Karen Whittenburg - The Playboy's Office Romance

He giggled with the high-pitched glee of a child who knows he’s in trouble, but is still pretending it’s all a big game.

“Cal,” she repeated, extending her arm another fraction of an inch and wondering why she’d ever bought such a big bed in the first place. Stretching her fingers, she just managed to brush against the nubby flannel hem of his boxers. He flatly refuted any need for pajamas, stating he was a big boy and old enough to sleep in his underwear, sounding like something her idiot brother would have said to a four-year-old, but Lara didn’t feel pajamas were worth a struggle. Although on mornings like this one, she wondered why she didn’t put the kid to bed in a straitjacket.

She wiggled her shoulder, scrunched lower under the wooden side rail and managed to gain enough ground to reach his bony elbow. But he jerked away with another giggle and her hand closed on the rim of a plastic bowl, her fingers plunging knuckle-deep into the slimy concoction Cal fondly called breakfast. “Oh, Calvin,” she said, disgusted. “Yuck. Couldn’t you at least have left your breakfast on the table when you took off with my keys?”

“I’m eatin’ bre’kf’ss under your bed, Aunt Lara.” And he sounded plenty proud of himself for the accomplishment, too.

Lara withdrew her hand, trying not to attract dust bunnies with the slimy pulp clinging to her fingers. Peanut butter and banana smashed into mush was the kid’s favorite food. He wanted it for breakfast, he wanted it for lunch, he wanted it for dinner, he wanted it for snacks. The pediatrician had said she should try to vary his diet, but considering the drama Cal’s life had been for several weeks, it wasn’t all that surprising the child wanted one thing in his life to remain constant, at least until he felt more settled.

Settled seemed to be an elusive feeling for Calvin, though, because he refused every other option offered. It was peanut butter and banana or nothing. So Lara gave him peanut butter and mashed up banana in a bowl—bread seemed to be out of the question—with a spoon and a glass of milk, and hoped he’d ask for a hamburger soon. She was beginning to smell bananas in her sleep and somehow, little dabs of the peanut butter goo clung to her fingernails and wound up in the strangest places. Since Calvin’s arrival in her life, washing her hands was becoming an every-five-minutes occurrence.

“Calvin,” she said sternly, as she headed into the bathroom to wash her hands, yet again. “Get out from under my bed right now. I’m not kidding.”

“I’m eatin’ my bre’kf’ss, Aunt Lara.”

“You come out from under there right now.” Her voice was as threatening as she could make it, and when she saw herself in the bathroom mirror, she realized she looked pretty threatening, too. During the chase, several strands of hair had fallen forward onto her face, escapees from the braid she’d twisted into a coronet at the nape of her neck. Her skirt was twisted and tousled, her nylons snagged and her silk blouse had lost its fresh-from-the-cleaners professional appearance. How, she wondered as she tucked the hair back into place, did mothers of four-year-olds ever get anywhere on time?

“Mommy? I mean, Aunt Lara?” Cal appeared in the mirror behind her, his mouth smudged with leftover breakfast, his cowlick waving like a white flag, the plastic bowl nowhere in sight.

Lara sighed, figuring she’d have ants by the time she got home from work unless she crawled under the bed again and retrieved Cal’s breakfast bowl. “What, Cal?”

“I love you very, very, very, very much!” His gap-toothed smile flashed at her in the mirror and then his arms wrapped around her thighs in a boy-sized hug. The kid was a master manipulator.

She could feel the stickiness of his fingers through her nylons, realized he was unintentionally wiping his mouth against her linen skirt, knew there was no hope of salvaging this outfit. She’d have to change clothes, which meant she’d arrive at work even later than she had the day before. Her reputation for being the first to arrive at the executive offices was suffering from a severe case of the mommy-track…a track she certainly hadn’t planned to take even as a slight detour. But as must be the way with real mothers, being late for work suddenly didn’t seem such a terrible compromise to make. “I love you, too, Cal,” she said and stooped to gather him in a fierce hug.

The doorbell rang a cheery summons. “Bridget’s here,” she said relieved, but somehow also reluctant to hand over the rest of Cal’s morning to the nanny.

But already his brown eyes were widening with excitement, his attention shifting. “Bridget,” he said and ran lickety-split from the room.

Okay, Lara thought. She’d start over, redo her hair, change her clothes, get a broom or something with a long handle and retrieve the bowl from under the bed and, hopefully, her keys with it. Then she’d ask Bridget—beg her if necessary—to come a half hour earlier every morning.

She couldn’t continue getting in late. Not when Bryce made a point of arriving on time. Not when he ignored her tardiness, acted as if it didn’t matter. But she knew he noticed, knew he marked it down on some cerebral scorecard, knew he would use it against her in some way, at some time in the future.

Glancing at the clock, Lara reached around to unzip her skirt. When her hand encountered a gooey streak of leftover peanut butter and banana, she sighed as she stepped out of the skirt and turned to wash her hands one more time. Bryce might be the one keeping score, but Calvin was definitely his able accomplice.

“MRS. FAIRCHILD, what a delightful surprise.”

Ilsa accepted Bryce’s welcome with a smile and allowed him to direct her to one of the chairs in front of his desk. “Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice,” she said. “I know you must have a very busy schedule.”

“Me?” He laughed and instead of going behind the desk to sit across from her, he took the chair beside her, leaning forward, his blue eyes reflecting his genuine delight at her visit. “I’m never too busy when a beautiful woman is involved.”

And that, in a nutshell, was the problem Ilsa was having in finding a suitable introduction of possibilities for Bryce. He loved women. All women, beautiful or otherwise. In the months she’d been studying him, bringing all her own substantial powers of observation and intuition to bear on the situation, she’d encountered no one woman who seemed to excite his passion. And he was, she felt, a man of deep passions, despite his life-is-a-picnic, bring-on-the-babes persona. The right woman was out there, Ilsa knew. It was just a matter of finding her, which, of course, was the problem and the reason for this trip. “You may not be so happy to see me when I tell you why I’m here,” she said with a teasing laugh. “I’ve come to persuade you to co-chair the Cinderella Ball with me.”

His smile teased her in return. “That’s less than two weeks away. Don’t tell me, you’re short a Prince Charming and my name came instantly to mind.”

Truer than she cared to admit. “Actually, Nels Sanger has been working with me on the event for several months, but you may have heard, he’s having heart surgery and I’m looking for someone to fill in for him.” She paused for effect, then gave his arm a figurative twist. “Your grandfather suggested I ask you.”

Mentioning Archer had the desired result. Bryce’s expression changed, subtly but obviously. It was difficult for the Braddock men to refuse any request by their grandfather. “Granddad, huh?” Bryce used his own affectionate name for Archer, his smile less enthusiastic than before, although still warm. “I don’t suppose he mentioned that he’s persuaded me to take Adam’s place on the Sea Change Town Council, or that he just remembered to tell me that the CEO of Braddock Industries has always sat on the Providence Community Foundation board.” He spread his hands in a charmingly helpless gesture. “My dance card is pretty full already.”