Dylan's Daddy Dilemma (The Colorado Fosters Book 04) (10 page)

Heavens. What tiny forest animal had that voice originated from?

“Ready, Henry?” Dylan asked, apparently not noticing her odd vocal sounds.

“Ready, Freddy!” Henry said. “Let’s fly!”

Laughing, Dylan positioned his body in front of them and, once he’d taken hold of Henry’s other hand, skated backward at a leisurely pace. “We’ll start off slow, but as soon as you two are steady on your feet, we’ll go faster. I’ll squeeze your hands when I’m about to speed up, so you’ll be ready for it.”

They skated the outskirts of the ice rink three full times before Dylan deemed they were ready to fly. He gripped her hand tighter, she assumed he did the same with Henry’s, and she followed suit by firming her grasp on her son—though she wasn’t altogether sure if hanging on to Henry for dear life helped him more than her. Didn’t matter. They weren’t going to fall.

She knew this in her gut. Dylan wouldn’t let them lose control. Simple as that.

He gave her a delicious sort of wink, grinned at Henry and then looked over his shoulder to watch for oncoming traffic. Picking up speed slightly, he waited to be sure that Henry’s and Chelsea’s pace matched his and that all was good, and then he went a little faster. And he followed this pattern of speeding up, holding steady, speeding up and holding steady until they were, for all intents and purposes, flying around the rink.

A rush of excitement hit, and she laughed. Looked down at Henry, and the sight of his pink cheeks, huge smile and wide-open, don’t-want-to-miss-a-thing eyes made her laugh again. This morning she’d enjoyed witnessing her son’s carefree fun while he played with toys in his bedroom. Now she was experiencing that same emotion
with
him, not merely as a spectator.

Every ounce of apprehension, fear toward the future and pressure she carried on her shoulders, day in and day out, disappeared in the beauty of the moment.
This
was happiness.

And it was...glorious.

Chapter Eight

A
fter ice-skating—or, as Henry was now calling it, ice flying—the three had stopped for a quick lunch before embarking on a shopping trip. Mostly of the window variety, but they’d gone into a few of the more interesting stores when their noses needed warming and, just a few minutes ago, a drugstore so Chelsea could buy minutes for her pay-as-you-go phone.

Now it was midafternoon, and Henry’s legs were “squishy from flying” and he wanted to “rest them up” before walking in front of more windows. Dylan had laughingly agreed and, despite Chelsea’s argument that they could just go home, had brought them here.

The Beanery was one of the city’s most popular coffeehouses, and even in the middle of the afternoon, the place was near full capacity. Spying an empty table close to the entrance, Chelsea and Henry claimed it as theirs while Dylan waited in line to get their drinks.

Lola Parish, the owner of the Beanery and a close friend of Dylan’s mom, was behind the counter filling orders and chatting up a storm with her customers. She also happened to be his ex-wife’s aunt. Elise was Lola’s sister’s daughter, the eldest of three girls, and for about a year after the divorce, Dylan had done his best to stay clear of the Beanery and its vivacious owner.

Those days were long past, though, and he’d stopped thinking of the connection between Lola and Elise ages ago.

Today, probably because of the comparisons—whether fair or not—he’d drawn between Chelsea and Elise, Dylan once again saw Elise when he looked at Lola. Idiotic for several reasons. The two women didn’t resemble each other in the slightest. Lola was loud, brash—in the friendliest of manners—and unapologetic about both. She had flaming-red hair—a good deal redder than Dylan remembered from his younger days, so the brighter hue was probably courtesy of a bottle of dye—and tended to wear big, vibrant pieces of jewelry.

She was not an understated woman by any stretch of the imagination.

Elise, on the other hand, with her doe-like brown eyes, petite, slender physique and pale blonde hair, had embodied an unassuming, innocent facade. She spoke softly, sometimes so quietly one had to lean in to hear her, and she did not—seemingly, anyway—go to extremes to be noticed. But Dylan’s attention had been captured, nonetheless.

As he got to know her, he’d learned the stark truth about her upbringing. Oh, he’d known her mother had died when Elise was in grade school, but he hadn’t known about her father’s overly strict rules and condemning nature, or his temper, or the strange household rules the girls had to follow. Elise had been desperate to get out of her father’s house.

Loving Elise as he had, it had seemed the most expedient, if naive, solution was marriage. He’d proposed the same day they graduated from high school and they were married before the summer was over. His folks weren’t thrilled with the idea, but once they saw his determination, they’d given him and Elise the support they needed.

Almost as soon as the vows were exchanged, she began to grow more distant. Secretive. At the time, he’d stupidly assumed she was worried about her younger sisters, Anna and Laurel, and feeling guilty for leaving them alone to deal with their dad. An assumption based on Elise’s departures most evenings, with the explanation of spending time with her sisters.

And, okay, he couldn’t say she hadn’t felt any concern toward Anna and Laurel, but what he didn’t know then was that for most of those evenings, she wasn’t with them for more than an hour or two. She was too busy falling in love with another man and planning a different future. One that didn’t include Dylan.

When too many discrepancies rose to the surface, she’d had the surprising decency to tell him face-to-face. Very quickly after that, well before Dylan could come up for air, she’d packed her bags, left and filed for divorce. Once the dust settled, Elise and her new family had left Steamboat Springs for some town in Maine that Dylan had never heard of, and to his knowledge, she hadn’t returned to her home city since.

The only positive that had occurred from the whole friggin’ mess was that Lola, after learning what was really going on in her late sister’s household, had pushed for guardianship of her two underage nieces. Dylan didn’t know all of the details, but soon after, Anna and Laurel had moved in with her and she’d finished the job of raising them.

So, no, there was no real reason to look at Lola and see Elise, but today...the past felt much closer than it had in a long while. Well, he knew why, and he’d deal with it.

“Hey there, Dylan,” Lola said, cutting into his thoughts.

“Hi, Lola.” Dylan gave himself a swift mental shake. “Busy as usual, I see.”

“That we are, and pleased about it, as well. How are you doing today?” Lola’s long, dangly earrings—a row of miniature coffee mugs connected by the handles in various bright shades—bobbed as she talked. “And what can I get for you?”

“Doing well. Thanks for asking,” Dylan said. “Ah...I need a hot chocolate, a caramel latte and a black coffee, along with two of your cinnamon rolls and—” Dylan looked over the selection of baked goods and tried to guess what Henry would like “—a snickerdoodle cookie.”

“Snickerdoodles are always a good choice for a growing boy.” Lola nodded toward the table where Chelsea and Henry sat. “You used to love them, if I recall correctly.”

“Did and still do.” The easy back-and-forth helped relax his tension. This was Lola. Almost a second mom to all the Foster kids. “But come on, your cinnamon rolls are legendary.”

Chuckling, Lola started to prepare his order. They chatted some as she did, about the weather, the upcoming summer season and how fast Reid’s babies were changing.

Then she might as well have conked him in the head with a whiskey bottle, because she said, “Did your mom mention that one of my chicks is returning to the nest soon? She’ll be staying with me until she gets settled.”

“Elise? She’s...ah, that is—”

“Oh, heavens. I’m sorry, Dylan.” Lola shook her head as if chastising herself. She loaded a tray with the drinks and snacks. “Sometimes I forget...but no, I’m speaking of Anna. Not Elise. I rarely talk to her these days. Usually only at the holidays.”

“Gotcha. I’m sure having Anna home will be nice.”

“It sure will.” Lola accepted his credit card and ran it through. “Enjoy,” she said, returning the card and pushing the tray toward him. “And I’m sorry if you thought—”

“No worries. All’s good.” He picked up the tray. “Thanks, Lola. Hope to see you soon.”

He headed toward the table, his eyes on Chelsea and Henry. Relief that it was the middle Rockwood sister coming home hadn’t yet overtaken his shock at believing, even for a second, that his ex-wife was readying herself to move back to Steamboat Springs. On the good-news front, he hadn’t felt a flicker of panic or anger at the possibility. Only shock.

That seemed a reasonable reaction for a man to have in such a circumstance. Rational.

But his little jaunt down memory lane while waiting in line reinforced his decision to learn what he could about Chelsea, ascertain she didn’t have damaging secrets or a hidden agenda or... Hell. Dylan paused midstride.

What was so wrong with admitting he liked the woman and her son? Not a damn thing, that was what. Perhaps once he confirmed she was exactly the person she’d presented herself as—a single mom who’d faced some struggles and was now trying to create a better life for her and her son—he’d consider the possibility of more. If, of course, she was interested in the like.

Based on their interaction at the ice rink, he thought she might be.

He walked the final few steps to the table and set down the tray, gave a second’s thought of who he should sit next to and slid in beside Henry. Better to be able to see Chelsea’s eyes as they talked, and honestly, sitting that close would likely muck with his ability to think.

“Hope you’re a fan of snickerdoodle cookies, Henry, because that’s what I got you,” Dylan said. “And for you, my lady,” he said to Chelsea, “the latte you requested and the best cinnamon roll you’ll ever taste. Guaranteed.”

“What do I get if you’re wrong and this isn’t the best cinnamon roll I’ve ever tasted?” she asked. “I hope it’s something good, because my grandmother’s recipe for cinnamon rolls? Those are the best.”

“People come here just for the cinnamon rolls, so that seems doubtful. But if such a miracle were to happen?” Dylan scratched his head, as if mulling over her question. “I know. What if you tell me
any
one thing about you, from before we met?”

“Be more specific,” Chelsea said. “How long before?”

“I don’t care,” he said. “Whenever you want. Could be from when you were a kid or the minute before you walked into Foster’s or any moment in between. Totally your call.”

“Anything I want?”

“Anything at all.”

“That’s easy enough, so sure. Any one thing.” She picked up the cinnamon roll and brought it to her mouth, stopped and narrowed her eyes. “You’re going to believe me about which is better, though, right? I don’t have to bake a batch for you to test?”

“I expect you’ll be honest, but if you feel the womanly need to bake something as special as your grandmother’s cinnamon rolls for me, I certainly won’t object.” He downed a mouthful of coffee. “Or apple pie. I’m a sucker for apple pie.”

Arching a brow, she honed in on his sole questionable phrase. “Did you really just say
womanly need
?”

He shrugged, grinned. “We all have needs. Who am I to condemn yours?”

She wrinkled her nose in confused amusement. It was a look, Dylan decided, that took her straight past cute all the way to adorable. “I’ll just taste this cinnamon roll now and we can move on to another topic of discussion. One that does not include womanly needs.”

“Sure,” he said easily. “Though, if you decide to circle back around, I’m not opposed to a conversation about womanly needs. I’ll talk about whatever you want.”

“Uh-huh.” She took a large bite of the pastry, chewing it slowly, her tongue darting out to lick the crumbs off her lips, and Dylan was...transfixed.

He could almost imagine the feel, the taste of her lips right now. They would be soft and warm, coated in a delectable mix of sweetness and spice. Dylan closed his eyes and let out a ragged breath, tried to cool the heat simmering in his blood. Cripes. Since when did a woman involved in the simple act of eating ramp up his desire?

“Well, I can see why everyone loves these cinnamon rolls,” Chelsea said, her voice also sweet. Also spicy. Lord help him. “And this is hard to admit, but I can’t definitively declare my grandmother’s recipe tops this one. It’s a close call.”

“Ah, I see what you’re doing. This way, you don’t have to admit Lola’s the winner, which means you don’t have to spill any of your secrets.”

She snorted and rolled her eyes at Henry, who giggled in response. The boy had listened to the conversation while drinking his cocoa and eating his cookie without uttering so much as a syllable. Dylan had started to worry if the kid was okay. Based on that giggle, he was fine.

“It would be a nice way to divert, if that’s what I was doing.” Chelsea broke off a chunk of the pastry and popped the piece into her mouth, and he came darn close to groaning out loud. Fortunately—for his sanity and the easing-into-uncomfortable fit of his jeans—her tongue stayed put. “I honestly can’t say if one is better than the other. I might have to try them side by side.”

“Fair enough.” Dylan drummed his fingers against the surface of the table. “But is there any way I can convince you to share one thing from your past anyhow?”

She fidgeted in her seat. “That wasn’t the deal we made.”

“You can’t blame a guy for being curious.” Most folks naturally talked about their lives. Little things here and there, but so far—unless she was conversing with Henry about a topic he’d brought up—Chelsea didn’t say much. Deciding to try to lead her into a discussion using a subject
she’d
already broached, he asked, “What was your grandmother’s name?”

“Sophia. She was...amazing.”

“I never knew her,” Henry said, finding his voice. “She went to heaven before I was born but Mommy says she was really nice.”

“I’m sure she was,” Dylan said. “And I’m sorry you didn’t get to meet her.”

“Me, too. Mommy says she watches us from the clouds to see if we’re happy.” Then, with a more-intelligent-than-his-age gleam in his eyes, Henry said, “She prolly saw the night I was born, when it was just me and Mommy and no one else. That was a happy night.”

“Yes, sweetie. Very, very happy.”

“But we were sad when the firemen came and watered the apartment so the fire wouldn’t burn it to the ground.” He stopped and inhaled a breath. “And when Uncle Kirk threw our clothes from the window for you to catch, he was all mad and...and...yelling. Even though you said it was just a pickup game. Did Great-grandma watch when that stuff happened, too?”

In a strangled-sounding voice, Chelsea said, “I’d like to think Sophia is always watching us, even in the not-so-great moments. Why all these questions, Henry?”

“Because I wondered if Great-grandma sees everything we do or if she only sees some of the stuff we do.” Small shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. “Also, Dylan wanted to know stories about us and I thought of those ones first. Oh! I thought of another one! What about when—”

“Stop, Henry.” Chelsea didn’t speak loudly or forcefully, but her entire body was still, almost frozen, and Dylan heard the tremor shaking those two measly words clear as day. Was she afraid of whatever tale Henry was about to detail next? “Some stories are better left private.”

“Oh, right. What about the Teddy story? I wanted to tell Dylan about how he was yours when you were a little girl and you saved him for your whole life just for me.”

“I think that’s a great story to share with Dylan.” Chelsea blinked several times in quick succession, as if trying to keep her emotions under control. “Because even when I was a little girl, I knew that someday I’d have the most wonderful, funny, amazing son ever, and that sometimes he’d need a buddy to keep him company, like I did. So I took very, very good care of Teddy and saved him for you.”