as she shook her head and frowned at him. The effect was ruined by the small smile that tugged her lips upward at the corners. “As a matter of fact, I can pick him up. I doubt I could juggle all three of the girls at the same time.”

“You could, if you had a baby carrier,” she said promptly.

“What’s a baby carrier?”

“It’s sort of a canvas backpack that an adult wears over their shoulders. The child is buckled into it so you can carry them on your chest or your back. Some are made for younger babies, but you can also get one to use for toddlers.”

“Ah!” he said, nodding. “Remind me to get one of those. Then, if either of us ever has to take all three of the girls somewhere alone, we won’t risk dropping one of them.”

“That sounds like an excellent plan,” Charlene agreed. “I met your neighbor LouAnn today.”

“Did you?” Nick grinned and lifted an eyebrow. “What did you think of her?”

“She’s a very interesting woman.”

He laughed outright. “Got that right. She’s a character. I hope I have that much energy when I’m seventy-something.”

“Me too,” Charlene agreed, smiling as she remembered LouAnn playing on the floor with the triplets. “She’s wonderful with the babies. I’m not sure who had more fun playing peekaboo, her or the girls.”

Nick chuckled, the sound sending shivers of awareness through Charlene’s midsection. As he ate, they discussed the wisdom of keeping all three girls in the same bedroom.

Charlene sipped her tea, staring with fascination as Nick tipped his head back slightly and drank from the water glass. He’d unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt when he removed his tie earlier, and the strong, tanned muscles of his throat moved rhythmically as he swallowed. There was something oddly intimate about sitting in the cozy kitchen with him as he ate and they discussed his children.

“…What do you think?”

“Hmm?” She realized with a start that he’d been speaking while she’d stared at him, mesmerized, and felt embarrassed heat flood her cheeks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that. What do I think about…?”

His expression was quizzical. She suspected he noticed her pink cheeks, but she was determined not to become flustered. So she met his gaze with what she hoped was a serene look.

“I asked if you thought it was a good idea to give the girls a week or so together before we decide if they need to sleep in separate bedrooms.”

“I think it makes sense to see whether they continue to wake each other, as they did last night.” Charlene didn’t want to remember the intimacy of the babies’ darkened bedroom and the mental image of Nick wearing navy boxers and nothing else. Resolutely, she focused on the other bedrooms she’d seen during the tour of the house Melissa had given her that afternoon. “There’s certainly plenty of room if you decide to have them sleep apart. Do you know if their parents had their cribs in separate bedrooms or if they all slept in the same room?”

Nick paused, his expression arrested. “The foster mother had the beds in two small bedrooms but I never thought to ask what the arrangements were at Stan and Amy’s.” He put down his fork with a thunk. “I should have asked,” he said with disgust. “It never even occurred to me.”

“If you have a phone number, I can try to reach her tomorrow,” Charlene offered, touched by the sheer frustration on his face as he thrust his fingers through his hair and raked it back off his forehead.

“I’d appreciate that. I have her contact information in my desk in the den. Remind me to look it up before I leave for the office in the morning, will you?”

“Of course.” Charlene sipped her tea and considered what she knew about the triplets’ situation while Nick ate the last few bites of his lasagne. “Did the attorney have any estimate as to how long it might take to locate the babies’ aunt?”

“No.” Nick rose to carry his empty china and dirty cutlery to the sink. He turned on the tap. “He asked me to let him know if I remembered anything Stan or Amy may have said that would help find her. So far, all I’ve come up with is going through the photographs.”