Night Watch

“I wish you were my mom.”

“I think you’re a little too old even for me to adopt,” she told him. Although Wes was definitely younger than she was, by at least five years. And maybe even more. What was her sister thinking?

“Andy was what? Twelve when you adopted him?” he asked.

“Thirteen.” Irish. Melody was thinking that Wes was Irish, and that Brittany had a definite thing for a man with a twinkle in his eyes and a smile that could light his entire being. Mel was thinking about her own intense happiness with Harlan Jones, and about the fact that one night, years ago, Britt had had a little too much to drink and admitted to her sister that her biggest regret about her failed marriage to That-Jerk-Quentin was that she would have liked to have had a child—a biological child—of her own.

That would teach her to be too heavy-handed when making strawberry daiquiris.

“That definitely qualifies you for sainthood,” Wes said. “Adopting a thirteen-year-old juvie? Man.”

“All he really needed was a stable home environment—”

“You’re either crazy or Mother Teresa’s sister.”

“Oh, I’m not a saint. Believe me. I just…I fell in love with the kid. He’s great.” She tried to explain. “He grew up with no one. I mean, completely abandoned—physically by his father and emotionally by his mother. And then there he was, about to be shipped away again, to another foster home, and there I was, and…I wanted him to stay with me. We’ve had our tough moments, sure, but…”

The look in Wes’s blue eyes—a kind of a thoughtful intensity, as best she could read it—was making her nervous. This man wasn’t the happy-go-lucky second cousin to a leprechaun with ADD that she’d first thought him to be. He wasn’t jittery, as she’d first thought, although standing still was clearly a challenge for him. No, he was more like a lightning bolt—crackling with barely harnessed excess energy. And while it was true he had a good sense of humor and a killer smile, there was a definite darkness to him. An edge. It made her like him even more.

Oh, danger! Danger, Will Robinson!

“You were going to tell me about your type,” she reminded him. “And please don’t tell me you go for the sweet young thing, or I’ll have to hit you. Although, according to some of my patients, I’m both sweet and young. Of course they’re pushing 95.”

That got his smile back. “My type tends to go to a party and ends up dancing on tables. Preferably nearly naked.”

Brittany snorted with laughter. “You win, I’m not your type. And I should have known that. Melody has mentioned in the past that you were into the, uh, higher arts.”

“I think she must’ve meant martial arts,” he countered. The rain continued to pour from the sky, spraying them lightly with a fine mist whenever the wind blew. He didn’t seem to notice or care. “Lt. Jones told me that you came to Los Angeles to go to school. To become a nurse.”

“I am a nurse,” she told him. “I’m taking classes to become a nurse practitioner.”

“That’s great,” he said.

She smiled back at him. “Yes, it is, thank you.”

“You know, maybe they set us up,” he suggested, “because they know how often I need a nurse. Save me the emergency room fees when I need stitches.”

“A fighter, huh?” Brittany shook her head. “I should have guessed. It’s always the little guys who…” She stopped herself. Oh, dear. Men generally didn’t like to hear themselves referred to as the little guy. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay,” he said easily, no evidence of the famous Skelly temper apparent. “Although I prefer short. Little implies…certain other things.”

She had to laugh. “A, I wasn’t thinking—not even for a fraction of a second—about your…certain other things, and B, even if I were, why should it matter when we’ve already established that our friendship isn’t going to have anything to do with sex?”

“I was going with Rule One,” he countered. “No crap, just pure honesty.”

“Yeah, right. Men are idiots. Have you noticed?”

“Absolutely,” he said, obviously as at ease with her as she was with him. It was remarkable, really, the way she felt as if she’d known him for years, as if she were completely in tune with his sense of humor. “And as long as it’s established that we’re well-hung idiots, we’re okay with that.” He peered toward the field. “I think they’re calling the game.”

They were. The rain wasn’t letting up and the players were leaving the field.

“Is it temporary? Because I don’t mind waiting,” Wes added. “If Andy were my kid, I’d try to be at every home game. I mean, even if he wasn’t Babe Ruth reborn, I’d want to, you know? You must be beyond proud of him.”

How incredibly sweet. “I am.”

“You want to wait inside?” he asked.

“I think there’s some other event scheduled for the field for later this afternoon,” Britt told him. “They don’t have time for a rain delay—they’ll have to reschedule the game, or call it or whatever they do in baseball. So, no. It’s over. We don’t have to wait.”

“You hungry?” Wes asked. “We could have an early dinner.”

“I’d like that,” Britt said, and amazingly it was true. On her way over, she’d made a list of about twenty-five different plausible-sounding reasons why they should skip dinner, but now she mentally deleted them. “Do you mind if we go down to the locker room first? I want to give my car keys to Andy.”

“Aha,” Wes said. “I pass the you’ll-get-into-my-car-with-me test. Good for me.”

She led the way toward the building. “Even better, you passed the okay-I-will-go-out-to-dinner-with-you test.”

He actually held the door for her. “Was that in jeopardy?”

“Blind dates and I are mortal enemies from way back,” Britt told him. “You should consider the fact that I even agreed to meet you to be a huge testament to sisterly love.”

“You passed my test, too,” Wes said. “I only go to dinner with women who absolutely do not want to have sex with me. Oh, wait. Damn. Maybe that’s been my problem all these years….”

She laughed, letting herself enjoy the twinkle in his eyes as he opened yet another door—the one to the stairwell—for her. “Sweetie, I knew I passed your test when you asked me to adopt you.”

“And yet you turned me down,” he countered. “What does that tell me?”

“That I’m too young to be your mother.” Brittany led the way down the stairs, enjoying herself immensely. Who knew she’d like Wes Skelly this much? After Melody had called, setting up this date, she and Andy had jokingly referred to him as the load. He was her burden to bear for her sister’s birthday. “You can be the kid brother I always wanted, though.”

“Yeah, I don’t know about that.”

The hallway outside the locker rooms wasn’t filled to capacity as it usually was after a game, with girlfriends and dorm-mates of the players crowded together. Today, only a very few bedraggled diehards were there. Brittany looked, but Andy’s girlfriend, Danielle, wasn’t among them. Which was just as well, since Andy had told her Dani hadn’t been feeling well today. If she were coming down with something, standing in the rain would only make her worse.

“My track record with sisters isn’t that good,” Wes continued. “I tend to piss them off, after which they run off and marry my best friend.”

“I heard about that.” Britt stopped outside the home team’s locker room door. It was slightly ajar. “Mel told me that Bobby Taylor just married your sister…Colleen, wasn’t it?”

Wes leaned against the wall. “She tell you about the shouting that went down first?”

She glanced at him.

He swore softly. “Of course she did. I’m surprised the Associated Press didn’t pick up the story.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as she—”

“No,” he said. “It was. I was a jerk. I can’t believe you agreed to meet me.”

“Whatever you did, it wasn’t a capital offense. My sister apparently forgives you.”