outrage.
Phoebe blinked again. “Never what?”
A man cleared his throat.
Phoebe’s head whipped around. Jackson. That’s right, he’d brought coffee.
She appreciated the sight of him all over again—delicious and lord-of-the-manor handsome, his shirt partway undone. Heat kindled, melting her insides.
He closed his eyes. “Phoebe, that’s not helping.”
Right. Right. But not helping how? She looked back at Mrs. Bee. “Did you need something?”
The white bun atop the little lady’s head stabbed the air as she drew her spine poker straight. “It seems to me it’s you that needs something.”
Uh-oh. Phoebe sat straighter on the couch and drew the folds of her nightgown closer. Her thin, white nightgown. She bit her lip.
Mrs. Bee didn’t require any prompting to continue, though. “Good morals and good sense is what you need, young lady! What is this man doing in your apartment?”
“Uh, uh…” Phoebe tried gathering up her thoughts.
Jackson stepped into the room and strode to the couch. He released something he’d been holding, and Phoebe’s robe floated to her lap. “Mrs. Bee, I’m sure I don’t have to remind you Phoebe has a right to entertain whomever she likes.”
“Entertain!”
Phoebe didn’t need to tell Jackson it was a poor choice of words. As she quickly slipped her arms through the sleeves of her robe, she could read the knowledge on his face.
She touched his arm, smiled to reassure him. “Maybe later we can talk, Mrs. Bee, I’ve had a rough night and—”
“Rough night!”
Jackson shot her a sympathetic look. Apparently foot-in-mouth disease was rampant.
He stepped closer to the old lady. “Come on, Mrs. Bee. You know I’ve been hard at work—”
“Hard at work! That may be what your generation calls it, young man, but…”
This had gone far enough. Phoebe rose to her feet. “Don’t be silly,” she said firmly. “Jackson has been on the job all night. I’ve been up with Rex.” She stood on tiptoe to verify the baby was still comfortably sleeping, even through the ruckus.
Mrs. Bee crossed her matchstick arms over her narrow chest. “Then why is this man here at such an early hour?”
Phoebe sighed. The woman had no right. “He brought me coffee, okay?”
“Humph.”
Phoebe struggled to keep a pleasant expression on her face. “Now, was there something I can do for you?”
“You know I’m worried about the child.”
Phoebe sighed. “And bless your heart for it, Mrs. Bee. Rex and I appreciate your concern.”
“I can’t sleep nights thinking of the situation.”
She couldn’t sleep nights! Phoebe thought longingly of her bed.
“A young woman shouldn’t be raising a baby alone,” Mrs. Bee proclaimed.
The older lady’s strident tone was apparently too much for Rex. Without even a snuffle of warning, a full-out wail burst from his baby lungs. Phoebe rushed toward the crib, only to collide with Jackson, who’d gotten there quicker.
He picked up the baby. “Bottle time?”
She nodded, then led the way. “But I need to make one up with the new formula.”
Completely ignoring Mrs. Bee, they both went into the small kitchen, bumping elbows and hips in order to put together the bottle as quickly as possible. Rex signaled his hunger by intermittent and plaintive wails that insisted the adults in his life needed to get a move on.
Finally she had Rex in the crook of her arm and the bottle poised above him.
Silently, surprisingly, a stone-faced Jackson adjusted her hold on the baby, bringing Rex’s chest a little higher and tilting the bottle a little more. “Less air in his belly,” he said softly, looking at the baby instead of her, “Might also help that indigestion.”
Jackson standing behind her, Phoebe settled on the love seat, careful to keep Rex and the bottle in the suggested positions. With a sigh she looked up at Mrs. Bee, who stood where they’d left her, her hands clasped together.
With her gaze focused on the small tableau, Mrs. Bee sighed, too. “There, dear,” she said more kindly. “That’s exactly what I like to see.”
Phoebe had a bad feeling about this. “Well, uh, thank you, Mrs. Bee.”
The other lady sighed again dramatically. “A mother, a father. That’s what a baby needs.”
Phoebe frowned. “Well a baby doesn’t always have the choice.”
Jackson’s fingers touched her shoulder. Just a soft touch with two fingers, but soothing all the same.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Bee. “But a baby can expect more than a young woman who isn’t even related to him. Who doesn’t even know how to feed him properly.”
Bitter waves of panic started roiling around in Phoebe’s stomach. No. She was related to Rex. He was the last of her family. The last of the wonderful, golden family that had been so happy those years before her mother and stepfather died.
John Finley had taken her into his home and his heart, adopted her, cared for her because of the undying and spectacular love he had for her mother.
The kind of love she’d sworn to find for herself.
And since that love had yet to show itself, that click that she was certain she’d feel when the true right man came along, then maybe fate had sent Rex to her instead. Rex, whom she’d taken into her home and her heart and whom she was going to hold on to with all her might.
“I’m still thinking of making that call to Social Services,” Mrs. Bee said.
“What?” As if startled awake, Jackson came to sudden, shimmering life, his voice harsh, his back steel-rod straight. “What?” His fingers tightened painfully on Phoebe’s shoulder. “What are you talking about?”
Phoebe sighed wearily. She had tried to tell herself for days the landlady wasn’t serious, but as the same threat came with increasing frequency, she was finding it tougher and tougher to dismiss.
The little lady tightened her mouth. “Maybe it’s my duty to report the unusualness of these circumstances.”
“These circumstances,” Jackson repeated. He stalked around the love seat as if he needed to move. “Social Services.” He practically spat the words from his mouth.
Phoebe reached out to put
