Caroline Cross - The Paternity Factor

“Huh.” He pulled out a stool, sat and opened the newspaper, effectively dismissing her.

So what else was new? she asked herself, struck once again by the immense change in him. It had been after midnight when he finally came home that first night, and he’d been gone again before seven the next morning, a pattern that had repeated itself in the three days since. Except for a photocopy of his schedule that he left her each morning, Jessy’s chief contact with him was by phone. As if to prove he wasn’t completely irresponsible, he called every day to ask how things were going.

She swallowed a rude sound and turned to watch the coffee as it slowly filled the pot. Although she hadn’t expected him to suddenly decide he was overjoyed by her presence, neither had she expected him to avoid his own home as if it were infested by the plague just because she was in it.

But he had. He was. And she’d had enough. After three days of thinking about it, she’d decided it was time to get tough.

In the nicest possible way, of course.

The coffeepot gave a last sputter, indicating it was done. She looked over at Shane. “The coffee’s ready. Would you like a cup?”

He was silent a moment, then glanced up. “Sure.”

She got a mug from the cupboard, filled it with coffee, added some creamer and set it down beside him.

“Thanks.” He went back to the paper.

“You’re welcome.” She took a moment to study him, taking in the firm line of his freshly shaven jaw, the inky blackness of his thick eyelashes, the latent sensuality of his mouth.

He shifted, raising the paper higher and she glanced away, feeling the oddest little ache. Giving herself a mental shake—what was that all about?—she crossed to the other counter and went back to the batter she’d been putting together when he walked in. She checked the recipe, added the last few ingredients, then picked up the bowl and a wire whisk and began to stir. After a few moments, she turned. Resting her backside against the counter, she glanced at Shane. “I hate to bother you,” she lied, “but I have a favor to ask.”

“Yeah? What?”

Although she couldn’t see anything except his hands and the top of his dark head, she sensed his sudden tension. “Well...I wondered if you’d mind if I got my table and chairs out of storage and brought them over. It’s not that I don’t like eating at the counter,” she explained. “It’s just that it’s the wrong height for Chloe’s high chair and meals would be so much easier if—”

“Jessy.” The paper came down and he regarded her impatiently. “You want a table? Fine. Call Robinson’s. Tell them to send something out and have them put it on my account.”

He had an account at the furniture store? She bit her lip, resisting an impish urge to ask him why, if that was the case, the house was emptier than a pauper’s wallet. While the old Shane would have come back with a smart remark of his own, she was pretty sure the new one would stiffen up like a starched sheet hung out in a hot breeze, and she wasn’t quite done with him yet.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Would it also be all right to get one of those rocker-recliners so I’d have someplace to read to Chloe?”

“Get whatever you want,” he said flatly.

“Okay. Great. I’ll do that.”

“Good.” As quickly as that, the paper went back up.

Thoughtfully she set the bowl down on the counter, got the margarine out of the fridge and the syrup out of the cupboard. She poured the latter into a measuring cup, then checked the light on the waffle iron, which indicated it wasn’t quite ready. Picking up her coffee mug, she once more faced the breakfast bar, “Shane?”

“What?”

“There’s something else I’d like to ask.” She smothered a smile as she heard him sigh a second before he lowered the paper again.

One straight black eyebrow slashed up in question. “What is it now?”

“How would you feel about painting Chloe’s room?”

He frowned. “What’s the matter with it the way it is now?”

“It’s just so...bland. I’d like to add some color, maybe do a wallpaper border, just...brighten things up. Make it more suitable for a small child.”

For a moment he looked as if he were going to balk. Just as quickly, however, his face smoothed out, returning to its usual indifferent mask. “Fine. Pick out the paint and I’ll get somebody in to do it.”

“Don’t be silly,” she protested. “I’ll take care of it. I like to paint.”

He shrugged. “Do whatever you want.”

She smiled at him sweetly. “Great. I’ll do it Saturday then—if you’re free to watch Chloe?”

His expression grew even more shuttered. “Sure.” He started to go back to the paper, then reconsidered. “Is there anything else?”

“Well... As a matter of fact...”

“What?”

“Would you like some breakfast?”

He shook his head. “No, thanks. I’m not hungry.”

“Oh. Okay.”

With a rustle of newspaper, he returned to the day’s headlines.

Jessy didn’t say a word. On the contrary, she turned serenely around, set down her mug, flipped up the top of the waffle iron and poured in a puddle of batter. She replaced the top, picked up the syrup and put it in the microwave to warm.

In seconds the kitchen was filled with tantalizing aromas.

She pretended not to notice, just as she continued to ignore Shane. Instead she set a place for herself at the counter, poured herself a glass of milk and placed it, the margarine and the now-warm syrup within reach. Then she retrieved her waffle, put it on a plate and sat down. Settling her napkin in her lap, she picked up her knife and carefully buttered the warm, golden circle.

Two stools down, Shane had gone very still.

She reached for the syrup and slowly drizzled it across the waffle’s steaming surface. Then she cut off a bite-size piece and popped it into her mouth, unable to completely mask a soft sigh of pleasure at its sweet, buttery taste.

Very slowly, the paper came down. “You didn’t tell me you were fixing waffles,” Shane said brusquely.

“You didn’t ask.”

“I didn’t think I had a waffle iron.”

“You don’t. You were a little shy on cookware, so I brought over some of my things.”

He gave her a long, indecipherable look, then deliberately laid down the paper, pushed back the stool and stood. “I’ve got to go,” he said curtly. He stalked out of the room.

“Have a nice day,” Jessy called after him. She calmly ate another bite, thinking it was too bad he was so pressed for time.

Waffles were his favorites.

Three

When Shane walked in the door after work Friday night, Jessy was curled up on the family room couch, reading a magazine.

She sat upright as he came into the room. Pushing her glossy mane of golden brown hair off her face, she sent him her usual friendly smile. “Hi.”

He tossed his keys onto the counter and loosened his tie with a jerk. “Hi, yourself.”

He realized he sounded surly, but he didn’t particularly care. The whole damn day had been horrible. He’d overslept and missed his morning run. The rain that had threatened for two days had commenced at exactly the same time he’d had a tire blow out on the freeway. When he finally arrived at the office, damp, disheveled and late for an important meeting, he’d learned that Grace, his secretary for the past three years, had fallen in the shower and broken both arms. Topping things off, a shipment meant for Minnesota had gone to Missouri, one of his major suppliers was having financial problems and the truckers’ union was making noise about a possible strike.

Now here he was, home at last Or at least, he thought it was his home, he amended, taking a swift look around. In the time since he’d left that morning, it appeared he’d acquired an oversize rocker-recliner, several occasional tables, a pair of table lamps and a richly patterned Persian rug for his family room, plus a sleek dinette set that now occupied a space next to the windows.