Page 47 of His Best Friend's Baby

“Hi,” he said, putting his sticky hand in Rachel’s. “I’m two.” He held up five fingers.

“He’s adorable.” Rachel stood up. “You need a ride or…?”

“We’re okay,” Julia said.

“Here,” Rachel said digging through her handbag. She pulled her receipt from her pocket and a pen from her bag. “There’s my home phone.” She scribbled and handed the paper over with a smile that was somehow both familiar and reserved. Respectful. “I know you’re staying at the Adamses—”

“You do?” Julia asked. She’d never said anything about that.

“It’s a small town, Julia. Word travels fast. But if you ever need a change of scenery for dinner or something, please give me a call. I grew up here, but… Well, it would be great to have another woman to talk to besides Rita.”

“I…” Julia was literally speechless. She cupped the paper in her hand and pressed it into the breast pocket of her T-shirt. “Thanks. Really. I will. Call, I mean.”

“Well, it was very good to meet you, Julia.”

“Likewise.”

They smiled at each other, Julia so full of an awkward gladness, she felt young.

“Call me.” Rachel pointed at her and looked serious.

“I will,” Julia assured her, patting her pocket. “Trust me.” She laughed, thinking of the never-ending nights of Mitch worship she’d been going through at the Adamses. Last night, after her phone call with her mother, she’d been given a two-hour tour of Mitch’s high school football scrapbook.

She’d been nailed to that couch by Agnes’s painful grief, and her even more painful desire to keep the good memory of her son alive.

Julia had decided that it couldn’t hurt to let the woman have her illusions. But suffering through those illusions night after night was another thing entirely.

Rachel climbed into her car and drove off with a honk and a wave. Julia put her son in the stroller, took her courage in hand and headed for Jesse’s house.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

JESSE EXAMINED the damage he’d done to himself last night in the bathroom mirror. He had a black eye and a puffy split lip. His nose felt huge and the bridge was soft, like tapioca pudding. But it could have been worse. He was lucky Mac had shown up when he did.

Jesse bent his head to gingerly splash water on his face.

Last night’s suicide mission had been stupid. He had to repair the roof. Fix it, sell this place and get the hell out of town. And he’d just set himself back a day, maybe two.

He’d been in constant motion since being released from the hospital. He’d visited all the families of the guys who had died in the crash. He’d contacted Chris. He’d made plans as though his life depended on it, barely slept and now… He shook his head. He stared at his reflection and barely recognized himself. He’d planned on spending a day, a week at most, in New Springs to get rid of the house and never look back.

But here he was, a week and a half later, stranded like a Jeep caught in quicksand. Every move he made sunk him deeper despite what he wanted. What he planned and needed.

“Get your shit together, soldier.”

He stepped out of the tiny bathroom into the hallway and then out into the sunny living room.

Where Julia stood with her son, stock-still, like a deer in the wild.

For a split second, dream and reality converged and his body sparked to life. He could feel her skin again, hear her sweet sigh against his face.

“Scary,” the boy said and buried his face in his mother’s legs.

“Doesn’t anyone knock?” Jesse muttered. “Everyone feels like they can just waltz in here.”

He collapsed into his father’s old easy chair ignoring, the tearing sound of the old blue brocade and the squeak of the springs.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, looking at Jesse through her eyelashes. He wanted to tell her to stop looking so provocative, so damn appealing, but the words started and died in his throat.

He was hurt and wounded and confused enough that he wanted her to look provocative. He wanted her to come over and sit on his lap, wipe the wet hair from his face and set about kissing all of his minor and major pains away.

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