Dylan's Daddy Dilemma (The Colorado Fosters Book 04) (14 page)

Finally, thank God, the tears came to a sniffling, choking, gasping end. Haley brought her a glass of water and again waited quietly. Patiently.

When Chelsea found her voice, she said, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. That’s what friends are for.”

And that was it. She didn’t ask any prying questions, and better yet, she didn’t act as if she expected an explanation. But she had declared herself a friend to Chelsea.

A friend.
How about that?

“I’ll get your wedding dress, Haley,” she said. “With or without Dylan, and I don’t know how, but I will. Because...that’s what friends are for.”

* * *

“Push me faster, Dylan!” Henry screeched from his perch on a swing at one of the larger local play parks. Grinning, Dylan did as he was told and added a bit more muscle when the swing came back his way. “And higher. Faster and higher and faster and higher!”

It was one of those wonderfully cool-edging-into-warm spring afternoons. Still too chilly for short sleeves, but warm enough to go without a jacket during the daylight hours. And while Dylan enjoyed skiing and snowboarding in the winter, as well as hiking and camping in the summer, he loved this in-between type of weather the most.

With his wonky work schedule as of late—helping with inventory and such at the sporting-goods store most weekday mornings and his normal shift at the pub most evenings—hanging out at the park on a day such as this was the perfect break. To refuel. To relax.

And yes, though it nearly killed him to admit it, to be with Chelsea and Henry.

They were in his thoughts on a consistent basis now, even when they weren’t together. There he’d be, minding his own business and doing his own thing, and bam, there they were, taking up brain space. Of course, Henry was a great kid. Perhaps the greatest kid Dylan had ever met. And naturally, kissing Chelsea hadn’t helped him
not
think of her. Just the opposite.

He gave the swing another solid push, his thoughts retracing the day at Reid and Daisy’s. Dylan had been relieved to learn some of the specifics regarding the job Chelsea had lost upon arriving in Steamboat Springs. He’d also been annoyed that she’d given the information when Reid had asked, but hadn’t with him.

Still. That kiss. One kiss, just one, and the taste of her had rooted itself in his memory. Truth was, even with all the unknowns, if not for that damn phone call and the small bit he’d caught of that conversation, he’d be flying pretty high.

When he’d asked Chelsea about the call, she’d passed the whole thing off as a wrong number. Which he flat-out knew wasn’t true. And
she
should know he knew it wasn’t true, since she’d asked for privacy. For some reason, though, he hadn’t yet told her what he’d heard. For now, he was caught in the uncomfortable holding pattern of waiting and hoping.

Waiting for her to say something on her own, without him pressing her for information. Hoping he had nothing to worry about. Waiting for another red flag to appear. Hoping there wouldn’t be one. Mostly, though, he kept hoping his heart was correct and his brain was wrong.

Chelsea’s bubbly laughter drew Dylan’s attention to the present. And he had to smile again. She stood in front of Henry, smartly far enough back not to be horse kicked by a pair of little-boy feet going at warp speed, wearing a pair of faded powder-blue jeans and a long-sleeved pale pink shirt. She’d worn her hair loose, so it waved gently around her face, and her lips and cheeks were a delicious rosy shade.

She looked, dammit, as adorable as ever.

“Sweetie, you’re going so fast, all I see is a blurry red form,” Chelsea called out, referring to the boy’s bright red sweatshirt. “You are holding on tight enough, aren’t you?”

“Mothers can be such worrywarts,” Dylan teased, using a voice just loud enough to carry to Chelsea. She wrinkled her nose at his words and then stuck out her tongue. Yup. Adorable. And he wished she was a little less so. “Isn’t that right, Henry?”

“She just don’t want me to fall,” Henry yelled, the wind-tunnel created by the swing sucking away a good bit of his volume. “I’m A-okay, Mommy! And I don’t have to hold on real tight to not fall. I can clap my hands and everything! Watch this, you’ll see—”

And then, of course, he flew off the swing like a rocket ship launching into space. Or, in Henry’s case, he didn’t go up, up, up and away, but rather he sort of went up, then out, then out some more and then...down. Hard. If not for Dylan’s instant panic over Henry’s well-being, he would’ve been rather impressed at the distance the kid covered before hitting the ground.

“Henry!” Chelsea got to him before Dylan did, seeing how he’d dropped pretty much directly in front of her. He’d fallen
almost
face-first, but had pulled himself into a leaning-back sitting position using his hands as support. And oh, jeez, he looked more scared than Dylan had ever seen a kid look. And
that
scared Dylan.

One huge helping of undiluted fear coming right up.

“He’s breathing,” Dylan said, as much to appease himself as Chelsea.

“Talk to me, sweetie,” Chelsea said, her voice strong. Capable. “What hurts?”

But Henry just sat there with that fearful expression and didn’t try to talk. He wasn’t even crying. In shock, Dylan guessed. Lowering himself next to Henry, he ran his hands over the boy’s legs and then his arms. “Seems okay so far,” he said to Chelsea. Then, “Henry? How about trying to move your legs for me? But stop if it hurts too much. Think you can do that?”

Henry blinked once. Twice. And then nodded. He bent one leg at the knee and then the other, wincing slightly, but that was to be expected. Okay. Good so far.

“Excellent,” Dylan said. “Now, let’s try the same exact thing with your arms.” Again, Henry was able to move and bend his arms. He even raised them above his head. “Whew, good job. I think you’re okay.” Dylan closed his eyes and sent a brief prayer of thanks upward. To Chelsea, he said, “How about you, honey? You’re paler than the flying whiz kid here.”

The term of endearment fell from his tongue before he could yank it back in. That, even with his concern over Henry and Chelsea, annoyed him. He wasn’t prepared, couldn’t get there as things now stood, to declare her his honey or his sweetheart or any other lovey-dovey nickname. Thankfully, she didn’t seem to notice his slip.

“I’m fine, just shaken,” she said, her voice now wobbly and uncertain. “Jeez, Henry, you about gave me a heart attack. And...and you’re probably going to be covered in bruises by the end of the day. Come here, please—” she opened her arms wide “—I need to hug you for...oh, the next week, at least. Maybe two.”

Henry crawled into his mother’s lap, and she pulled him in tight, hanging on for dear life. He buried his face in her chest and that was when he finally cried. Gently, though. Quietly. They sat that way for a while—a lot less than a week, but longer than a few minutes—before the kid pushed back and looked at Dylan.

“I have a question to ask you, Dylan.” His blue eyes—so much like Chelsea’s—were wet with tears. His chin trembled, and when he spoke again, his voice shook, as well. “There’s something I want to know really bad, and Mommy says to always ask, ’cause it’s better to ask than getting all worried and sad. So if I ask, do you promise and cross your heart that you will tell me nothin’ but the truth?”

“I will always, no matter what the question is, be honest with you, Henry. We’re friends, and friends don’t lie to each other,” Dylan said, looking the boy straight in the eyes. He couldn’t guess at what Henry might want to know, but based on the child’s expression, whatever it was meant a helluva lot. “And you never, ever have to be afraid to ask me anything. Okay?”

Dylan glanced at Chelsea, but she was staring at her son, her confusion clearly evident by her slack jaw and pinched brows. So she didn’t know what this was about, either. Interesting.

“Okay, I...” Henry sat up straighter and wistful yearning stole over his features. “I want to ask... I want to know if you’re my real daddy and that’s why we came here for our fr-fresh start, so you could meet me and I could meet you and we could all be together.”

Dylan had to fight hard, harder than he ever had before, to keep his emotions from choking him senseless. Henry had never even met his father?

“Henry,” Chelsea whispered. “Oh, honey, I never guessed you would—”

“Chelsea,” Dylan interrupted, keeping his tone easy and calm, “Henry asked me this question, and I’d like to answer it. If that’s all right with you.” Tears, unbidden, weighed behind Dylan’s eyes, and these he couldn’t halt. Didn’t even bother trying.

“If you’re sure,” she said softly, granting him permission. “Just be careful. Please.”

Kind.
She meant to say
Just be kind
, and of course he’d be kind. This boy wanted a father. And he wanted
Dylan
in that role. Was there ever, could there ever, be a greater honor?

“I’m so sorry, Henry,” he said as a big, fat, unmanly glob of a tear slid down the side of his face, “but no. I’m not your daddy. I’m your friend—your
very good
friend—and proud of it, too. I don’t see that changing, so you’re stuck with me, anyway. Hope that’s okay with you.”

Nodding, Henry dropped his gaze to the ground, in a gesture reminiscent of his mother, and said, “Thank you for telling me. I wish...I really wish you were my daddy, but now I know.”

What Dylan didn’t say—couldn’t
and
wouldn’t say, for fear of confusing Henry even more—was that he wished the same.

Chapter Eleven

S
ighing, Chelsea looked out the kitchen window to watch as the three Foster brothers and Gavin attempted to teach Henry how to play baseball. In deference to his age, they were using a slightly oversize, lightweight baseball, and Henry’s bat was broader, to make it easier for him to hit the ball. And she appreciated the men’s efforts. She just couldn’t tell if Henry was having fun. Or if something as simple as a baseball game could make a difference.

In the days following what Chelsea now referred to as the Park Incident, Henry had become a quiet-as-a-mouse, keeps-his-thoughts-to-himself little boy who seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. He was sad. He was disappointed. And, she thought, he might even have some anger mixed in with that concoction, as well.

One by one, the Fosters crawled out of the woodwork to band together in hopes of cheering up a little boy. Margaret had baked cookies with him, and then she and Paul had taken him bowling. Cole and Rachel—who was just as nice, just as kind, as the rest of the Fosters—had sprung for a movie night. And Reid and Daisy had brought Jinx over to play.

There had been tickling sessions, more ice flying, board-game playing and last night, Dylan and Henry had built a fort in the middle of the living room and Chelsea and Henry had slept there. Her son had his moments of joy. A smile here, a laugh there, the rare squeal of pleasure or surprise, but they didn’t last for more than that moment.

It was disheartening, really. Henry had always had a positive, happy-to-be-me outlook, and she wondered, in the deepest part of her soul, if he’d ever get that back.

“He looks like he’s having fun,” Haley said, standing next to her. Chelsea hadn’t even heard her walk into the room. “And the guys definitely are. They’ve taken him in, you know. He’s one of us now, and that means you are, too.”

Such a sweet sentiment for Haley to voice, and a nice one for Chelsea to hear, but the words barely registered. Mostly because, when all was said and done, she wasn’t one of them. Henry wasn’t, either. Better to be realistic than live in a fantasy world.

Still, she knew her manners, so she said, “Thank you.”

“Welcome,” Haley said. “Look at him out there. He
is
having fun.”

“Right now, maybe, but I’m concerned he won’t really bounce back from such a huge disappointment.” And if he didn’t, that was Chelsea’s fault. She’d seen this coming, though not quite in this manner. She couldn’t have guessed how Henry had pieced together the move to Steamboat Springs and Dylan’s coincidental entrance into their lives. But she’d recognized the bond, and she’d worried about the potential fallout. Turning toward Haley, she voiced her innermost fears. “I’m afraid this has broken him.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s something you have to worry about. I mean, I get it. Totally. But he’s a resilient kid, and he’s young, and over time, this will fade.”

No.
Haley didn’t get it. She couldn’t, really, and Chelsea didn’t blame her for that failure. She envied her, though. Haley had grown up in a secure, loving, supportive family who accepted her for the person she was. So no, Haley would never understand. But Chelsea did.

While she didn’t have precisely the same experience as Henry, she knew the loss he was feeling. Because she’d been there. For her, she’d yearned for what she didn’t have—a family like Haley’s—and she’d hoped to somehow gain that by becoming the daughter her parents seemed to want. When she’d realized that was impossible, she lost hope. But the yearning?

That did not go away. Ever.

So for Henry the same points held true, except his yearning was for a father. And this yearning had led to the hope that Dylan was his daddy. Now her son was facing the realization that what he yearned for, hoped for, was an impossibility. Because the facts were plain: Dylan wasn’t Henry’s father, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about that.

Rather than try to explain any of this to Haley, she formed her lips into a smile. “You’re probably right, Haley. Thanks for listening.” Then, with a head jerk toward the window, desperate to talk about something—anything—else, she said, “And Dylan and I have a wedding dress to locate. I suppose we could do that today, if you’re sure about caring for Henry?”

“Right, the wedding dress. Actually, there’s been a development.” Haley rolled her bottom lip into her mouth, looked through the window and then back at Chelsea. “Dylan mentioned that he...ah...knows where the dress is, so now it’s just a matter of actually, um, getting it. And he can probably do that on his own, but I’d—”

“Oh, that is good news, because I’d feel better staying close to Henry,” Chelsea said, relieved. She absolutely would have lived up to her word if Haley still required her help. This made it simpler and guilt-free, on both ends of the equation. “I’m so glad for you.”

“Yes, me, too, I’m just a little worried that... Well, never mind. That’s not your concern at all, and of course, it’s more important that you’re with Henry.”

“What are you concerned about?”

“Well. Dylan is a man, and men can’t really comprehend the importance of a bride’s wedding gown, you know?” Haley sighed. “I’m worried he won’t take care with the dress, and knowing my luck, he’ll drop it in a mud puddle or something.”

Chelsea chuckled. “I’m sure that won’t happen. You’re nervous, that’s all, which is completely normal. The wedding date isn’t that far off.”

“A little less than two weeks from now, which is stunning.” Haley bent her head, released a breath. “I keep forgetting it’s so close. I keep forgetting that soon I’ll be Gavin’s wife. I don’t know if Dylan’s said much, but there was a time that Gavin kept pushing me away. He was resolute in not letting anyone get too close.” She raised her gaze to Chelsea’s. “Due to his past.”

“His past?”

“You know he was mostly raised in the foster-care system,” Haley said, her voice quiet and solemn. Sad. “His dad died when he was young—just about Henry’s age now, actually—and his mother had her own issues. They’re closer now, but when he was a child...she let him down. Repeatedly. When I came along, it took a lot to break through the brick wall he’d built around his heart. So he could see all the good possibilities instead of the worst-case scenarios.”

Chelsea swung her gaze to the tall, lumberjack man who was now playing with her son. The same man with the big, rumbling laugh. The same man who showed such easy affection toward Haley, and now toward Henry. And yeah, the same man who had opened this camp for foster boys. She couldn’t visualize him as Haley had described. But now that she had more understanding, it all clicked. As a child,
he
had likely fought pain similar to hers.

The same type of pain that her son was struggling with now.

Yet Gavin
had
found happiness. He’d found
family
. That, Chelsea thought, was pretty damn awesome. So much so, she felt a trickle of hope returning. For herself. For Henry.

Facing Haley again, she grinned, and this time she wasn’t faking her cheer. “Then it’s doubly—no,
triply
—important that your wedding goes exactly as you guys want. So, if it will make you feel better, I’ll go along with Dylan to retrieve your dress.”

“Gosh, Chelsea, that’s...terrific. Just terrific.” Haley clapped her hands, much like a child. “Yes, that is a huge relief. Just huge! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Perhaps a little overkill on the excitement level for what should be a simple task, but Chelsea put that down to being a happy bride. And now that she understood more about the couple’s journey, she truly wanted their wedding to be perfect. It seemed incredibly important.

As if by viewing
their
happily-ever-after, she might be able to locate one for herself.
And
for Henry. To start, she had to work harder at trusting in the goodness she saw around her.

In the goodness she saw in Dylan.

* * *

What in the blazes was his sister up to? Frowning, Dylan focused on the road—not that he had any idea where to go—and put the facts together as he knew them.

Haley and Chelsea had strolled into the backyard, arms crooked together, and had called him over. His sister had winked. In triplicate, even. And had stated it was time to hijack their mother’s wedding gown, and Chelsea was ready to do so right that very minute.

When he asked Haley if she’d lost her mind, she’d interrupted him with a whispered—so Reid and Cole wouldn’t hear, he assumed—tirade on how what a bride wore on her wedding day was immeasurably important, and that she
needed
her brother to do this one thing for her, and if he objected, she would likely burst into tears. Chelsea had then cast a stony glare upon him and said that they
were
doing this, and they were doing it
now
, so he shouldn’t bother arguing.

And then, while Dylan was still trying to mull that over, Haley had pushed herself into his arms for a hug and whispered, “Go along with this, big brother. You can thank me later.”

So he did just that, but damn if he could figure out why.

There was no wedding dress to hijack, as Dylan had retrieved the darn thing close to a week ago. It hadn’t even been difficult to get. You just had to know where to look.

Shortly after Christmas, one of his mother’s friends had found
her
dress a moth-eaten disaster, which had sent her daughter into a spin, as she’d planned on wearing it. Margaret Foster, with hopes that Haley might want to wear her dress when she married Gavin, then went out and bought a special preservation box for storage. To keep it safe from the ravenous moths.

The only reason Dylan knew any of this was because his father had complained that the box took up too much room in the closet, so in a fit of frustration one morning, he’d shoved it under their bed. A quick trip to his folks’ house when they weren’t home and problem solved.

Haley was aware of the entire friggin’ story, because he’d told it to her when he put the dress in her grateful arms, on the very same day he’d grabbed it.

And now, while he wasn’t against having Chelsea to himself for a few hours, he didn’t quite know what to do with her, because he figured the second she learned there wasn’t a wedding dress to hijack, she’d want to turn around and go home to Henry. He understood this, felt much the same way himself, but also thought he should take advantage of this opportunity.

Perhaps they could go to his place. Make some food together, talk, and he could try to make her laugh. He’d been almost as worried about her as he had Henry. Maybe he could get inside her head a little more, find out what the deal was with Henry’s dad, whom he was beginning to think was this mysterious Joel, and—

“You’re going in circles,” Chelsea pointed out, her voice holding a good deal of humor. And yeah, he was going in circles. Just not in the way she meant. “We’ve driven down this road a total of three times, and I doubt you’re lost. What’s up?”

“Trying to decide a few things, and I got lost in my thoughts,” he said, going left at the light instead of the right he’d already taken three times in a row. “But I’m on course now.”

They’d go to his house. Once they were inside, he’d tell her the truth about the dress and try to convince her to stay for a few hours. Beyond that, his ideas were all over the place. And until they were in that moment, he didn’t know if he’d listen to what his heart wanted him to do—which pretty much boiled down to another kiss, and then another, and then whatever else might follow—or if he’d hush that side of him in favor of gaining information.

The problem was that he wanted both. In equal measures. And he was beyond sick and tired of holding back, of pretending that he wasn’t already three-quarters of the way gone for this woman and her child. Wouldn’t take much to push him that last 25 percent, either. Not much at all. If Chelsea saw, felt, even a glimmer of what he did, they could stop wasting time and start being together now. As in,
right
now.

Today and tomorrow, and—if his instincts were true and right—many more tomorrows after that. A lifetime of... Whoa. He was getting carried away. By a helluva lot.

Dylan’s heart pumped a fraction harder, a percentage faster. Forget the big unknowns for the moment—what about the small ones? He didn’t know her favorite...anything. He didn’t know if she was a night owl or an early bird. He didn’t know if she preferred beer over wine. He didn’t know if she soaked in a tub or took quick, brisk showers.

Or...yuck...did she eat anchovies on her pizza?

Nope, he didn’t know any of the answers to those questions, but he thought he might just know
her
well enough to be able to guess. Risking a glance toward Chelsea, he caught her smiling at him and his pulse sped up another fraction.

“Got a few questions for you,” he said. “And I’d appreciate some honest answers.”

“Now you sound a lot like Henry did at the park,” Chelsea said, her voice weighted with the memory. “But sure, I’ll either answer honestly or tell you I’m not answering at all.”

“Good enough. First up...before you had Henry, were you a night owl or an early bird?” His guess: night owl all the way.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her lips quirk. “Night owl. Next?”

“You walk in a bar and order...what?” He figured beer. Probably a microbrew.

“Depends on what I’m thirsty for, but—again, before Henry—my drink of choice was usually plain old beer. From the tap, whatever was cheap enough for my budget.”

He winced at the cheap comment, knowing a lot of what she drank in those days he likely wouldn’t consider drinkable. Still, he added a point in the win column. “Okay, this question assumes you’re not in any sort of a hurry.” He turned into the driveway of his house, a small two-bedroom ranch on the edge of the city. “Do you prefer showers or long soaks in the tub?”
Showers
, he thought, though he couldn’t say why.

“Um...showers. Why all these questions? And whose house is this?”

“Wait a minute, I’m not done. There’s one more left to answer, and this one,” he said, shutting off the ignition, “is the most important of them all. You’re ordering pizza—just for yourself, mind you, so no sharing with anyone—what toppings do you get?”