A Dad for Her Twins

“The handyman?” Tall, Dark and Timely let out a bark of laughter that was gone as soon it came. In fact, all traces of amusement disappeared from his expression so quickly she wondered if she’d imagined them.

“I’ll take that as a no,” she said. “It was an educated guess—Mr. Carlyle assured me that a handyman would be taking care of the elevators today. Which would make moving in a lot easier.”

“Mr. C. is the handyman, in addition to being the property manager and the one who knocks on the doors whenever you’re late with rent.”

She stiffened. “I’m never late with rent.”

He raised an eyebrow at her hostile tone. “I meant in general.”

“Sorry. I take money seriously.”

“You and everyone else.” He grimaced absently, as if he were scowling at an unseen person. Did he owe someone money?

Oh, don’t let him be one of those charming but perpetually broke deadbeats. There were too many of those in the world already. Then again, this guy wasn’t technically all that charming. Hot, definitely, but not so much with the personality.

Imagining how Leslie would react to her mother calling a man hot, Kenzie grinned. “Well, thanks again. It was nice to almost meet you.”

The corner of his lips quirked. “I’m JT. Good luck with the rest of your move.” He started to pass, but stopped, watching as she wrestled with the lamp shades and books. With the box no longer intact, carting her belongings was problematic.

“I hate to impose,” she began, “but were you in a hurry? It’s going to take me a couple of trips to haul everything to the third floor, and if you wouldn’t mind sticking around in the meantime to make sure no one…” What, stole her stuff? Who would want the book of 101 Jokes for Number-Crunchers Drew got her last Christmas? “To make sure no one trips. I’d hate to be sued my first day in the city.”

“I have a better idea.” He was already sweeping up an armful of debris. After years of not having a guy in the household, it seemed bizarrely intimate to see this big man handle her possessions.

Books, Kenzie, not lingerie. Besides, people with better budgets than hers hired strangers to move their stuff all the time.

JT gestured toward the decapitated panda. “You keeping this poor fellow?”

“Sure. That’s what they make glue for, right?” A couple of drops of that super all-stick compound and, as long as she managed not to chemically bond her fingers together, the panda should be as good as new.

Using the soggy cardboard in a way that reminded her of the baby sling she’d bought Ann, JT cradled the awkward bulk against his body. Between the two of them, they got it all up to her floor.

There were four units, two on each side of the hallway. Hers was the last on the left. As she unlocked her door, she heard JT’s slight intake of breath, as if he were about to say something, but nothing followed. So she set down her load, turned to relieve him of his and thanked him one last time.

“I’ve got it from here,” she said, hoping she sounded like a confident, self-sufficient woman.

“You sure?”

She thought about everything ahead—the new job, this temporary moving before the real move, trying to keep the kids from expiring of boredom until school started, and trying to keep them in their teachers’ good graces once it did.

“Absolutely,” she lied through her teeth. Next time she lectured the twins never to fib, she’d have to add the mental exception: unless it’s the only thing between you and a nervous breakdown.

Chapter Two

“You’re late.” Sean Morrow glanced up from his lunch menu as JT took a seat on the other side of the table. With Sean’s lean build, fair hair and expensive suit, the two men were a study in contrasts. “Dare I hope this means you were so caught up in a new painting that you lost track of time?”

“Actually, I was assisting a damsel in distress.”

Sean pursed his lips, looking unsure about whether or not JT was kidding. “An attractive damsel?”

“Only if drenched waif is your type.” To himself, JT admitted his words were a glib, incomplete assessment of Kenzie Green. Good name. Sounded like a vibrant, bright color—the kind he seldom used anymore—and it certainly rolled off the tongue more easily than phthalo green or Antioch blue.

Though Kenzie wouldn’t necessarily turn men’s heads on the street, she was put together with a grace of form that belied how they’d met. She was a slight woman with layers of burnished-gold hair that were probably a lighter honey when dry. Her deep blue eyes looked like the ocean when you were so far out the shore was no longer visible, and there was something geometrically appealing about her small face—delicate blade of a nose, angular cheeks, an almost pugnaciously pointed chin that reminded him of some award-winning actress whose name eluded him. Holly would have known. Holly had been his link to pop culture.

She’d been his link to just about everything outside the studio, reminding him that there was a movie coming out he might like, reminding him of the names of acquaintances at openings, reminding him that he hadn’t bothered to eat in nearly twelve hours. “How can I trust that you’re going to help take care of this baby,” she’d teased him once, “when you can’t even remember to take care of yourself?”

Pregnancy had transformed her from the shyly smiling girl he’d first met to a laughing, excited woman with irrepressible humor. I plan to decorate the nursery behind your back—I know you’re the big-shot artist, but I’m scared you’ll turn it into some abstract expression on spatial dynamics. I was thinking ducks and bunnies.

“JT!” Sean’s tone was pitched halfway between annoyance and concern. “Did you hear anything I said? You had that look again.”

Stalling, JT sipped his water and tried to bring himself back to the present, a difficult feat given how much part of him longed to remain two years in the past. For the first few months after her death, thinking of Holly had hurt, creating electric shocks of pain that racked his whole being. Now that the sting had lessened, recalling cherished memories was comforting, beguiling. Easier than facing a future without her.

“It’s hard,” he said simply.

“I know.” Sean lowered his gaze, a touch of sadness creeping into his own voice. “I know, man, but Holly wouldn’t want you to be miserable. She would have wanted you to move on with your life. And she’d definitely want you to paint.”

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried. The encaustic series he’d collaged in the weeks after the funeral—a sickening double funeral during which he’d felt he was putting his entire world into the ground—was his best work ever. But the frenzied creation of those paintings had hollowed him out somehow, leaving a void where inspiration had once been. He’d allowed Sean to hang the dark wax-and-oil images at the gallery, but couldn’t bring himself to sell them.

The gallery. JT willed himself to focus. It wasn’t fair that he left everything up to Sean these days; the two men were supposed to be equal business partners. JT was the one who knew art; Sean was gifted with people and finances.

Out of nowhere JT thought of the book he’d seen Kenzie holding—something about number crunching. Then there had been the reproachful set of her rosy mouth when she’d mentioned the importance of money. I should introduce her to Sean. Though the thought was mostly facetious, it certainly wouldn’t be difficult to arrange. JT lived directly across the hall from his new neighbor.

“I’ve lost you again,” Sean muttered.

“I was thinking about setting you up on a date.”

“Seriously?” Sean grinned. “Not that I’ve ever needed help meeting ladies, but I take it as a good sign that you’re thinking about anyone’s love life.”

“I’m not a monk,” JT said defensively.

JT had gone on a half-dozen dates this year, but nothing lasting had come of them. It wasn’t just that he missed Holly, it was more that he was still unsure of who he was without her. They’d met in Chicago when they were both college students. He’d become an adult during the years they’d been dating; he’d become a critically acclaimed artist during their marriage. He’d been about to become a father. With all of that taken away…

Since her death, JT had slept with only one woman, an art dealer Holly had liked and respected. In a bizarre way, JT had felt his late wife would approve. Marsha had been recovering from the shock of her husband walking out on her, needing to reaffirm her own feminine attraction, and JT had craved the touch of another person to penetrate his isolation. Their affair had lasted less than a month before they parted amicably, each somewhat healthier for the encounter, but knowing they had no future together. Sean had hinted several times that JT needed more of a social life. Even Mrs. Sanchez, who lived on the second floor of Peachy Acres and had appointed herself JT’s godmother, for lack of a better description, nagged that his apartment needed a woman’s touch.

Thankfully, the waitress came to take their orders, which gave JT something to think about besides his inability to paint and unwillingness to date.

Would there come a day when he could once again consider painting a joy, not an obligation? Would he ever again view love as a blessing and not a dreaded danger?

Some of his best paintings had evolved from brushstrokes with no direction, just moving his arm intuitively and watching to see what evolved on the canvas. If he kept getting out of bed each morning and facing each day, one after another, would his life begin to take some kind of shape? He couldn’t be certain. But in the absence of an actual plan, he supposed he’d find out.

KENZIE THROBBED everywhere—muscles she hadn’t realized she possessed were angrily making their presence known. She had a ton of unpacking to do, but all she really wanted was a long, hot soak in the bathtub. There wasn’t time, though. Ann had called from her cell phone to say she was en route with the kids and “backup brawn.” Besides, Kenzie was scared to test the bathroom’s hot water. If it, like the building’s elevator, the ceiling fan in her bedroom and the stove’s faulty pilot light, neglected to work, she might cry.

Reminding herself that those were all minor inconveniences easily fixed, Kenzie grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator. Heck, she’d already relit the pilot light herself, and the worrisome smell of gas had dissipated. She sat on the brown living-room carpet, a shade probably chosen because it wouldn’t show stains. That could come in handy with two kids. When the knock sounded at her door, she wasn’t sure her legs would cooperate enough for her to stand, but she managed. Just barely.

Instead of the relatives she’d expected, it was Mr. Carlyle, a short man of indeterminate age. His thick hair was the color of freshly fallen snow, unmitigated by gray, and he had exchanged the navy track suit he’d worn this morning for an Atlanta Braves T-shirt with jeans and a tool belt.

“Afternoon, Miss Green.” He peered past her at the cardboard boxes stacked beyond. Her apartment looked like an elementary student’s homage to Stonehenge. “You settling in okay?”

“More or less.”