orange baby food looked hideous. Didn’t smell much better.
She laughed a little at the face he was making. “Yeah, I know. Looks gross, doesn’t it? Once I get into the swing of having him around, though, I’m going to go for more organic stuff. Make my own baby food. Get a nice blender and then he won’t have to eat this stuff anymore.”
“You’ll make your own?”
“Why not? I like to cook and then I can fix him fresh vegetables and meat—pretty much whatever I’m having, only mushy.” She shrugged as if the extra effort she was talking about meant nothing. “Besides, have you ever read a list of ingredients on baby food jars?”
“Not recently,” he said wryly.
“Well, I have. There’s too much sodium for one thing. And some of the words I can’t even pronounce. That can’t be good for tiny babies.”
All right, Simon thought, he admired that as well. She had already adapted to the baby being in her life. Something that he was going to have to work at. But he would do it. He’d never failed yet when he went after something he wanted.
He took a bite of chicken and nearly sighed aloud. So she was not only sexy and good with kids, she could cook, too.
“Good?”
Simon looked at her. “Amazing.”
“Thanks!” She beamed at him, gave Nathan a few more pieces of banana and then helped herself to her own dinner. After a moment or two of companionable quiet, she asked, “So, what are we going to do about our new ‘situation’?”
“I took the will to my lawyer,” Simon said.
“Of course you did.”
He nodded. “You’re temporarily in charge…”
“Which you don’t like,” she added.
Simon ignored her interruption, preferring to get everything out in the open under his own terms. “Until you decide when and if I’m ready to take over care of Nathan.”
“That’s the bottom line, yes.” She angled her head to look at him. “I told you this earlier today.”
“The question,” he continued, again ignoring her input, “is how do we reach a compromise? I need time with my son. You need the time to observe me with him. I live in San Francisco and have to be there for my job. You live here and—where do you work?”
“Here,” she said, taking another bite and chasing it with a sip of wine. “I write books. For children.”
He glanced at the rabbit-shaped salt and pepper shakers and thought about all of the framed bunnies in her living room. “Something to do with rabbits, I’m guessing.”
Tula tensed, suddenly defensive. She’d heard that dismissive tone of his before. As if writing children’s books was so easy anybody could do it. As if she was somehow making a living out of a cute little hobby. “As a matter of fact, yes. I write the Lonely Bunny books.”
“Lonely Bunny?”
“It’s a very successful series for young children.” Well, she amended silently, not very successful. But she was gaining an audience, growing slowly but surely. And she was proud of what she did. She made children happy. How many other people could say that about their work?
“I’m sure.”
“Would you like to see my fan letters? They’re scrawled in crayon, so maybe they won’t mean much to you. But to me they say that I’m reaching kids. That they enjoy my stories and that I make them happy.” She fell back in her chair and snapped her arms across her chest in a clear signal of defense mode. “As far as I’m concerned, that makes my books a success.”
One of his eyebrows lifted. “I didn’t say they weren’t.”
No, she thought, but he had been thinking it. Hadn’t she heard that tone for years from her own father? Jacob Hawthorne had cut his only daughter off without a dime five years ago, when she finally stood up to him and told him she wasn’t going to get an MBA. That she was going to be a writer.
And Simon Bradley was just like her father. He wore suits and lived in a buttoned-down world where whimsy and imagination had no place. Where creativity was scorned and the nonconformist was fired.
She’d escaped that world five years ago and she had no desire to go back. And the thought of having to hand poor little Nathan off to a man who would try to regulate his life just as her father had done to her gave her cold chills. She looked at the happy, smiling baby and wondered how long it would take the suits of the world to suck his little spirit dry. The thought of that was simply appalling.
“Look, we have to work together,” Simon said and she realized that he didn’t sound any happier about it than she was.
“We do.”
“You work at home, right?”
“Yes…”
“Fine, then. You and Nathan can move into my house in San Francisco.”
“Excuse me?” Tula actually felt her jaw drop.
“It’s the only way,” he said simply, decisively. “I have to be in the city for my work. You can work anywhere.”
“I’m so happy you think so.”
He gave her a patronizing smile that made her grit her teeth to keep from saying something she would probably regret.
“Nathan and I need time together. You have to witness us together. The only reasonable solution is for you and him to move to the city.”
“I can’t just pick up and leave—”
“Six months,” he said. He drained the last of his wine and set the empty goblet onto the table. “It won’t take that long, but let’s say, for argument’s sake, that you move into my house for the next six months. Get Nathan settled. See that I’m going to be fine taking care of my own son, if he is my son, and then you can move back here…” He glanced around the tiny kitchen with a slow shake of his head as if he couldn’t understand why anyone would willingly live there. “And we can all get on with our lives.”
Damn it, Tula hadn’t even considered moving. She loved her house. Loved the life she’d made for herself. Plus, she tended to avoid San Francisco like the plague.
Her father lived in the city.
Ran his empire from the very heart of it.
Heck, for all she knew, Simon Bradley and her father were the best of friends. Now there was a horrifying thought.
“Well?”
She looked at him. Looked at Nathan. There really wasn’t a choice. Tula had promised her cousin that she would be Nathan’s guardian and there was no turning back from that obligation now even if she wanted to.
“Look,” he said, leaning across the table to meet her eyes
