Not Quite Married (15 page)

Impatience spiked within him, to get things settled, get a yes from her so they could move it along, get the license, step up in front of the preacher or the justice of the peace, have it all properly sorted out before the baby came.

And what about Denver? He needed to get her to move to Denver. And he didn’t delude himself. That would not be easy. The woman had deep roots in her hometown.

There was so much to work out. And the first step was getting her to say she would marry him.

But then she went on. “I’m glad we have this time together, to get to know each other in a deeper way, to find out if maybe we might have some sort of future together—I mean, beyond the whole coparenting thing.”

Maybe?

She hadn’t moved past
maybe
?

Maybe didn’t cut it. Not by a long shot.

“Dalton, is something wrong?” Those big eyes begged him to tell her what he knew damn well she didn’t want to hear.

He ordered himself not to get discouraged. They
were
making progress. And if he jumped down her throat now, he could lose the ground he’d gained. “Something wrong? No. Not a thing.”

She chided, “I don’t believe you.”

He bent close and whispered, “Nothing is wrong.”

And then he kissed her. Slowly. With feeling.

When he lifted his head, she gazed up at him dreamily.

Yes. Everything would work out. She just needed a little more time.

He felt confident, good about everything. It was all going his way.

And then, the next morning, her best buddy, Ryan, showed up at the door. Again.

* * *

Clara kept her promise and led the other man to the great room. She even invited Dalton to have a seat, too. So he took one wing chair and Ryan took the other.

It was awkward—for Dalton, anyway. They talked about Ryan’s bar and Clara’s restaurant, about Clara’s friends and relatives. And about how he, Dalton, was managing to run Ames Bank and Trust from Clara’s home office.

Yesterday, Dalton had been relieved to learn that Ryan had never been in Clara’s bed. But the longer he sat there across from the other man, the more he found himself thinking that it might have been better if the guy had been her lover, after all. Clara had said that Ryan had a lot of girlfriends. And he was a charmer, good-looking, with an easy smile and an infectious laugh. For a man like Ryan, an unattainable woman would be rare, a prize.

About fifteen minutes into the visit, Dalton got a call from the main office, one he had to take. He went upstairs and dealt with it and the chain of memos that resulted from it. When he went back downstairs, he heard Clara laughing in the great room.

“Rye. Stop it. I mean it.” And she laughed some more.

She sounded so happy. Dalton tried to remember how many times she’d laughed like that with him. Not enough times, that was for damn sure. He entered the great room through the kitchen just in time to see the other man bending over the sofa and kissing her on the cheek.

Yes, all right. It was a friends-only sort of kiss. But he didn’t like the adoring look on Clara’s good buddy’s face when he did it.

“Call me if you need me.” The guy was still bending over her, one hand braced on the sofa back.

“You know I will.”

Ryan straightened and spotted Dalton standing there. “Later, man,” he said flatly, with a quick dip of his chin.

Dalton gave him an answering nod. “Have a good one.” He tried not to grind his teeth when he said it. The other man headed down the side hall toward the front door and Dalton told Clara, “I’ll see him out.” It might be a good moment to have a private word with Mr. Best Friend Forever.

But Clara nixed that. “Don’t be silly. Rye knows the way.”

A few seconds later, the front door opened and closed.

Right then, as he heard the door shut, Dalton made up his mind.

He and Ryan needed to talk. And it would be better to do that somewhere away from the house. Better if it was just the two of them, without Clara there to run interference.

Yes. Away from the house.

And soon.

* * *

It was easy to set up.

That afternoon, from upstairs in the office, Dalton called Ryan at McKellan’s. “This is Dalton Ames. We need to talk.”

The other man didn’t seem the least surprised to hear from him. “I’m listening.”

“Face-to-face.”

“Fine. You want to come here?”

“That’ll do. Ten minutes?”

“I’ll be looking for you.” And Ryan hung up.

Downstairs, Dalton discovered that Clara had moved to her room. She had the door shut, which worked for him. She could be sleeping. No reason to disturb her and then have to decide whether or not to lie to her about where he was going.

He found Mrs. Scruggs bustling around in the kitchen. He let her know he was going out and would return within an hour.

“Good enough,” the housekeeper said. “If I’m finished here before you get back, I’ll leave a note for Clara that you won’t be long.”

“Perfect. Thanks.”

* * *

McKellan’s Pub took up most of a block on Marmot Drive. It had lots of windows in front, with blue awnings that sheltered café tables right there on the sidewalk. Inside, it was all dark woodwork, accent walls of aged brick and cozy nooks where good friends could share a pitcher and order burgers.

Ryan was waiting at one end of the long wooden bar behind which ranged shelf upon shelf of gleaming liquor bottles. There were three rows of beer taps spaced along the bar. And even at two thirty in the afternoon, the place had enough customers to make a visitor feel confident he’d come to a popular, well-run establishment.

“You want a beer?” Ryan asked when Dalton reached the stool where he sat.

“No, thanks.”

“Have a seat.” The other man nodded at the stool next to him.

“A private word would be better.”

Ryan didn’t argue. “My office, then?”

“That works.”

So Ryan led the way under an arch at the other end of the bar and through a short hallway to a pair of swinging doors. The doors led into the kitchen. The cooks called greetings and nodded as Ryan went by. He led Dalton through another door. In there, row upon row of metal shelves were stacked with restaurant and bar supplies. They went down one long row with full shelves to either side, finally reaching Ryan’s office.

Ryan shut the door and went around to drop into the chair behind the desk. “Sit.”

Dalton took a chair next to a sad-looking plant and considered where to start. As he did this, he and Ryan stared at each other—or maybe
glared
was more the word for it.

Finally, Dalton spoke. “I want to marry Clara.”

Ryan swung his booted feet up on the desk. His chair squeaked as he leaned back. “Yeah. She told me.” And then came the taunting grin. “Too bad you’re having zero luck getting a yes out of her.”

Dalton kept his breathing slow and even. “She’s having my baby and I’m living in her house, taking care of her. We’re working it out.”

Ryan made a dismissive sound low in his throat. “In other words, she’s told you no and she’s letting you stay with her because she’s got a big heart and you’re the baby’s dad.”

That stung. Dalton decided a change of focus was in order. “Clara says that you think you’re in love with her.”

The pub owner didn’t even flinch. “That sounds like Clara. I ‘think’ I’m in love with her. I more than
think
it. I
am
in love with her, always have been. She’s turned me down over and over—but I almost got my ring on her finger at Christmas. Maybe one of these days I’ll get her to actually go through with the wedding.”

Over Dalton’s dead body. “Don’t you think if she wanted to marry you, she would have done it by now?”

“I could ask you the same question.” Ryan studied his boots. “And I’ve got a business to run. So whatever it is you came here for, can we get down to it?”

“She’s having my baby. She needs me and the baby needs her father.”

“So?”

“Back off. Get out of the way.”

The other man glanced up from his careful contemplation of his boots. The two locked eyes. Ryan said, “I’m not
in
your way, man. You’re in your
own
way. She’s not going to marry you just because there’s a baby. She’s a hopeless romantic. She wants it all—your life in her hands, your heart on a platter. She won’t settle for less.”

It wasn’t anything Dalton didn’t already know. “You’re distracting her from making the right decision.”

Ryan just kept on. “Plus, she’s always been kind of trigger-shy in relationships. She told me she really fell for you on that Caribbean island. And then
you
called it off. Major fail. You might never get past that.”

“I’ll say it again. You’re a distraction for her.”

“No, I’m not. I’m her friend. At a time like this, she needs her friends.”

“You’re all over the map,” Dalton accused. “You say that you’re in love with her one minute, and that you’re not in my way the next.” He brought out the big guns, the ones Clara herself had provided. “My take is you love chasing her—you love it because you know it’s safe. You know she’s never letting you catch her and you’re never going to have to step up and make it real.”

That struck a nerve. Ryan’s boots hit the floor and he jumped to his feet. His eyes were ice as he rounded the desk. Adrenaline spurting, Dalton rose to meet him.

When they stood toe-to-toe, Ryan muttered, “You know jack about what goes on between Clara and me.”

“I know enough. Do the right thing. Go find yourself a woman of your own.”

Ryan got that look, eyes narrowed, every muscle ready.

Dalton gave him the necessary nudge. “Go ahead. Take your shot.”

Ryan did just that. He feinted left, followed by a clean, swift uppercut.

The punch took Dalton hard on the jaw. He saw stars as his head snapped back. But he recovered quickly, regained his balance and faced the other man eye to eye. Slowly, he raised his hand to his face and shifted his jaw from side to side, causing a faint crackling sound.

Ryan held out both arms to the sides and groaned at the ceiling. “Are we doing this or not, man?”

Dalton tasted the copper tang of blood on his tongue. He wiggled his sore jaw some more and admitted, “I told Clara I would get along with you.”

Ryan let out a bark of laughter. “Too late for that—and she’s asking too damn much, anyway.”

Dalton scowled. “You know...”

“What?”

“You’re right.” He jabbed twice with his left, just to throw the other man off.

Ryan laughed some more, easily leaning clear of each blow—and into the right cross that Dalton finally sent crashing into the other man’s very handsome nose.

Chapter Eight

R
yan flew backward with a heavy grunt and staggered against the desk. He shook his head to clear it, and blood flew from his nose.

Then he jumped right up again and waded back in.

Dalton was ready for him with a left hook. Ryan blocked it and delivered another dizzying right.

They went at it for real then, knocking over both chairs, breaking the pot the sad plant was sitting in, ending up on the floor, where they grappled for dominance. Blood streamed from Ryan’s nose, more so when Dalton gained the top position and punched him in the face again. They rolled. Ryan was on top. He punched Dalton in the eye. They rolled some more, neither of them managing to stay on top for long, both of them grunting and breathing heavily by then, grinding pottery shards and loose potting soil into their clothes.

It ended when the door opened. A guy in a chef’s hat stuck his head in and shouted, “All right, enough!”

The whole thing was so damn stupid. Apparently, Ryan thought so, too. He started laughing again. He was a mess, blood all over his face, his nose and left eye swelling. Dalton didn’t kid himself that he looked any better.

They rolled apart and sat up, arms on their bent, spread knees, sucking in air hard and fast.

The chef asked, “Anybody need a doctor?”

Ryan sent Dalton a questioning glance. When Dalton shook his head, Ryan said, “Thanks, Roberto. We’re okay.”

The chef watched them with mixed resignation and disdain. Finally, he announced, “Tim from Diageo is waiting out front.”

“Have Benny deal with him.” Ryan prodded the cut under his left eye.

“If I leave, are you two gonna behave yourselves?” Roberto glared from Ryan to Dalton and back to Ryan again.

“Yeah,” Ryan said.

“We’re finished,” agreed Dalton.

The chef ducked out. Dalton got up and held down a hand. Ryan took it and Dalton helped him to his feet.

Dalton said, “Well, that didn’t solve a damn thing.”

Ryan shrugged. “Kind of satisfying, though.”

Dalton stared around at the general devastation. “Sorry about your office.”

“No big deal. That plant was half-dead anyway.”

Dalton looked down at his bloody, dirt-smeared shirt and slacks. “I need to clean up a little before I go.”

Ryan swiped drying blood from under his nose. “It’s not going to help. She’ll know exactly what you’ve been up to.”

Dalton only looked at him.

Finally, Ryan grunted. “Men’s room is back out past the kitchen, through the swinging doors. We walked right by it on our way in here.”

* * *

The scent of Mrs. Scrugg’s savory chicken and dumplings filled the air, and Clara was working on her laptop in the great room when she heard Dalton let himself in.

She expected him to come looking for her the way he always did when he entered the house. The baby kicked. She put her hand on the spot, knowing he would want to feel it, too. A smile of greeting rose to her lips—and faded when she heard his footsteps on the stairs.

He must have work he had deal with...

But then, a minute later, faintly, she heard the water running up there.

A shower? At four in the afternoon?

She shrugged. Maybe he’d been working out over at Quinn’s gym and needed to freshen up. She focused again on the restaurant accounts, and then Renée called.