relaxed. “He feels okay.” He bent toward Eddie’s red, fussy face. “Don’t scare me like that, buddy.”
Eddie snuffled. Then, as he always did when he stared into Jimbo’s face, he broke out in a grin. He reached out to grab a fistful of the man’s spiky blond hair.
“Ouch!” Jimbo complained in a cartoon voice. All drama, designed to delight Eddie, which it did. The baby giggled and pulled even harder, his discomfort forgotten for the moment.
A rush of warmth moved through Allison. Jimbo was such a good, good man. She was so lucky to have him in her life. Maybe Eddie’s biological father had been a lying, cheating bastard who wasn’t interested in helping walk the floor at night, but thanks to Jimbo she wasn’t in this alone.
“How about I take him, and you get back to bed?” Jimbo glanced at her, his head cocked at a forty-five-degree angle so that Eddie could hold on. “You’ve got the closing with the agent at the crack of dawn, right?”
“Close enough. Eight.”
Jimbo groaned. “Any chance you could reschedule?”
“No way.” She shook her head emphatically. “I’ve waited too long for this day.”
He nodded. She didn’t have to say any more. He’d known her since she was four, lived with her since she was six. He was as close to a brother as anyone could ever be without sharing DNA. In her senior year of high school, he’d fixed her favorite tomato bisque soup while she wept over a cheating boyfriend. Five years later, he’d fixed up another big pot the day she signed her divorce papers and swore off men forever.
When her father died, even Jimbo’s food couldn’t help. But his tattooed hand had held on tight and somehow kept her from being swept away on a river of grief.
So he knew how much owning her own restaurant would mean to her—the security, the independence, the focus. The dream that had already been deferred three times. Almost ten years of disappointment could come to an end tomorrow.
As long as she didn’t sleep through the appointment.
He touched the side of her face. “Okay. Then let me wrestle with the little demon here, and you get some sleep.”
So tempting. But guilt nipped at her. Jimbo was tired, too. Eddie was her responsibility. But when Jimbo held out his hands, Eddie practically leaped out of her arms trying to get to his big, silly friend.
Laughing, she relinquished him. Her arms burned from the sudden release. “If he starts to wheeze—”
“He won’t.” Jimbo propped Eddie against his shoulder with the practiced skill of a true parent. He put his hand against Allison’s back and steered her toward the hall. “Nobody wheezes on my watch.”
She smiled. The truth was, if Eddie had trouble breathing, Jimbo would give the air out of his own lungs, literally, to help him. The forty-year-old chef/babysitter spoke three languages and quoted Greek playwrights like pop songs. He knew CPR and first aid, the doctor’s number, and most of the Merck Manual by heart. He could have been a surgeon, a stockbroker, a CEO—anything he wanted.
But by some miracle he wanted to be her guardian angel. And Eddie’s.
She surrendered, and, after planting a grateful kiss on his cheek, she headed down the small hall. At her doorway, she yawned and glanced once toward the living room. Jimbo stood near the window, where the streetlight shone just bright enough to let him read his new cookbook.
And Eddie the Demon was asleep.
“OHMIGOD.” Allison’s best waitress friend, Sue, paused with a set of silverware half-rolled in a napkin and inhaled sharply. “Look! There he is.”
Allison, who was really too busy to care, glanced toward the door, which had jingled its incoming-customer melody of joy. But it was lunchtime on a sunny spring Saturday, and at least a dozen people crowded around Moira’s hostess station. Allison couldn’t make them all out clearly.
“Who?”
“I don’t know his name. Look. Can’t you see him? Tall, dark and handsome from yesterday. The one with the mangled Mercedes.”
Oh. Allison felt her own breath swoop in, and she nearly dropped the order of coconut prawns she needed to deliver to table eleven, which would have been a shame, since they were regulars and big tippers.
But Sue was right. There he was. Redmond Malone. Yeah, she didn’t kid herself—she remembered his name. Even here in this upscale tourist town, she didn’t see many guys that sexy. A couple of inches taller than tall. Dark, wavy hair. Blue eyes so intense they looked Photoshopped.
Loose jeans and a black T-shirt that resembled the ones she bought at the superstore but probably cost more than she’d made in tips all week. Definitely an understated style. No obvious come-ons—nothing form-fitting to show off assets, either God-given or gym-acquired. No gold trinkets, no hair gel, no Armani. Actually, he looked as if the thrill of being a stud might have worn off somewhere between twenty and thirty, and he was tired of having to bat females away like flies.
Still, he had an industrial-strength level of self-confidence, and was in love with his boy-toy car. Definitely not her type.
Not that she had a type anymore. Except maybe the type that wore diapers.
Still, she wondered what he was doing here. She hoped it didn’t mean more trouble for Bill. Ordinarily, Bill would have been at table eleven, with his friends. They called themselves the Old Coots Club, and they rarely missed a Saturday. But Bill was at home, pouting about yesterday’s accident.
“He’s looking at you,” Sue said with a low growl. “Damn it. Why aren’t the sexy ones ever looking at me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Allison grabbed the Ultimate Club that Sven slid onto the shelf, added it to her tray with the coconut prawns, and headed over to eleven. She tried to give Moira the dark eye, warning her not to put Mr. Mercedes in her section. But Moira just shrugged. She really didn’t have much choice. Flip, the owner, ran The Peacock Café like a military operation, and it was Allison’s turn to get a table.
Oh, well. The closing on the new restaurant property had gone smoothly this morning, and nothing was going to spoil her good mood. Not even this Redmond Malone guy, who had insisted on reporting Bill’s accident.
Bill already had acquired so many points that another ticket might tip the balance. They might take his license away. And though all Bill’s friends worked hard to keep him from getting behind the wheel, they knew losing the license would badly damage his self-esteem. His wife’s death last Christmas had hit him hard, and he desperately needed to pretend he was still completely independent.
But what was done was done. She couldn’t undo it by being rude to Redmond Malone. Yesterday, he’d been the problem. Today, he was merely another customer.
As she approached eleven, Sarge Barker was returning from the restroom, whistling. She’d heard him announce earlier that he’d won the Fantasy Five last night. A whopping six bucks, but money didn’t mean much to a millionaire. He simply liked winning.
She had barely set the tray down when the old man scooped her into his arms and danced her around the table.
“Sarge!”
