had a jar of strawberry jam open and were scooping out the sticky red substance with their hands and licking it off. On her sofa. Which, while not new, was one of her nods to her new life, recently reupholstered in a bright, supermodern pattern of large orange and red poppies on a white backdrop, that try as she might, Trixie couldn’t quite get used to.
Could she call somebody to stay with her nieces? It was obvious her arm was going to need medical attention.
Trixie contemplated calling Brianna. Her closest friend lived on the other side of the city, which was strike one. It would be at least forty-five minutes before she could be here. And Brianna would have to be at work in just a few hours, which was strike two. But strike three? Brianna had been nearly as horrified by the twins as Daniel Riverton was.
They are absolute terrors, Trix, she had said, part way through a play date with her own son, Peter. How are you going to survive this?
Apparently without any help from her friend, who had protectively installed Petie in his car seat and driven away well before the scheduled end of the play date.
“I’m afraid I haven’t anyone to call,” she said.
“Mrs. Bulittle?” he suggested helpfully.
She shuddered. “My twin sister, Abigail, would kill me if I left them with a stranger. I think she demands criminal record checks on everyone who is around her children.”
“Amazing,” he muttered, casting her a look that she interpreted as meaning there are two of you, really? But then he cast another glance at the jam-covered twins. “I think they could give the most hardened felon a run for his money.”
She wanted to tell him that wasn’t funny, but she just didn’t have the energy, and it was close to true, anyway. Both she and Daniel watched as one of them—she was almost certain it was Molly—casually wiped a sticky hand on the sofa.
“Girls,” she said, and then, when they didn’t even glance her way, a little louder, “Girls! Could you move to the table with that?”
They both ignored her.
He looked at her. “Are they always like this? I mean they seem a little—”
He hesitated, lost for words.
“Precocious?” she suggested.
“Um—”
“Cheeky?”
“Um—”
“Spirited!”
“Right. Spirited. Like savages. When’s the last time their hair was combed?”
It sounded so judgmental! She was feeling like a failure anyway, she didn’t need him pointing out her inadequacies!
“They won’t let me comb their hair,” she said, hearing the defensiveness in her own voice. “Abby is on a horseback trip through the Canadian Rockies. I haven’t been able to contact her to verify if it’s true.”
“If what’s true?”
She lowered her voice. “They said only their d-a-d-d-y combs their hair.” She spelled it because the mention of the word was enough to send both girls into fits.
“Like the our-mother-lets-us-do-this-all-the-time story, that one also doesn’t exactly have a ring of truth to it.”
“And you would be an expert on when children are telling the truth, because?”
“Because I am a man without illusions,” he said comfortably. “I am a cynic about all things, and a ruthless judge of character as a result. The cute factor of small children has no sway over me. In fact, just the opposite.”
He didn’t like children! A wave of gratitude swept her. He was not, then, the perfect man, no matter how exquisite his finger on her temple had felt! Not even close!
“So,” he continued smoothly, “you know how you can tell those two girls are lying to you, Miss Marsh?”
She glared at him, not giving him the satisfaction of answering.
“Their lips are moving.”
“That seems unnecessarily harsh.” She defended her nieces despite her horrible inner concession that he might well be right. “Besides, if you thought you had noise complaints before, Mr. Riverton, you should have heard Molly when I tried to take a brush to her hair. It sounded as if I was killing my cat.”
It was the first time she had thought of her cat since this debacle started.
“Oh! My cat! The apartment door isn’t open to the hallway, is it?”
He took a step back from her and craned his neck. “I think it is.”
She had a sudden awful thought that Freddy might have slipped out the door in all the ruckus. He’d been unhappy since the arrival of the girls. How unhappy? Would he have taken advantage of the open door to explore a larger world? Find a new home?
“But I don’t think you have to worry about your cat. He hightailed it down the hallway toward the bedrooms when I came in. I suspect he’ll remain there for at least a month.”
At the risk of seeming like an eccentric who was way too concerned about her cat—which, she thought sadly, she probably was—she said, as casually as she could, “I’ll just go check on him.”
But once again, her effort to get up caused her to gasp in pain.
Daniel Riverton, who had known her all of ten minutes, sighed with long suffering. “Don’t move.”
But I don’t want you to see my bedroom! Those lace curtains apparently said run to men. But the words caught in her throat. She did need to know Freddy hadn’t escaped.
She listened as Daniel went and shut the front door, then imagined him entering her bedroom. The whole time she’d been painting and hanging curtains Trixie had loved the safe, cozy feeling she was creating.
Home.
But ever since Miles had cast a jaundiced eye on it—as if her decorating style represented everything that was wrong with her—she hadn’t liked it anymore.
Now she had new plans! The space would be a more accurate reflection of the new her: vibrant, cosmopolitan, the antithesis of dull.
She had even purchased the paint for this vision of the new her, but somehow she just never got around to it.
Understandable, she told herself. Life was beyond busy.
And yet, with Daniel Riverton prowling her premises, she had a sudden fervent wish she had gotten the redecoration of her bedroom done. She didn’t want him to see it, as it was. In the world according to Miles, it said way too much about her.
Boring.
Trixie wished she didn’t care what Daniel thought of her. Too late. She already did!
“The cat is under
