best friend was a girl.”
“Yep.”
Wesley shook his head as Brooke leaned on the front of the cart, impeding Cole’s progress. “How come you never mentioned her before?”
“I’m sure I did. I must have.”
“Nope. I would’ve remembered. So how come?”
Did he dare try Brussels sprouts on them? He did.
“Haven’t seen her in years. One of those things.”
And amazingly he sounded almost nonchalant. In the past, over and done, didn’t matter. Highly doubtful he’d ever see her again.
Except Brooke gave him one of her strange looks, her searing, green-eyed stare reminding him yet again that he was perpetually an inch away from screwing up. Especially now. But at least, for these few minutes, he’d managed to distract them from what must have been the constant refrain of their mother’s pulling the rug out from under them. Completely of their own volition and without Cole’s knowledge, his extraordinarily courageous children had given his ex the choice between them and a lifestyle that had left them feeling like also-rans—and she had not chosen them.
And this—they—did matter. Now mattered. In a way that nothing else ever had, or ever would. Because while his love life was apparently doomed to eternal suckage, these kids would know they came first. That he loved them, and was proud of them, and wanted nothing less than the best for them.
Even if that included tiny cabbage-like vegetables, so innocently snuggled together in their little green net, unaware of their own gross-out factor. Awesome. “Dinner. Tomorrow,” he said. Both kids groaned, and Cole smiled.
Maybe he had no idea what he was doing, but at least they’d know he cared.
* * *
Blowing out a breath, Sabrina Noble stuffed her wallet back inside her purse as the taxi chugged away behind her down the tree-lined street. Shadow and sunlight danced across the lawn like a thousand fairies, beckoning her up the wide, welcoming stairs fronting the serene Queen Anne.
Home.
As in, that place you go when your future gets shot out from under you. Although not for long, the for-sale sign reminded her. She frowned, still not entirely sure how she felt about that.
A rose-scented breeze—not a smell one often caught in Manhattan, if ever—tangled with her long hair, and made her shiver slightly underneath her floaty top. Although not because she was cold.
Squaring her shoulders, Sabrina trudged up the brick walk, her largest rolling bag clackety-clacking behind her, echoing the refrain in her head—that she had no intention of staying a minute longer than necessary. She lugged the bag up onto the porch, returning to the curb for the rest of her luggage before retrieving the spare key from the secret pocket on the underside of the striped cushion on the far rocker. The front door open, she breathed in that same faint scent of eucalyptus she’d always associate with her childhood. With her adoptive mother, Jeanne, who’d installed that “secret” pocket. Amazing, that they’d never been robbed.
Although they had been, actually, of the woman who’d loved more than any human being Sabrina had ever known.
The sting of tears startled her. Never mind she’d lived on her own since she graduated from college. But if Mom had been here, there would have been hugs and cookies and sympathy. And probably a good talking-to, about needing to buck up and move on. And then more hugs—
Blowing out a breath, Sabrina hauled the bags inside and shut the door...only to frown when, from the back of the house, came a girl’s high-pitched giggle, followed by another kid’s—a boy?—affronted response. Then a masculine rumble, definitely not Pop’s, gently rebuking. For a second, irritation spiked, that Pop wasn’t alone. And wasn’t that stupid? That she was annoyed, not that he had company. Giving her head a sharp shake, she shoved down the case’s handle, let her purse slither off her shoulder to softly thunk onto the worn entryway carpet—
Like a summoned genie, the man she and her twin brother, Matt, had called their father since they were kindergartners appeared in the foyer. Underneath bristly white hair, ice-blue eyes slammed into hers.
“Sabrina? What are you doing here? The wedding’s not for another week—”
“Surprise,” she said through a tight throat, and her father’s eyes narrowed. Between two decades in the military and a second “career” fostering more kids than Sabrina could count, nothing got past Pop. Especially a small mountain of luggage sprawled across his foyer rug.
His gaze veered back to hers, burgeoning with questions.
“Later,” she whispered. More laughter drifted out from the kitchen. “When we’re alone—”
“Preston?” she heard, a split second before the dude belonging to the deep voice materialized behind him. And if it hadn’t been for the steely gray eyes, that one stubborn, still untamed curl at his temple, she wouldn’t have recognized Cole Rayburn in a million years.
Behind her own stinging eyes exploded a word she wouldn’t dare say in front of her father.
* * *
“You’ve changed.”
In more ways than you know, Cole thought, hyperaware of Bree’s gaze on his profile as he focused on the kids, playing catch in the backyard with her dad. A steady, dark brown gaze that used to make his stomach turn somersaults a million years ago.
That still could, apparently.
He hadn’t been able to read the emotions that’d streaked across her face when the penny dropped, although he’d caught the What the hell? easily enough.
Same goes, he’d wanted to say.
And for a moment, he’d considered gathering up the kids, getting out. Except the Colonel had given him a Deal with it look that brought an end to that idea. A look that the Colonel probably had been waiting a long time to give. Man had zero tolerance for unresolved issues. Especially involving his children. That the statute of limitations had long since run out on this one was beside the point.
Fiddling with a bottle of tea he didn’t really want, Cole released a breath. “When I realized these kids might need me to stick around past fifty, I decided it was time to get off my butt. Start eating like a human instead of some garbage-munching bacteria.”
“Or a teenage boy?”
“Same thing.”
Her chuckle was subdued. “And the glasses...?”
“LASIK. Got tired of breaking my glasses, can’t tolerate contacts.”
From the yard, they heard her father laugh, the kids responding in kind. Cole wasn’t sure who was blessing whom more. Right now, he didn’t care.
“How old are they?” Sabrina said softly.
“Wesley’s thirteen, Brooke twelve.”
“Wow. You were...young.”
