FATHER IN TRAINING (9 page)

He studied her, trying to figure out what it was exactly that got to him. In denim shorts and a red tank shirt, she was hardly dressing to be seductive. If he took her features apart, there wasn't anything special about her. Wide green eyes drew his gaze. He liked the way she wore mascara and no other makeup. Her nose was
straight,
her mouth turned up slightly at the corners, her chin was pointed, but not too pointed. Her body was well proportioned for her height, her breasts neither too large nor too small, her hips rounded, but not obvious. So why did she drive him crazy? Was it hormonal? Was it the result of too much reminiscing and not enough sleep?

Austin
stood and stretched. "Back to work, everyone. We should be able to finish the painting today if we get going now."

Sandy
scrambled to her feet. "I'll clean up," she said.

"I'll help." Kyle grabbed the wrapping from his sandwich,
then
picked up Blake's. The boy gave him a quick smile. The curve of the child's lips and flash of white teeth reminded him of
Sandy
. For a moment, he stared at the boy, wondering what it must be like to have a child of one's own. A fierce longing swept through him, shocking him with its intensity. He shook his head slightly,
then
continued to collect trash.

Everyone stood up and slowly left the room. At last, he and Sandy were alone.

"I can handle this," she said, not looking at him.

"I don't mind helping."

"I don't want to keep you from your painting."

"Are you afraid I'm not working hard enough?" he teased.

She'd bent over to pick up Nichole's half-eaten sandwich. Now she turned her head and looked at him. Her loose, shoulder-length hair shielded part of her face. "Not at all. I know everyone is doing a lot for me, and I really appreciate it." She tucked her hair behind her ear as she straightened. "We all do."

"I know." He walked toward her. "I was just kidding. I'll help you clean up here,
then
I'll go back upstairs and paint. Fair enough?"

She nodded. He wanted to think she was staring at his mouth, but he figured it was just wishful thinking on his part. No doubt about it, the lady turned him on. Unfortunately, he doubted his feelings were returned.

She continued to stare at him, then flushed slightly and looked away as if she'd just realized what she was doing. He watched the color climb up her cheeks to her hairline. The house was quiet, despite the number of people inside. He couldn't hear anything except his heart pounding in his chest and the faint whisper of
Sandy
's rapid breathing. At least he told himself it was rapid.

She twisted her fingers together. A paper napkin drifted from the trash she held and fluttered to the ground. He bent and grabbed it, then thrust it toward her. His fingers brushed her arm. She jumped.

"Kyle, I don't think—"

"Good," he said, cutting her off. "I know you're upset about last night."

She swallowed and stared at the center of his chest. "Last night should never have happened."

"Which part? The pizza? You and your kids eating at my house? Or what happened later?"

"What happened
later.
"

Her voice was soft and low. He had to lean forward to hear her. She continued to stare at his chest. He wondered if she was afraid to look him in the eye because of what she would see or because of what she would
reveal?
He wanted it to be the latter.

"What exactly did happen?" he asked, deliberately taunting her.

She raised her gaze. He saw something hungry flash through her eyes, then she blinked and it was gone. "Nothing. Nothing at all. And I want to make sure nothing happens again."

Nothing except he'd almost kissed her and she'd almost let him. She wanted to make sure it happened again? Did she mean nothing or did she mean the kiss? "Are you sure?" he asked and moved closer.

"Yes." Her voice was a mere whisper. She trembled.

He touched her bare arm, just above the elbow. She pulled back. "I mean it, Kyle. I don't want there to be anything between us. I'm not interested."

He'd once played football with a sprained ankle and never let on until the game was over. He'd been cut pretty bad breaking up a fight and had finished his shift before going to the hospital. He'd been dumped once, a long time ago in college, and never told a soul. So it wasn't hard to continue to stare at her and not let her know what he was thinking. But inside, he reeled from the blow. As simple as that. She wasn't interested. Thanks but no thanks.

"No problem," he said, shoving his hands into his pockets.

She sighed. "I don't mean to be cruel or rude. I appreciate everything you've done for me. Bringing Travis and Austin to help, working around here, all of that. It's been great. But you and I have nothing in common. It would be best if we were just neighbors."

"
Sandy
, I understand. You don't have to give me a reason."

"But I want to. I want you to know it's not personal."

It felt pretty damn personal to him. She was calling the game on account of rain and he hadn't even got to bat.

She walked over to the trash bag by the entrance to the foyer and dumped the deli papers inside. "I'm not your type, and you're not mine," she told him.

What was her type? Someone like her late husband? Thomas, the philosophy professor. Someone intellectual. Someone who preferred opera to football, thick nonaction books with footnotes to the latest spy thriller. Someone steady and dependable. Someone not like him.

"I hate for you to feel responsible for us. You don't have to keep coming over here and taking care of things. I'm really okay on my own."

In other words, get lost.

"I think you're right," he said.

"You do?" She looked doubtful.

"Sure. We'll be neighbors. Friends. We can look out for each other, but pretty much stay out of each other's lives. It's a good plan."

"Great." She smiled.

He thought his heart might start bleeding right then and there, but he didn't let on. Instead, he headed for the stairs. Friends. Neighbors. He'd sure lost his touch. He'd been thinking romance and she'd been putting him in the same class as the neighborhood golden retriever. Friends. What would
Sandy
say if she knew he'd been thinking, as well as friends they could also be lovers?

Chapter 5

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^
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H
e kept his word. Once the house was painted, Kyle disappeared from their lives as completely as if he'd never been there in the first place. He took his ready smiles, his quick wit and that way he had of looking at her that made her feel as if her bones were melting.

Sandy
told herself she was pleased. It would be easier for both of them if they didn't risk getting involved. As she'd told him three days ago, he wasn't her type, she wasn't his. So what if she went up in flames every time she was near him? She would get over it. And she had.
Which didn't explain why the house seemed so quiet without him and his brothers around helping.

Sandy
stood at the bottom of the stairs and looked around. Her
kids has
been so good about helping—despite a few complaints—she'd given them a break and called in a service to clean the windows. Sunlight shone brightly through the freshly washed glass. All the rooms had been painted, the bathrooms scrubbed. Nichole and Blake had even weeded the rose garden out back. All they needed now was for their furniture to arrive.

She walked into the kitchen, then through the utility room and out the back door. Her kids were sitting on the back porch drinking sodas. They were much too quiet.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

Lindsay studied the toe of her right athletic shoe. "Nothing. We finished papering the kitchen cupboards."

"Thanks."

Sandy
took a seat next to her oldest. With Kyle no longer a daily fixture in their lives, Lindsay hadn't bothered to wear her nicest summer clothing. Today she'd pulled on a torn pair of shorts that had once been light blue but that had faded to a sort of institutional gray. Her T-shirt wasn't much better. There was a juice stain over the pocket, and one sleeve was coming off at the shoulder. Even her brown hair seemed limp, just lying on her back instead of bouncing with each step.

As usual, Blake sat off by himself, over in a corner of the porch with his back pressed against the house. Her son was playing with one of his hand-held video games for the first time since they'd moved. As she watched, his fingers moved nimbly over the buttons, destroying electronic bad guys and making his private world safe once again. His glasses slipped down his nose. Absently, he pushed them into place,
then
took a sip of his drink before returning his attention to his computer game.

Nichole scooted over to lean against her. "I'm hot, Mommy," her youngest told her. "Can we go swimming?"

Sandy
shook her head. "We have to wait for the movers, honey. They called and said they would be here later today."

"If they don't break down again," Lindsay said. "You're grumpy all of a sudden. What's going on?"

"I hate this place," Lindsay told her. "There's nothing to do. There are no kids my age, or anything. I can't believe you moved us here."

Mutinous brown eyes glared at her. Lindsay had Thomas's eyes. She had her father's sense of adventure. Unfortunately, she had her mother's temper.
Sandy
recognized a lot of the unfocused adolescent rage from her own youth in her daughter. Her little girl was growing up fast.

"You didn't seem to mind it too much a few days ago."

"A few days ago, something was going on around here."

Yeah, Kyle had been a part of their lives. Okay, so they all missed him. They would get over it. After all, they'd only known him a few days.

Sandy
wished she could make her kids believe it was going to be all right. They would make friends and settle into a routine soon enough. She reminded herself change was never easy, but it was often for the best.

A loud rumbling broke the stillness of the afternoon. Lindsay
straightened,
even Blake looked up from his game.

"The truck's here!" Nichole crowed. She grinned at her mother.

Sandy
reached out and ruffled the little girl's red curls. "I think you're right. Let's go see."

Nichole took
Sandy
's hand and skipped down the stairs next to her. Lindsay and Blake followed more slowly. As they rounded the house,
Sandy
saw a large moving van backing up down the long driveway. The driver checked his mirror,
then
glanced at someone waving him in from the porch.
Sandy
looked at the man who was standing there as if he owned the place.

Her heart told her who it was even before she recognized the tall, lean body and the short dark hair. Her knees quivered slightly and her breath caught in her throat. He hadn't gone away. She was a fool, from the top of her head down to her toes. A fool and glad he was there.

"Kyle!" Lindsay called as soon as she saw him. "What are you doing here?"

"Helping." He gave her a smile, but his gaze met
Sandy
's. "I saw the truck and figured you'd need some."

"Thanks,"
Sandy
said, climbing up the side stairs to the wide, wooden porch. When she got close to him, she felt awkward. "You didn't have to."

"I wanted to," he said. "Just being neighborly."

The trunk jerked to a halt with the back end a few feet from the porch. Two men jumped out of the cab,
then
the driver, Al, climbed down. She recognized him from when he'd come to pick up her belongings in
Los Angeles
.