Even on such short acquaintance, Grace felt certain Brian had all the qualities she dreamed of for a future husband and father for her son: a man of God, honest, dependable, intelligent, and attractive. Someone truly nice, someone who loved children, someone who worked for a living. She wasn’t sexually attracted to Brian, but that could be a good thing. She didn’t want emotion clouding her judgment.
Lord, Brian Henley is the kind of man I want to marry someday, if I ever marry again. He’s a good, solid, dependable, nice guy who could love someone despite glaring faults and failures. Someone like Brian could love Samuel like a son. So, I’m asking. If this is your plan, Lord, please make it clear. You know how stupid I can be, how blind to who people really are. Please, Lord. Protect me. I don’t want to pick the wrong guy again.
Roman awakened late Saturday morning, head pounding, and thirsty. Now that he was awake, he wanted to get back to Topanga Canyon. He shaved in the shower and called the valet to have his car brought around. Tossing clothing and toiletries into his duffel bag, he zipped it shut and slung it over his shoulder. He picked up a five-dollar coffee from the lobby vendor and headed out of the hotel. Grace made better. Saturday and Sunday were her days off. He’d have to wait for a good cup of java until Monday morning.
It was midafternoon before Roman pulled into his garage. His mail was on the kitchen counter, opened and neatly stacked in chronological order, sticky notes on the more important items that needed his personal attention. She’d balanced his accounts and left a computer report of his income and expenses, everything neatly logged in categories. His tax accountant was going to love her.
On his way to his bedroom, he saw the guest room. He took a step back. Grace had chosen a mahogany sleigh bed, nightstands with lamps, and a high dresser. She hadn’t stopped with bedroom furniture, but added a comfortable chair, reading lamp, and Persian-style rug. Roman dumped his duffel bag in the hall and went in to look around. Blues, greens, touches of red and yellow, but no pastels. The room was masculine without being macho. She’d hung two sets of blue towels in the bathroom. On the counter were three clear glass canisters, one filled with seashells, another with colorful river rocks, and the smallest with wrapped soaps.
He’d left his own bedroom in all its glory: bed unmade, towels and clothes on the floor, closet doors open. Embarrassed at the contrast with the immaculate guest room, Roman stripped his bed. He gathered the dirty towels and headed for the laundry room. Maybe it was a good time to go over to the cottage, tell her he was back and she’d done a good job on the guest room. He knocked on her front door. No answer. He tried again, listening. No footsteps. No radio playing. She didn’t own a television.
She’d gone out. Why should that surprise him?
He went back to the big house and killed time watching a basketball game and making sketches in the black book he kept under the couch. He went over again as the sun was going down. Still no answer.
It’s Saturday, stupid. It’s her day off. Why shouldn’t she be off someplace having fun? She probably has a boyfriend.
That thought unsettled him. He didn’t want to think about why.
He put the sheets and towels in the dryer and went into the kitchen to make himself a sandwich. Later, while making his bed, he thought about Masterson Ranch and the bachelor arts Susan had taught him. Oddly enough, he’d liked the routine, the order, set meals at set times, the rules for how to treat one another.
When and why had he turned into a slob?
The TV blared as one of the teams won—he didn’t know which and didn’t care. He picked up the remote and shut it off. He went up to his studio and noticed the cottage lights were on. Grace was home.
The solar lights had come on along the path between the big house and cottage. He knocked rather than ringing the bell. Was that a baby crying? The door opened, and Grace’s expression was anything but welcoming. She held a red-faced, crying baby in her arms. Roman grimaced. “He doesn’t look happy.” Neither did she.
“He’s had a big day. Sometimes when he’s overstimulated, he gets fussy.”
Roman guessed she’d babysat enough times to know.
When Grace left the door open as she walked away, he took it as an invitation to enter. “I came over to tell you the guest room looks great.” He closed the door behind him.
She smiled at him. “Thank you.” The baby seemed calmer, leaning his head on her chest and peering at him as Grace swayed her body, rocking him gently. He had thick, dark hair, café au lait skin, and dark-brown eyes.
Her place felt like an oasis. A Bible lay open on the kitchen table, along with a journal. Curious, Roman wanted to pick it up and read what she’d written. Not a good idea. “You have him again.” Shanice probably stuck Grace with her kid as often as possible so she could go off somewhere and party.
Grace rubbed the baby’s back. “I have him every chance I get.”
“I don’t think he wants a nap.”
“Unfortunately, he already had a long nap on the way home from the beach.”
Grace laid the baby in the middle of a plush, ribbon-edged blanket on the carpeted floor. “All right, little man.” She handed Samuel a rattle. He shook it several times and hurled it. Grace stretched to retrieve it, exposing smooth white skin at the waistband of her jeans. Samuel rolled over and pushed himself up.
Roman chuckled. “Looks like he’d rather do push-ups.”
Still on her knees, she looked up at Roman. “I’m glad you like the guest room.”
She wasn’t rushing him out the door. He smiled slightly. “The canisters of seashells and rocks were a bit much.”
“I have the receipts. I can return them.”
“I was kidding. I might let you redo my bedroom.”
“Oh, no. Nice try, but I’m not cleaning up your mess.”
He gave her a wry smile. “I stripped my bed and washed the sheets. I’ve been doing laundry since I got back.”
Baby Samuel let out a distinct noise, drawing their attention. When the baby’s face turned dark red, Roman laughed. “I think you’re going to be doing laundry, too.”
Grace sighed. “It’s the formula. Thankfully, he’s wearing disposable diapers.”
“I thought you were a recycling activist.”
“Within reason.” Grace got up and went into the bedroom. Roman watched Samuel push his knees under his chest. The baby rocked back and forth and toppled face-first. Pushing himself up again, he let out a ferocious scream. Grace appeared, hands full of diaper-changing supplies.
Roman raised his hands. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Then don’t look so guilty.” Kneeling, she turned Samuel over. “He can sit up. Now he wants to crawl.” In less than two minutes, she had the soiled diaper removed, the baby’s bottom clean and fitted with a new one. Leaning down, she blew on his belly. Samuel grabbed her hair and let out a baby giggle. Turning him over again, Grace patted Samuel’s freshly diapered bottom. He pushed himself up again and looked at Roman. Grace smiled. “He wonders who the strange man is.”
Roman sat in the swivel rocker and leaned forward. “I’m her boss, kid.”
“He’s not a goat. He’s a child, and his name is Samuel.”
“Hey, Sammy . . .”
“I’d rather you called him Samuel.”
Her tone offered no compromise, and the look on her face made him wonder why such a little thing mattered. “What does Shanice call him?”
Grace looked confused. “She calls him ‘little man.’ That’s his nickname, not Sammy.” Her phone rang, distracting her. She rose quickly and went to the kitchen table. Roman could tell by her tone it wasn’t one of her girlfriends. “He’s tired, but fine. I had him slathered with sunblock.” Her tone had noticeably warmed. Why should that annoy him?
When Grace glanced at him, Roman stood. Time to go. Leaning down, he patted Samuel’s behind. “Have fun, buddy.” She asked the caller to wait a moment, no doubt wanting more privacy than she had right now. Roman didn’t give her a chance to say anything. “I’ll see you Monday morning.”
Back at the main house, Roman decided to toss his self-imposed celibacy to the wind and spend the rest of the evening at a club.