said than done, kiddo.”
Owen still looked disgruntled, but he gave a halfhearted wave to Riley, then trudged up the stairs.
“I hate not tucking him in,” Claire said in the same sort of disgruntled tone. “That’s been one of the hardest things about this whole thing, but I just can’t tackle all those stairs.”
“Want me to do it?”
She looked surprised. “Do you mind? Macy usually takes care of it for me, but she’s probably already asleep.”
“I don’t mind. Why would I?”
“I usually just make sure he’s under his blankets and the night-light’s on, that sort of thing.”
“Claire, I might not have any kids, but I’m not completely helpless here. I think I can handle it.”
Color climbed her cheeks and in the low lamplight she looked warm and sweet and completely adorable. “I’m sorry. Of course you can.”
Grateful for the distraction, he headed out of the family room, stopping long enough at the back door off the kitchen to let the dog back inside before he headed up the stairs.
Owen was already in his bed, his eyes almost closed. Riley saw in the jumble of bedclothes that he wasn’t inside his top sheet, only under a quilt with cowboy hat and boot material Riley wondered if Claire had made.
His eyes widened when he saw Riley. “Hi.”
“Hey, kid. Your mom felt bad she can’t tuck you in, so I said I’d check on you. Looks like you need to get between the sheets there.”
Owen looked down. “Oh. Right.”
He quickly adjusted the situation, slithering out of one spot and into the other. “Hey, thanks a lot for fixing my bike,” he said when he was settled. “I’m super-glad we didn’t have to take it to the shop.”
“So am I. Have a good night, Owen.”
“Thanks.” He paused. “Will you leave my door open? My mom might need help in the night and I can’t hear her if it’s shut all the way.”
Riley stared at this kid with the earnest freckled face and his mother’s blue eyes, that peculiar tightness in his chest again. How many eight-year-old boys worried about their mother’s comfort in the night? He sure as hell hadn’t.
He cleared his throat. “You bet.”
“Hey, you want to play basketball sometime? I got a new hoop for Christmas, but it’s been too snowy or rainy to use much.”
“Can you do that with the cast on your arm?”
“Oh, sure. But my mom can’t and Macy would rather play soccer.”
“What about your dad?”
Owen shrugged. “He doesn’t like basketball much.”
Just another mark in the Idiot column for Jeff Bradford. “Sure. Maybe. I’ll have to check my schedule.”
Owen seemed to accept the noncommittal answer with equanimity. “Okay. See you later, Chief.”
“Bye, kid.”
He closed the door a bit and headed down the stairs, where he found Claire waiting for him in the living room, Chester at her feet.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
He should leave right now, just walk out the door without another word. This family was seeping under his skin, finding unguarded spaces to settle into. “Owen wants me to come play basketball with him sometime.”
She gave a rueful smile. “Sorry. I’m afraid he’s a little desperate for someone to play with him right now. He probably assumes because you’re male and, um, fairly athletic that you must play basketball.”
“I can try to swing by sometime. He’s a great kid.”
She was silent for a moment. “You’re really good with him and with Macy. Have you had a lot of experience working with kids as a police officer?”
More than he liked to think about, both as victims and perps. “A bit.”
“Well, you seem to know just the right things to say. I thought so the night of the Spring Fling. You’d make a really great father.”
He snorted loudly enough that Chester gave him a jowly faced scowl.
“Hooo. Wrong guy.”
“Why? Haven’t you ever thought about having kids of your own?”
The very idea made his palms itchy, clammy. “You forget. The McKnight men don’t have a great track record in the family department.”
She stared at him for a long moment, brow furrowed, then she frowned. “You are not your father, Riley.”
He shrugged. “Who’s to say I wouldn’t become like him? I’m sure when he and Mom took vows, my dad never intended to abandon his wife and six kids twenty years later to follow his own dreams.”
“It still hurts, doesn’t it?”
He opened his mouth to tell her his father had been gone nineteen years, dead for fifteen of those, and any pain had long since healed. The lie scoured his gut.
“Yeah,” he finally muttered. “Stupid, isn’t it?”
“I don’t think it’s stupid. Only sad. I miss my dad, too.”
He gazed at her, so lovely and pensive there in the low light, and he couldn’t help himself. He leaned forward and brushed his mouth over hers once, then again. She made a tiny gasping sound that sizzled through him. Oh, dangerous. Claire Bradford was a beautiful, hazardous bundle of trouble.
When he moved his mouth slightly to try pulling away in some vain attempt to regain a little sanity, she followed him, leaning forward and up as if she couldn’t bear to break the kiss. He closed his eyes, hating himself, but then he kissed her. Really kissed her. Tongue and teeth, heat and hunger.
The kiss went on and on. Just when he was about to climb onto the sofa with her, cover her body with his, reach beneath her clothing to the soft curves concealed there, a canine snort rasped through the room like someone had just fired up that chain saw again.
He froze and gazed at her, mouth swollen, eyes half-closed. She looked lush and gorgeous, so sensual that he had to move away from the sofa, out of arm’s reach, or he would have grabbed for her again.
“See that?” His voice was low, raw. “I can’t even be trusted to keep my hands off you even when we both know I’m not good for you. I take what I want, regardless of the consequences. Not so very different from my old man, am I?”
She stared at him, blinking back to reality. She gave a shuddering sort of breath, pressing fingers that trembled to her mouth, and he forced himself to look away, hating himself.
“Good
