infant sound forced him to flop onto his stomach and pull the pillow over his head. Sleep. Now. He’d be damned if anything—either the plaintive noise of a child or the soft voice of a woman—was going to change him.
He would not get involved.
But at 7:30 the next morning, Jackson unlaced the heavy construction boot on his left foot to the unhappy and unsurprising accompaniment of a baby crying. The sound echoed inside the empty place in his chest, unignorable and disturbing. He didn’t need this, not after working all night and then holing up for an extra hour in the hot tin can of an office trailer to write and then fax a report to the company headquarters in Los Angeles.
Closing his eyes, he dropped his boot to the floor and flopped back against the bed’s mattress. He hadn’t slept much yesterday, and with the baby’s cries now ratcheting several notches louder, he doubted he’d enter dreamland anytime soon. The woman’s voice next door started murmuring again, but the baby didn’t respond to her soft hum.
Setting his back teeth, Jackson tried to force the sounds from his head. But the baby’s noise continued and he curled his fingers into the worn bedspread to keep himself still.
What did he think he could do, anyway? Go next door and make it right, make it better? He knew, only too well, what a failure he’d be at that.
Enough. Jackson sat up and impatiently pulled at the laces on his right boot. It was time to get some sleep. Lack of the stuff was making him vulnerable to thoughts he’d buried long ago. The boot dropped to the floor, its thud nearly drowned by the noise from next door.
Cranky baby. Sweet woman voice.
Damn! And it was hot in here, too. He pulled the tails of his work shirt from the waistband of his ancient jeans and quickly unbuttoned it.
Then the baby cried louder, the woman’s voice hit a concerned note and Jackson finally lost it.
He had to get some quiet!
His feet slid back into his boots, and with determined, swift strides he crossed through the bedroom and living room. Pulling open his front door, he took a breath and glared at the one next to his. In the minuscule hallway the sounds from the neighboring apartment were just as loud.
Another hot spurt of irritation ran through him. He disliked being forced into making the contact almost as much as the noise itself.
But he steeled himself—he deserved some sleep!—and knocked. He would just tell the woman to keep it down and then turn around and go back to his own place and hit the sack.
It didn’t take long for the door to swing open.
Jackson blinked.
This couldn’t be right.
The right apartment, maybe.
The right woman—definitely not.
But there was an infant against her shoulder, and as he stared she tried soothing its fussiness with that familiar, sweet voice. She flicked a glance his way from eyes the clear bluish-gray of a dawn sky, fringed by lashes as dark as the night in which he felt so at home.
Hell. He shifted on his feet, a dull, embarrassed burn heating his neck. Poetry. She had him thinking poetry! He was embarrassed, too, that he was half-dressed, bear-grouchy and completely flummoxed at the sight of her.
“Yes?” that melodious voice asked warily.
He still stared, his mouth unable to move. Her eyes were beautiful, sure. Her voice no surprise. But what had Jackson’s jaw scraping his knees was the rest of the package.
Flowery dress, its hem brushing neat anklet socks folded tidily above pristine Keds. Long, dark hair that waved past her shoulders. Round cheeks, smooth skin, a mouth that looked kiss swollen but that he would wager had never been touched.
He’d never seen a woman who looked so…so…innocent.
Hell. So innocent, that he’d really blush if he had to tell her how that fretful baby she held against her fine body was made.
She threw him another nervous glance and started gently jiggling the baby as it cried harder. “Yes?” she asked again.
He couldn’t think. Beyond her he could see half her living area—a laptop computer was set up on the small dining table—and half her kitchen, where a bottle was warming in a pan on the stove.
Unlike the utilitarian white-on-white of his own apartment, hers was painted a soft-peach and cream. Five or six framed family photos took up one wall.
But none of this observation was getting the job done. Gritting his back teeth, he lowered his brow and put on his best thunderous expression—with his dark hair and eyes, he hoped he looked as dangerously annoyed as he felt.
“Excuse me,” he started, his voice a rumble.
She gulped.
He gestured toward his half-open door. “I…”
Her nervousness suddenly disappeared. “You’re my neighbor!” she exclaimed in friendly relief, obviously just realizing that fact. A smile broke over her face.
For some stupid reason he thought about the dawn again, and he could only watch as she reached her hand toward him. Her smile widened and that hand waved him forward. “Come in, come in.” She stepped back in welcome, all the while patting the noisy and unhappy baby.
In the face of all that friendliness, what could a man do? He let himself walk out of the dim hallway into the light of her apartment.
Just inside, he hesitated. Damn. It would have been better to voice his complaint in the neutral territory outside her door. But another loud squall from the baby had him squaring his shoulders. “I’m Jackson Abbott. I came over because—”
“I’m so glad you did!” She fished in her pocket for a pacifier, which the baby quickly tongued away. “I’ve been meaning to introduce myself and welcome you.” Another smile dug a dimple into one of her smooth cheeks. “I’m Phoebe Finley.”
Then, still trying to calm the baby, Phoebe Finley started rocking from foot to foot, and, following her with his gaze, Jackson went a little seasick. Fighting the queasiness kept him quiet for another crucial moment.
Crucial, because it gave her a chance to talk again first.
“I’ve been meaning to thank you, too,” she said.
His stomach dropped. Thank me?
Her body stopped moving, and she scooped the baby higher in her arms. “But as you can see I’ve been busy.”
Okay, the perfect opening, Jackson thought, preparing again to voice the complaint on his tongue. But the way she held the infant gave him his first full shot of the source of his sleeplessness. Instead of getting to the point right away, he stared at the baby and the baby stared back.
When Jackson’s mouth did finally open, he found himself talking to the infant. “Hey, little—” he narrowed his gaze and tried to make sense of the genderless shape she held, dressed in yellow terry cloth “—it.” A thick diaper covered the obvious parts. Its head
