first read through Louisa’s list of approved foods, dominated by fruits and vegetables, he’d wondered if his mother-in-law wasn’t setting him up for a fall. Really, what kid wanted oatmeal for breakfast? But the pancake incident and last night’s nightmare made him realize he didn’t need to blame Louisa for his failures.
He could fail spectacularly all on his own.
“But I want—”
A quick knock on the door interrupted the brewing tantrum, and Jamison wasn’t sure when he’d felt more relieved. “See, there’s room service now with breakfast.”
“Pancakes!” Hannah finished in a voice loud enough to have him cringing as he opened the door. And then cringing again at who was on the other side.
“Morning!” Looking bright, chipper and far too tempting for so early in the morning, Rory McClaren met his frown with a beaming smile.
Her dark hair was pulled back in a high ponytail that made her look even younger than he guessed she was and brought to mind old sitcoms set back in the ’60s. So did the halter-style dress with its soft floral print and full skirt. His mind still foggy from a sleepless night and too many hours spent thinking of her, Jamison could only stare.
After Hannah’s nightmare, Rory looked like something out of a dream. As the rich, strong scent of caffeine hit him, he belatedly noticed the silver serving cart in front of her.
“What are you doing here?” Still on some kind of sleep-deprived delay, the question didn’t form until Rory had already wheeled the cart between the floral-print couch and coffee table in the living area and into the dining room.
She shot a questioning glance over her bare shoulder. “You did order room service, didn’t you?”
Her blue gaze was filled with wide-eyed innocence, but Jamison wasn’t buying it. Realizing he was still holding the door open, he let go and followed her inside. “Yes, but I didn’t expect the wedding coordinator to deliver it.”
She waved a dismissive hand. “Small hotel. Everyone pitches in.” Smiling at his daughter, she asked, “Are you ready for breakfast this morning, Miss Hannah?”
Despite her earlier fascination with the woman, Hannah retreated back into shyness. She drew her bare feet up onto the seat and wrapped her arms around her ladybug-covered legs, looking impossibly tiny in the adult-size chair. “I want pancakes,” she repeated, her voice more of a whisper this time.
Instead of a wave of embarrassment crashing over him, Jamison couldn’t help feeling a little smug as Rory’s cheery expression faltered a bit.
“Um—” she glanced at the ticket tucked beneath one of the covered trays “—it looks like the chef made you oatmeal this morning.” She lifted her gaze to Jamison for confirmation.
He nodded. “Oatmeal’s good for you. Healthy.”
At least that was what his in-laws thought. It wasn’t something his mother would have fixed when he was a kid. Not that his mother fixed much of anything in the way of meals—breakfast or otherwise. Jamison had mostly been on his own and, in all honesty, more than content with sugary cereal eaten straight from the box, parked in front of morning cartoons.
“Good for you. Right...” Rory drew out the word as she pulled the cover off the bowl of plain, beige cereal. No fun shapes, bright colors or magically delicious marshmallows there. “What do you say we make this oatmeal even yummier, Hannah?”
Somehow, Jamison should have known a bowl of mush wouldn’t be enough to throw her off her game.
“How?” A wealth of doubt filled that one word, and just like that Jamison’s amusement vanished.
Yesterday, Hannah had been ready to believe Rory was a fairy godmother who walked on flower petals. And okay, so he didn’t buy into Rory McClaren’s brand of happily-ever-after, but his daughter was still a little girl. Did he want her doubting something as simple as breakfast couldn’t somehow get better?
“I’m guessing Rory has an idea about that,” he murmured.
He caught her look of surprise before pleasure brought a pink glow to her cheeks. “That’s right. Thanks to your daddy, who also ordered some fruit, we are going to turn this into happy oatmeal.”
“Happy?”
“Yep. This oatmeal’s a little sad and plain right now,” she said as reached for the platter of fruit beautifully arranged in the middle of the tray. “But with a little bit of color...” Her hands, as delicate and graceful as the rest of her, sliced up the fruit as she spoke. A moment later, she’d outlined a blueberry smiley face in the bowl of oatmeal, complete with banana-slice eyes, a strawberry nose and an orange-wedge smile.
Scrambling up onto her knees, Hannah peered into the bowl Rory set in front of her and let out a soft giggle. “Look, Daddy, the oatmeal’s smiling at me.”
And his daughter was smiling at him. Jamison would have liked the credit, but Rory McClaren had the magic touch. A woman who thought rainbow was a color and turned plain beige oatmeal into a bright, happy-faced breakfast.
“I like smiley-face yummy oatmeal.” Grabbing the spoon, Hannah leaned over the bowl, ready to dig in, her blond hair falling into her face.
“Oops, hold on a second, Hannah.”
Skirting around the whitewashed oak table, Rory reached up and pulled the peach-colored band from her ponytail. Jamison’s mouth went dry as she gave her head a quick shake and sent her dark hair tumbling over her bare shoulders.
His tongue practically stuck to the roof of his mouth; he fought to swallow, assailed by the image of that silken hair spread out against a pillow or tumbling over his shoulders as Rory leaned down to kiss him...
“Thank you, Miss Rory.” Her riot of curls contained, Hannah beamed up at the beautiful brunette.
Cupping her chin in one hand, Rory bent down until they were eye to eye. “You are welcome, Miss Hannah.”
Hannah giggled at the formality before digging into her breakfast. She bounced up and down in the chair in time with chowing down on a bite of banana, drawing an indulgent smile from Rory.
“And what about you, Mr. Porter?” she asked as she walked back over to the serving tray and waved a hand. “I don’t see another bowl of oatmeal for you.”
“Coffee,” he said abruptly, still trying to get the erotic images out of his mind.
Mistaking the reason for his short response, her earnest gaze met his. “I’m sorry if I overstepped with the ponytail. My only excuse is to say it’s an occupational hazard.”
“So, wedding coordinator, room service attendant and hairstylist?”
“Oh, I’m not a professional stylist by any means. But in my short time as wedding coordinator, I’ve learned to be a jack-of-all-trades when it comes to last-minute emergencies. Whether it’s figuring out how to turn three bridesmaids’ bouquets into four because the bride made up with her best friend at the last second or pulling out a hot-glue gun for a quick repair to a torn hemline, I feel like I’ve already been there, done that. And now it’s like I can’t help fixing things... Not that Hannah’s
