Dylan's Daddy Dilemma (The Colorado Fosters Book 04) (2 page)

“Yup, there is,” Dylan answered, fighting the urge to grin at the child’s exuberance. Heck, the rascal was so jazzed, he kept bouncing in his seat. It was cute. Pulling the order pad from the pocket of his apron, Dylan focused on the mother. She was cute, too. “What about you? Do you need a minute to look over the menu, or would you like to hear the specials?”

The question seemed, oddly, to fluster the woman. She dipped her chin so she was looking at the table rather than at Dylan. “Oh. I...already ate. Maybe a cup of coffee?”

“That’s not true,” the boy said with a curious glance toward his mother. “Not since before we left for the brand-new fresh start this morning. I remember. You had a peanut-butter sandwich and a glass of water and you didn’t even eat when I did at lunch.”

“Henry, I’m...” She trailed off, lifted her head and shrugged at her son. “I guess you’re right, but I’m not that hungry, so—” she returned her gaze to Dylan “—just the coffee, please.”

“Sure,” Dylan said, jotting down the order. The action gave him a second to consider the give-and-take he’d just witnessed. That, along with the dark circles under the brunette’s eyes and the exhaustion he’d already recognized, made him think she was in some sort of a jam. Not that he should care one way or the other. Not his business. “Coffee it is, then. How do you take it?”

“Cream, no sugar.”

“Kitchen is busy, so the wait might be slightly longer than normal,” he said. “I’ll have someone bring a bread basket, free of charge, to compensate.”

“That isn’t necessary.”

“Nope, it isn’t. But it’s what we do.” And with that, he turned on his heel and walked away before he could offer her a free meal to boot. Because dammit, that was what he wanted to do, and the want made no sense. He did not swoop in to save damsels in distress. Not anymore. Not for a long, long time. Besides which, maybe she really wasn’t that hungry or in a jam.

Maybe, for once, he’d completely misinterpreted the signals.

* * *

“This is
so
good,” Henry said, dipping the very last French fry into a shallow bowl of ranch dressing. “I like our fresh start so far.” Squinting his eyes, he quickly revised his statement by saying “Now that we’re done driving, I mean.”

“We are definitely done driving, sweetheart.” Chelsea tore off a piece of bread and chewed it slowly. She had been hungry, but Henry’s meal, her coffee, plus the tip was already more than she could afford. So despite her earlier refusal, she was grateful for the bread.

Oh, they still had half a jar of peanut bar and a loaf of bread in the car, along with packages of crackers and cereal bars and a few juice boxes. She wouldn’t have actually starved without the bread basket, but she likely wouldn’t have allowed herself to dip into their food supply again until the morning. After all, she didn’t know how long it would have to last.

While Henry had eaten his burger, she’d gathered the stray dollars from her coat pocket and the loose change from the bottom of her purse. Now, at least, she had a total. They had forty-seven dollars and seventy-two cents to work with. That was it. And when she paid their bill here, she’d have thirty-seven dollars and twenty-two cents left.

She might have to swallow her pride and reach out for help. Her choices were few. Lindsay, maybe, if Chelsea could contact her sister without her husband’s knowledge. Risky, though. Kirk was a carbon copy of their father—a guy who believed women existed for the sole purpose of doing a man’s bidding—and he controlled nearly every aspect of Lindsay’s life. Because Chelsea recognized this about Kirk and had attempted to talk her sister out of marrying him, Kirk did everything possible to keep the sisters apart.

Mostly, he’d managed to do so. For whatever reason, her sister refused to see the truth. Even so, she loved Chelsea. She’d send whatever money she could, but Chelsea did not want to cause more problems. Better for everyone involved if she kept her sister out of this mess.

That left Melissa. A friend, but not a close one. Chelsea’s fault, as she never allowed anyone to get too close, but Melissa had always been kind. They’d both worked as waitresses, usually on the same shift at an all-night diner, and less than two weeks ago, Melissa had hugged Chelsea and asked her to keep in touch. A kind woman, yes, but how could she ask for assistance from another single mother who was already fighting to make ends meet?

Melissa would likely try to help, but knowing her circumstances meant that Chelsea shouldn’t ask. Sighing, she shook her head. No, it meant she
wouldn’t
. The decision had zip to do with pride. She’d gotten herself into this situation; she’d have to find a path through to the other side. Without calling on her sister or Melissa.

And that put her exactly where she’d started, where she’d purposely put herself time and again: alone. Without a safety net or a solitary person to lean on, or even a plan B.

For the first time in a long while, Chelsea wished she hadn’t built such a solid, impenetrable wall around herself and that she’d let one trustworthy person into her life. The problem, she knew, was in order to determine if a person was trustworthy, you first had to risk that they weren’t. Which then allowed them close enough access to cause some serious damage.

In her experience, the risk had never paid off. But if she’d been luckier, and if such a person existed in her life, maybe she wouldn’t feel so inadequate and alone right now.

Desperation clawed in Chelsea’s stomach. Her only true priority for the past four and a half years had been Henry. Every decision she made had his best interests at heart and now...well, she’d failed at keeping her son safe. And unless she could find a motel in Steamboat Springs that only charged ten dollars for a night’s stay, they’d be sleeping in the car.

Oh, God. No. Just...no.

Instructing herself to breathe, to calm the churning panic so she could think without emotion, she focused straight ahead and saw the man who’d brought them their menus.

Tall and lithely muscular, he worked the bar with an ease that spoke of years of experience. Somehow, watching his quick, seemingly effortless movements softened the tightness in her chest. It was a reprieve of sorts, so she continued to watch as he prepared and delivered drinks, as he smiled and chatted and sometimes laughed to those he served. She envied him and his obvious comfort in his surroundings. In his life.

When had she last felt such a sense of security and acceptance?

Not since her grandmother Sophia had passed when she was thirteen. Before then, Sophia had been Chelsea’s refuge, her home and her haven. From her parents, her sadness, her...well, just about everything else back then. But Sophia couldn’t help her now.

In that second, Chelsea came to the conclusion that she would
never
be in this position again. No matter what it took. No matter what she had to do. And the first order of business was securing a safe, warm place for her and Henry to sleep for the night. Tomorrow, when the sun rose, she would scour the entire city until she found a job.

Any job, really. Anything that would get her from this point to the next.

“I’ll be right back,” she said to Henry. “Just sit tight.”

“Where are you going?” He stopped playing with his straw and sat up straight, worry dotting his expression. “I want to come with you.”

“I know, but if you wait here, we won’t lose our table.” True, perhaps, but that wasn’t Chelsea’s concern. She didn’t want her son to know how desperate a position they were in. “I’m going up there,” she said, pointing in the direction of the bar. “We’ll be able to see each other the entire time. I won’t be long, and if you get nervous, you can come to me. Okay?”

“Okay,” he agreed after a momentary pause.

Leaning over, she gave him a quick kiss on the top of his head. Then, with hopes of a miracle, she approached the well-polished vintage oak bar. Again, she focused on the bartender, on his relaxed smile and his easy, almost graceful, movements. If a cheap—okay, almost
free
—motel existed in Steamboat Springs, he’d surely know of it, and if she were very lucky, he might have some ideas about possible job openings in the area.

Humiliating to ask for any type of help whatsoever—even basic advice—from a stranger. She’d have to tell him some version of the truth, maybe even admit she’d failed, otherwise he wouldn’t understand her dilemma. And if he didn’t understand, why would he bother himself with giving her anything more than pat answers?

All of this seemed too much, too overwhelming, and she almost retreated.
Almost.
But her earlier promise to do whatever it took strengthened her resolve. She marched forward and readied the words she’d have to say.

Because really, what else was she to do?

Chapter Two

T
he weight of her gaze struck him a millisecond before the sound of her voice, causing Dylan to overfill the pilsner. Frustrated with himself, he poured off some of the foam and wiped the side of the glass with the rag tucked into the waistband of his apron.

Would this night
ever
come to an end? He’d been off balance for the past hour, ever since handing the menus to the brunette and her kid. Not only did the out-of-character behavior hold zero logic, but it was annoying as hell. He didn’t appreciate having his head filled with curiosity
and
concern for absolute strangers. No matter how cute they were.

“Excuse me?” the brunette said again, louder this time, as he turned in her direction. “I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions? About—”

“Kind of busy at the moment,” he said, a tad more bluntly than he’d anticipated. Chagrined, he forced a smile. “But sure. Just give me a minute.”

“Of course,” she said. “No problem.”

A solid ten minutes later, after he’d delivered the beer and two others, paused to chat with the blonde—who was now on her fourth shooter, but at least she’d taken to sipping instead of gulping—and cleaned up a couple of spills, he returned to where the brunette waited.

She stood in such a way that she could watch both her boy and Dylan, and therefore, she saw him coming. “I can see you’re busy,” she said when he stopped in front of her. “And I’m sorry to bother you, but I need...well, some advice. I’m guessing you’re from around here?”

“No bother, and that I am,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

A rosy blush colored her cheeks, easily visible even in the dim lighting. “We just got here today, and it was supposed to be for a job. It...um... The job fell through. So, I’m wondering if you can direct me to a motel that isn’t too pricey? We’re not picky.”

Prickly dots of tension appeared between Dylan’s shoulder blades. He found no pleasure in hearing his assumptions were right on the money, but he choked down the questions her statement raised. Namely, why come for a job—whether it fell through or not—without having a place to stay? Seemed foolish and shortsighted, especially with a child to consider.

“That might be tough. This is the last weekend the mountain is open, so the city’s packed with tourists. It’s doubtful you’ll have any luck in finding a hotel with vacancies, cheap or not.” He should’ve left it at that, but he didn’t. Couldn’t, really. “I can grab the phone book and circle a few possibilities, if you like. Doesn’t hurt to check.”

She nodded her thanks and swung her gaze toward her son. In the instant before she did, Dylan recognized distress in her eyes. Beautiful eyes, deep blue in color and framed in long, dark lashes. Eyes that shouldn’t, under any circumstances, be coated with fear.

Another idiotic, out-of-character thought. Shaking it off, Dylan retrieved the phone book and hurriedly circled the three cheapest motels he knew of that weren’t dumps. With that and the bar phone in hand, he set them down in front of her. “There you go,” he said, his voice capturing her attention. “If you need anything else, let me know.”

“Actually, I was also wondering if you knew of any places that might be hiring? We’re here now, so I thought we might as well stay.” Again, her cheeks darkened in embarrassment. “It’s a long drive back to where we came from. It seems pointless to turn around.”

He opened his mouth, set to tell her the truth: this was a bad weekend to be looking for work in Steamboat Springs. Most of the local businesses would be doing the same as Foster’s, which was skimming down their seasonal employee load until the summer rush began.

Except he couldn’t. The fear he’d witnessed seconds ago stopped him in his tracks.

“Let me give that one some thought,” he said instead, unwilling to dash her hopes so quickly. Ridiculous, though. The truth remained the truth. “Why don’t you make the calls, figure out where you’re sleeping for the night, and I’ll see what I can come up with?”

Relief mixed with gratitude—maybe even some surprise—softened her smile, relaxing the angled features of her face. “Thank you,” she said, her words quiet and hesitant. “My name is Chelsea, by the way. And my son is Henry.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Dylan Foster.”

With that, he moved to the other end of the bar, making the sweep to see who needed what drink and who wanted to close out their tab. As he did, he considered her request, trying to come up with at least one job possibility to offer. Foster’s Pub wasn’t hiring. Neither was the other Foster family–owned business, the sporting-goods store his brother Cole managed.

So lost was he in these thoughts, his appraisal of the bar’s customers and their needs, he failed to pay adequate attention to the blonde. It was the sound of her laughter—a series of too loud, too playful, completely manufactured giggles—that yanked him clean out of his head and smack into the trouble he’d anticipated the whole damn evening.

It didn’t take an abundance of brainpower to size up the current situation. She had scooted herself closer to Mr. Miller Lite—so close she might as well have plopped herself on his lap—and was in the process of trailing her long red-painted fingernails down the front of his shirt. The poor sucker had his arm wrapped around her waist and was, by all appearances, clueless as to what was about to go down. Because coming toward the couple in long, heavy strides was another man—Mr. Heartbreaker, Dylan guessed—and he did not look pleased.

The blonde seemed quite content with herself and the blowout that was likely to occur. Dylan rushed forward, intent on stopping the altercation before it started and mentally cursing himself for allowing the brunette—Chelsea? Yeah, that was her name—to take over his thoughts. If not for her sad, fearful blue eyes, he would’ve been on top of this a hell of a lot sooner.

He stepped in front of the blonde at the same instant Mr. Heartbreaker arrived behind the couple. Bad luck, that, but Dylan smiled at the man and said, “What can I get for you?”

The man ignored Dylan. He grabbed Mr. Miller Lite’s arm and pulled it off the blonde’s waist, saying, “It’s time to go, Amber. You’ve made your point.”

“Oh, I don’t know that I have.” Excitement glimmered over her expression, there and gone in a blink. Facing the new arrival, she said, “Ask me tomorrow. And I’m not going anywhere with you. Now or ever. So you’re wasting your time.”

“Hold on here,” Mr. Miller Lite said. “Who is this guy? What’s this about, Amber?”

“His name is Brett, but there’s nothing to worry about,” Amber said, pressing her body another inch tighter against Mr. Miller Lite, her words a catlike purr. “He doesn’t have to ruin our fun or our night. He was just leaving.”

“We’re leaving together,” Brett the heartbreaker corrected. “And tomorrow, we’ll straighten all of this out, when you’re more willing to listen to reason.”

“Reason? I highly doubt there is anything—” She broke off, bit her bottom lip in a sultry type of pout. “Just leave.”

“You heard her,” Mr. Miller Lite said, disentangling himself from Amber so he could stand. “She doesn’t want to go with you—” he curled his fists at his sides “—so why don’t you stop embarrassing yourself and take off before someone gets hurt?”

Amber’s eyes widened and Brett’s mouth pursed into a glower. Uh-oh.

“Let’s all calm down. This seems like a private discussion,” Dylan interjected, considering how fast he’d be able to climb over the bar and physically get in between the two men and wishing that one of his brothers were also in attendance. Or, hell, both. “And this isn’t the place for a private discussion, so I think everyone should—”

That was all he managed to say before the first punch was thrown.

As far as fights went, Dylan had seen worse. Brett got two solid hits in, a clean one across Mr. Miller Lite’s jaw and the other straight into the gut. Mr. Miller Lite retaliated with an elbow punch, also to the gut, followed by several sharp jabs to the ribs. Brett was raring up for another go when Dylan and a couple of the pub’s employees managed to separate the two. From what he could see, no real damage was done, though both men would surely have a few bruises the next day. And, he was certain, very different stories to tell.

Fortunately, when Amber sidled next to Brett, obviously ready to mend fences, Mr. Miller Lite was smart enough not to argue. Dylan shooed him out first, and a few minutes later he sent Brett and Amber on their way. He didn’t know what had started their squabble, but he figured this wasn’t their first—nor would it be their last—go-around. They just had that look.

“The show is over, folks,” he said to the gawkers who hadn’t yet returned to their seats. None of whom had jumped in to help during the fight, thank goodness. That would have resulted in one hell of a mess. Everyone scattered to their various chairs, and within minutes the fight was forgotten and normalcy was restored.

It wasn’t until the hum of chatter had fully resumed that Dylan recalled Chelsea and her plight.
Dammit.
Nothing had changed. The facts were still the facts. There might be plenty of job openings in the city, but he didn’t know where, and really, that was fine. She was an adult and, despite the effect she’d had on him, a complete stranger. He had no business being concerned.

She wasn’t—in any way, shape or form—his responsibility.

Except when he searched the bar for her and her son and didn’t see them anywhere, knots formed in his stomach. Had she found a hotel? She’d mentioned they’d driven a long way, so he guessed she wouldn’t turn around for the return trip tonight, even if she had made the decision to leave. And honestly, if she didn’t have a job and had nowhere to go, why choose to stay?

Shaking off his absurd worries—why the devil did he care, anyway?—Dylan returned to working the bar and socializing with the customers. He refused to waste another second thinking about some woman he’d likely never see or hear from again.

The next several hours passed swiftly, and finally—thank God—it was closing time. Another hour spent putting the bar to rights and he was heading out through the kitchen, ready to go home and crash for a solid eight. Nine, if he could get away with it.

Haley was still in the kitchen, eating a late-night snack at the small round table the family and employees used. He grabbed a chair and sat down across from her, because as much as he wanted to hightail it home, he wouldn’t let his sister walk to her car alone.

“Long night,” she said in between bites of a turkey sandwich. “Long season.”

“Agreed. We’re almost done, though.” One more night of craziness and everything would calm down for a few months. Of course, as soon as he caught up on sleep and fun, boredom would settle in. It always did. “Any plans I should know about on your end?”

“Huh? Me? Nope.” She shrugged, twirled a lock of hair around her finger. “Nothing exciting, anyway. I mean, nothing that
you
would find exciting.”

“Is that so?”

“Yep, that’s so.” She twirled her hair tighter. “Just the normal in-between-season stuff.”

Dylan tried to find the energy to question his sister further, because she was—without a doubt—hiding something. The twirling of her hair, one of Haley’s tells, was a dead giveaway, but she could keep her secret. She was in a good place in her life. For well over a year now—closing in on two, actually—she’d been happy and in love with a man the entire Foster family considered one of their own. Whatever her secret, he highly doubted there was reason for alarm.

“Okay, then,” he said. “Please tell me you’re almost done with that sandwich.”

Narrowing her more-green-than-brown-tonight eyes, she gave him a protracted once-over. “Are you okay? You didn’t get your head beat on while breaking up that fight, did you?”

“Can’t win with you, Haley,” he joked. “Either I ask too many questions or not enough. I’m fine. Just tired and cranky and ready to head home.”

“Then go! What are you waiting for?”

He gave her a pointed look. “You. Finish eating so I can walk you out.”

“Oh. You don’t have to. Gavin dropped me off earlier, and he’ll be here to get me soon.” After swallowing another bite, she said, “I just called him. So no worries, big brother.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. He enjoys—” she smiled widely, happily “—picking me up.”

Dylan laughed at the innuendo, mostly to hide his reflexive wince of discomfort. Didn’t matter how much he liked Gavin, Haley would always be his baby sister. Some days he still saw her in pigtails. “I’m sure he does.”

After saying their good-nights, he walked outside and strode toward his parked car, which he’d left in the very back part of the lot. Cold wind smacked against his face in waves, so he tugged his coat collar up and over his jaw for protection. The air held the icy-crisp sharpness of winter, making it difficult to believe they were easing into spring.

He was about halfway across the parking lot when he heard the coughing, choking, sputtering sounds of an engine desperately trying to turn over. A stranded customer? Probably. A local, he’d guess, since tourists tended to rent vehicles, and typically those cars were newer and didn’t emit cries of impending death when started.

Stopping, he waited and hoped the engine would fire to life and he’d be free to go on his merry way. But nope, no such luck. The sputtering continued in growls and grunts, the gap in between each cough growing systematically longer by several seconds. In a matter of minutes, Dylan guessed, the car would become completely unresponsive.

Ah, hell. This he did not need.

But because his folks had raised him to lend a hand when one was needed, he switched his direction. Maybe the car just required a jump, which he could do without too much effort. If not, he’d lead the stranded person inside and wait with them until a tow truck arrived.

He approached the car—a decade-plus-old Chevy Malibu, he now saw—and grimaced at the now grinding, winding-down sound of an engine giving up the ghost. The driver needed to stop his attempts, because no amount of key turning and gas-pedal pumping was going to do the trick. And while he hated to admit it, he had serious doubts that the issue was the relatively simple matter of a battery requiring a jump.