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 as though he knew that she was trying and failing to find a way out of this. “We don’t have to get along. We don’t even have to like each other. We just have to manage to live together for a few months.”
“Wow,” she murmured with a half laugh, “doesn’t that sound like a good time.”
“It’s not about a good time, Ms. Barrons…”
“If we’re going to be living together, the least you could do is call me Tula.”
“Then you agree, Tula?”
“Do I get a choice?”
“Not really.”
He was right, she told herself. There really wasn’t a choice. She had to do what was best for Nathan. That meant moving to the city and finding a way to break Simon out of his rigid world. She blew out a breath and then extended her right hand across the table. “All right then. It’s a deal.”
“A deal,” he agreed.
He took her hand in his and it was as if she’d suddenly clutched a live electrical wire. Tula almost expected to see sparks jumping up from their joined hands. She knew he felt it, too, because he released her instantly and frowned to himself.
She rubbed her fingertips together, still feeling that sizzle on her skin and told herself the next few months were going to be very interesting.
Two days later, Simon swung the bat, connected with the baseball and felt the zing of contact charge up his arms. The ball sailed out into the netting strung across the back of the batting cage and he smiled in satisfaction.
“A triple at least,” he announced.
“Right. You flied out to center,” Mick Davis called back from the next batting cage.
Simon snorted. He knew a good hit when he saw it. He got the bat high up on his shoulder and waited for the next robotic pitch from the machine.
While he was here, Simon didn’t have to think about work or business deals. The batting cages near his home were an outlet for him. He could take out his frustrations by slamming bats into baseballs and that outlet was coming in handy at the moment. While he was concentrating on fastballs, curveballs and sliders, he couldn’t think about big blue eyes. A luscious mouth.
Not to mention the child who was—might be—his son.
He swung and missed, the ball crashing into the caged metal door behind him.
“I’m up two now,” Mick called out with a laugh.
“Not finished yet,” Simon shouted, enjoying the rush of competition. Mick had been his best friend since college. Now he was also Simon’s right-hand man at the Bradley company. There was no one he trusted more.
Mick slammed a ball into the far netting and Simon grinned, then punched out one of his own. It felt good to be physical. To blank out his mind and simply enjoy the chance to hit a few balls with his friend. Here, no one cared that he was the CEO of a billion-dollar company. Here, he could just relax. Something he didn’t do often. By the time their hour was up, both men were grinning and arguing over which of them had won.
“Give it up.” Simon laughed. “You were out classed.”
“In your dreams.” Mick handed Simon a bottle of water and after taking a long drink, he asked, “So, you want to tell me why you were swinging with such a vengeance today?”
Simon sat down on the closest bench and watched a handful of kids running to the cages. They were about nine, he guessed, with messy hair, ripped jeans and eager smiles. Something stirred inside him. One day, Nathan would be their age. He had a son. He was a father. In a few years, he’d be bringing his boy to these cages.
Shaking his head, he muttered, “You’re not going to believe
